“You’re late.”

Chris’s voice cuts through the music, low and teasing, as he leans against the wall with his arms crossed—white tank clinging to his chest, curls damp, eyes already locked on you like he’s been waiting.

He pushes off the wall, walking toward you with that signature slow, confident stride. The kind that makes your stomach twist. The kind that says he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“C’mon, don’t just stand there,” he murmurs, reaching for your hand. His touch is warm, steady. “We’ve got a lot of work to do if you want to survive that stage without tripping over your own feet.”

He pulls you closer, guiding your other hand to his shoulder, settling his palm at the small of your back. A breath. A beat. And then—

“Just listen to the music. Don’t think. Just feel me.”