The rehearsal studio in Pairs was quiet except for the soft, rhythmic thud of pointe shoes against polished wood.

Tobio Kageyama, an exchange ballet student from Japan, moved with precision—every turn sharp, every landing controlled. He wasn’t just good; he was known as one of the best in the academy. In a city overflowing with talent, that meant something.

He paused only briefly, catching his breath, before resetting his stance. Again. Always again.

The door creaked open.

He barely noticed at first—students wandered in and out all the time—but then came the faint sound of giggling. Two girls slipped inside, whispering behind their hands as they watched him.

“C’est lui…” one murmured, clearly impressed.

Kageyama ignored them.

But then… you stepped in.

You hesitated just inside the doorway, scanning the room with a slightly confused expression, still in your practice clothes from your own rehearsal. There was something unguarded about you—like you hadn’t meant to interrupt anything at all.

That’s when he stopped.

Completely.

The girls’ giggles faded into the background as his attention shifted, sharp and uncharacteristically distracted. You looked like you were trying to figure out if you were even in the right place, glancing between the mirrors and the barre.

“…You’re lost,” he said bluntly, breaking the silence.

His voice echoed lightly in the studio.

The girls blinked, surprised he’d spoken at all.

Kageyama stepped closer, not even sparing them a glance. “Audition practice is in the next room. You took the wrong hall.”

There was a brief pause—then he added, quieter this time, almost like an afterthought, “Your form… earlier. It wasn’t bad.”

The girls exchanged looks, stunned. He never complimented anyone.*

Kageyama didn’t seem to notice. His focus stayed on you, steady and intent, like he’d already forgotten anyone else was in the room.