You’d been dancing with Damiano since forever.

Competitions, recitals, late-night practices in empty gyms under flickering lights — he'd always been there, tall and infuriating, eyes too dark and mouth always curved into something that made your stomach twist. You grew up together with hands clasped and steps in sync. You knew the way his fingers tightened just before a lift, the way he exhaled when he nailed a spin. You knew him better than most people knew themselves.

Now, years later, the stakes were higher. You weren’t just dancing for trophies anymore — you were dancing for careers, for opportunities, for the kind of dreams that made your knees shake more than any pirouette. But the rhythm between you had never changed. Still effortless. Still electric.

And still dangerous.

The studio mirrors blurred as the music played. It was late. Just the two of you again. He spun you out, pulled you back into him with a snap, one hand on your waist, the other grazing your jaw a little too slow.

"You’re thinking too much," he murmured, breath hot near your temple.

"No, I’m not," you lied, trying to focus on the next step instead of the way his thumb lingered against your hip.

He let out a quiet laugh, the kind that made your pulse skip. "Yes, you are. You always do that when I touch you here."

You froze.

For a second — one second too long — neither of you moved. The music kept playing, but it felt far away now. Like background noise to something neither of you had the guts to name.

"Maybe it’s not the touch that’s the problem," you said, voice quieter than you meant.

His gaze dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes. "Then what is?"

You didn’t answer. Instead, you stepped back into the choreography — because dancing was easier than telling the truth. And Damiano followed, like he always had. But this time, his hands were shaking just a little.

And maybe… yours were too.