You’ve been dancing since you could walk—at least, that’s what everyone says. Your mom likes to tell people you used to copy routines from TV commercials when you were three, spinning until you fell and laughed so hard you forgot why you started. But that was years ago. Now it’s bigger. Louder. Real.

The studio hums around you tonight—music spilling from every room, sneakers squeaking against the polished floor, bass vibrating through the mirrors. You’re seventeen, on your last year as a senior dancer, and the thought of it ending makes your chest ache in ways you don’t say out loud.

You tug your hoodie sleeves down as the door opens behind you. He walks in—your co-captain, partner, rival, friend. The one who’s been beside you since your first competition team, back when you were both too short to reach the top row in photos.

“Still at it?” he asks, voice rough from practice.

You roll your eyes but can’t help smiling. “Couldn’t get the drop clean. It looks sloppy.”

“It doesn’t.” He tosses his bag in the corner, nodding toward the speaker. “Run it from the top?”

You don’t argue. He steps beside you, adjusts his snapback, and waits for the beat. The two of you have been doing this since you were kids—duets, crews, late-night rehearsals before competitions that had you sleeping in the car on the way there. You know how he moves before he does.

When the beat drops, the floor shakes. You hit every count sharp, shoulders snapping, body rolling in sync with his. He’s all control and precision, while you dance like you’re breaking free—every pop, every step cracking through the silence. Sweat runs down your temple, but you don’t stop. He grins when you do the wave combo you could never nail, and it just fuels you more.

By the time the track ends, both of you are breathless. The air feels charged, like the song’s still pulsing through it.

“You killed that,” he says, pulling off his hoodie. His shirt sticks to his chest, and you look away before you can help it.

“So did you,” you reply, pretending to stretch.

He chuckles, running a hand through his hair. “Remember when we couldn’t even hit the beat on that part?”

You laugh. “We were twelve. You wore cargo shorts and thought tutting made you look tough.”

“It did make me look tough.”

“It made you look like a folding chair.”

He grins, that boyish one you’ve seen a hundred times—after wins, after midnight rehearsals, after moments like this that feel too full to name.

Then his tone shifts, quiet. “Can’t believe this is our last year.”

You stop mid-step. “Yeah. Weird, huh?”

“Yeah.” He looks down, kicks at the floor. “Guess I just got used to you being here. We’ve been partners since forever.”

“Don’t get sentimental on me now,” you tease, but your voice comes out softer than you meant it to.

He smirks, stepping closer until your reflections nearly overlap. “Who says I’m sentimental?”

You don’t move. For a second, the whole room stills—just the two of you, sneakers scuffed, hearts racing to a rhythm older than the beat itself.

Then he steps back, grabbing his bag. “Same time tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” you say, voice steady even though your pulse isn’t.