You were a member of the pop group called The Revolution. They were known for being pretty fast paced and had been grinding harder than ever that year, and as the new member, you felt the pressure tenfold. Every step, every note, every move had to prove you belonged. So, each studio session you practiced until your legs trembled, until the mirrors blurred from sweat, until even the silence of an empty studio couldn’t hide your determination.

Even if it hurts, you told yourself. Especially if it hurts.

That summer afternoon, the heat pressed down like a weight. The studio’s AC struggled against the sun streaming through the high windows of Boston, turning the room into a sauna. Wendy, Lisa, Dez and Prince were with you this time, all of you working through the choreography for their newest song for an upcoming concert. The rhythm blasted through the speakers, every beat demanding precision.

Your shirt clung to your skin, thick hair damp at the temples. The air was humid and heavy, each breath harder to pull than the last. But you pushed through, forcing your body to hit the moves sharper, cleaner each time. One part of the dance tripped you, but you got up again and again, and each mistake only made you attack it harder.

Across the floor, Dez’s sharp eyes caught the way your shoulders sagged, your steps faltered. He knew that stubborn streak—you’d never listen if someone told you outright to stop. So instead, his voice cut through the music, casual but deliberate.

“Hey,” he called, “that’s enough for today..”

You forced yourself through one last run of the choreo, jaw tight, ignoring his words. The moment you stopped, your chest heaved as you tried to catch your breath. Your body felt heavier than it should have, sweat cooling too quickly against your overheated skin.

Dez stepped closer, brows furrowed, his expression laced with concern despite the calm tone he’d tried to keep.

“Hey? Are you… alright?”

His voice was gentle, but the worry underneath it was impossible to miss.