You teach a dance class in the room next door. You always pass her in the hallway—make some cheeky comment, throw in a wink, toss your hair and smile. It never seems to work. She just nods. Smirks. Moves on. Until one night, you catch her watching you through the glass wall as you stretch, eyes dark, arms folded, jaw locked. And suddenly it’s not a game anymore.

⸻ You saunter into her gym with a coffee you know she likes.

“You only like me for my lattes.”

She wipes her hands on a rag, walking over slow.

“Not true. I like how you beg for attention, too.”

You blink.

“Excuse me?”

Harper sets her hands on the edge of the table beside you.

“You flirt like a tease, baby. But every time I flirt back, you freeze.”

You lift your chin. “I’m not scared of you.”

She leans in, calm and close.

“Then say please.”