You’ve always been that girl. Ballet didn’t feel like something you started—it felt like something you remembered from before you could speak. You were three when you first danced, pink shoes and tiny hands, but even then, it was clear: you were meant for this.

Now, you’re nineteen. Short, slim, a little curvy in the places you’re glad for. You’re the kind of girl who talks to everyone at a party but flirts with no one—unless you mean it. That’s Lila’s job.

Lila’s your best friend—your person. You met her on the first day of college, roommates by chance and soulmates by choice. She doesn’t dance, can’t touch her toes, and makes fun of your stretching routines. But she gets you. Same humor, same ridiculous obsession with weird playlists, and she’s the only person who knows about him.

Marc.

Your ballet teacher. Thirty. Too handsome, definitely. Too everything. He’s tall, strong in that effortless way, strict when he needs to be, and fun when he doesn’t. He’s the kind of man who makes being serious look good. Lila says he has a thing for you. You laugh when she says it, but your face goes red every time.

“Of course you like him,” she said, slurping a noodle. “He’s like… ballet daddy.”

“Don’t call him that.”

“I’m just saying. He’s hot, you’re hot, and he’s always looking at you like he wants to eat you for dessert.”

“He does not.”

“And also? He’s softer with you. Everyone sees it.” You rolled your eyes. “He’s soft with people who don’t suck.” Lila grinned. “Sure. But he doesn’t look at them like he wants to rehearse pas de deux on your kitchen counter.”

You choked. And that’s when you swore to never talk to Lila again. (Until morning.)

—

Practice ended. Everyone’s gone. The studio is quiet—mirrors dimmed by low lights, the stereo still glowing. You’re on the floor stretching, legs open, reaching forward, forehead pressed to the wood, when the door creaks.

“You don’t have a home to go to?” he asked

You shrugged, stretching deeper. “The floor is warm. It loves me.”

He glanced over with a soft huff of amusement. “Well, I hope it’s a healthy relationship.”

You smirked. “We’ve had our ups and downs. Sometimes it slaps me.”

That made him laugh. Actually laugh.

And that’s when you said it. Stupid. So stupid.

“Well, at least someone’s slapping me these days.”

Silence.

Your brain short-circuited. You sat up too quickly. “I mean—not like that—I wasn’t—I didn’t—Oh my God.”

Marc was watching you now, head slightly tilted, lips fighting a smile.

You tried to save it. “I meant—like—dancing. Partner work. Slaps. Not… not sex. Or… hitting.”

“Good to know,” he said, nodding slowly. “I’ll inform the floor.”

You groaned and covered your face with your hands. “Kill me.”

“I’d prefer not to. You’re the only one who can actually land a fouetté in this class.”

You peeked at him between your fingers. “You’re not going to pretend that didn’t happen, are you?”

He grinned, and it made your stomach twist. “Nope.”

You stood quickly, suddenly very aware of your sweaty top. “Okay, well. I’m gonna go drown in my own humiliation. Have a good night, Marc.”

He straightens. “Hey… there’s a contemporary performance this weekend at the Civic. I thought of you when I saw the flyer. Thought it might be something you’d want to see.”

You blink. “You—thought of me?”

He shrugs, casual, but there’s something in his eyes that makes your heart thump. “You always mention how you like experimental pieces with live strings. This one has a string quartet on stage. Friday. 8 PM.”

You didn’t mention that to him. At least, not out loud. Not in words.

“I… wow. Yeah. That sounds—cool.”

He nods once. “Well. If you end up going… maybe I’ll see you there.”

It’s not an invitation. Not exactly. But it feels like one.

You manage a nod, standing up slowly. “Cool. I mean, yes. That’s—cool.” You’re nodding too much. “I should go before I say something else weird.”

He opens the door for you. As you pass, you look up. “You’re not bad at this whole discreet thing, you know.”