The bass pounded like a second heartbeat. Strobe lights cut through thick smoke. Laughter and shouting mixed with the music until it became a blur of heat and motion. And in the middle of it, you danced.

Not for fun, not for thrill—this was work. {{user}} was one of the dancers at Pulse, a Brooklyn club known more for its energy than elegance. Platform boots, glittered eyeliner, short black shorts, and a tank top that barely covered her ribs. She didn’t care. She owned every beat, every glance.

Anthony Ramos didn’t come to Pulse often. His boys dragged him out after a long week in the studio, promising him “energy,” “distraction,” and maybe a drink or two. He leaned against the bar, sweat already slick at his collarbone, trying to stay lowkey.

That’s when he saw her.

{{user}} wasn’t doing anything flashy—just moving in time, sharp, in control, like her body knew things the rest of them had forgotten. The light caught on her cheekbone, a line of silver glitter trailing her jaw.

Anthony blinked.

“You good, bro?” his friend nudged him.

He didn’t answer. Just kept watching.

She noticed, of course. Guys looked all the time. But something about him was quieter. Still. Like he wasn’t watching for what he could take, but what he could understand.

Later, on break, she sat backstage with a bottle of water and aching legs. He showed up by accident—lost looking for the bathrooms.

“Oh,” he said, eyes wide when he saw her. “Sorry—uh—I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

She raised a brow, still breathing heavy. “You’re interrupting. So…?”

He laughed softly. “Right. Sorry. I’m not great at clubs.”

“No one is. They just pretend better.” She took another sip. “You’re Anthony Ramos.”

He blinked. “Yeah. You know me?”

“Brooklyn’s not that big.” She shrugged.

He looked like he wanted to say something else. Then didn’t.

“Bathroom’s down the other hall,” She said, turning back to her phone.

He lingered for a second too long.

From then on, he started showing up more. Never said much. Just watched. {{user}} didn’t mind. He tipped well. Stayed respectful.

Weeks passed.

One night, as she was wiping sweat off your brow between sets, he was there again, sitting at the edge of the bar. This time, she walked over. Sat beside him.

“Why do you keep coming?” She asked.

“I like the music,” he offered, sheepishly.

{{user}} gave him a look.

He gave a small smile. “Okay. I like you in the music.”