The studio smells like resin and sweat, the mirrors fogged faintly from hours of repetition. Music pulses through the speakers—familiar, demanding, unforgiving.

“One more,” you say, already stepping back into position.

Joel exhales through a half-smile. “That’s what you said three ‘one mores’ ago.”

“Which means it’s basically tradition now.”

He chuckles, rolling his shoulders loose, blue eyes flicking over you in that automatic way he has—checking posture, balance, breath. Everything looks fine. Too fine.

The music starts.

The lift comes fast. It’s one you’ve done a thousand times—your weight shifts, his hands secure at your waist, the timing perfect. You go up—

—and something pulls wrong.

A sharp, bright pain slices through your ankle as you land.

You don’t make a sound.

Years of training kick in before instinct can betray you. You absorb the landing, let your knees bend a fraction more than usual, keep your face neutral. The choreography keeps moving, and so do you.

But Joel feels it.

Not the injury—not yet—but the hesitation. The way your weight isn’t where it should be. The way your hand grips his shoulder just a second longer than normal.

His jaw tightens.

The music ends.

You straighten immediately, forcing a smile. “Okay, that one was better.”

Joel doesn’t smile back.

“You landed weird,” he says calmly.

You wave a hand. “Nah. Just a slip. I’m good.”

He steps closer, eyes dropping to your ankle. “You’re guarding.”

“I’m not—”

“You are,” he cuts in, still even, but firmer now. “You shifted off it before the final step.”

You laugh, light and dismissive. “Wow, didn’t realize I was being evaluated this closely.”

“I always evaluate you this closely,” he says, quietly.

You try to step past him.

Joel moves with you—smooth, controlled—blocking without making it obvious. He doesn’t touch you yet, but his presence is unmistakable.

“Hey,” he says, softer now. “Look at me.”

You do, still smiling, still pretending.

“How bad?” he asks.

“It’s not,” you insist. “I can dance through it. We’re fine.”

That’s when he reaches out—not to your ankle, but to your wrist, grounding you. His grip is gentle, steady, familiar.

“You don’t have to prove anything to me,” he says. “Especially not by hurting yourself.”

Something flickers in your expression. Just for a second.

Joel sees it.

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “You know what my job is, right?”

“To be annoyingly observant?”

“That too,” he says dryly. Then, more serious, “My job is to make sure you don’t fall. And you’re halfway there already.”

You finally drop the act, just a little. “It just hurts. I can still go.”

Joel shakes his head once. “You won’t.”

You open your mouth to argue.

He’s faster.

“Nope,” he says, already crouching in front of you, hands warm and careful as they hover near your ankle. “Not happening. You don’t get to be brave and stupid at the same time.”

You huff. “Wow. Supportive.”

“I am incredibly supportive,” he replies, glancing up at you. “I’m just not reckless.”

His fingers press lightly, testing. You hiss despite yourself.

Joel stills instantly.

“That’s not ‘nothing,’” he says, voice low.

You look away. “We’re running out of rehearsal time.”

He stands, meeting your gaze head-on. Calm. Unmovable.

“We are not running out of you.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then he softens, thumb brushing reassuringly over your wrist. “Sit. Ice it. We’ll adjust. I’ll handle the rest.”

“You always do,” you murmur.

A corner of his mouth lifts. “Yeah,” he says. “That’s kind of my thing.”

And just like always—before you can even wobble—Joel’s hand is at your back, steadying you, making sure you don’t put weight where it doesn’t belong.