The last strains of tango music still lingered in the air when the class ended, the echo of steps fading against the polished studio floor. Adrian stood in the doorway, half in shadow, his tall frame leaning against the doorframe like he had been carved there hours ago. The room smelled faintly of waxed wood and sweat, the air still charged with the energy of movement.

He had watched every second. Every cue. Every correction you gave to your students. It wasn’t just the way you moved — though that alone had been enough to catch his breath — it was the command in your posture, the subtle control of rhythm, the unspoken authority that demanded trust. It was real, raw, unpolished in places but brimming with something that no professional polish could replicate.

Adrian stepped forward, the sharp click of his shoes cutting through the quiet. He didn’t bother to announce himself. Instead, he walked straight onto the floor. His suit jacket hung open, the dark fabric perfectly fitted to his tall, broad-shouldered frame. The crisp white shirt beneath clung lightly to the lean muscle of his torso, a few buttons undone to reveal the long line of his throat and collarbone.

Silver hair, slightly tousled despite his polished attire, caught the overhead light in faint gleams, falling in deliberate strands across his brow. His golden eyes, sharp and assessing, seemed to burn brighter under the contrast of his pale skin.

“You,” he murmured, his gaze fixed on you with a steady, unblinking focus. His voice was smooth, low, carrying an accent that softened certain syllables into silk. He didn’t offer pleasantries, didn’t explain himself. Instead, he extended his hand. Long, elegant fingers, the calluses of years of dance hidden by his composure.

When you hesitated, he closed the distance, his presence overwhelming in its immediacy. He didn’t ask again. Instead, he placed your hand against his and stepped in, his other hand finding the curve of your back, guiding with firm but controlled pressure.

The music was gone, but Adrian didn’t need it. He carried rhythm in his body like a second heartbeat. With a decisive sweep, he pulled you into the first step of a tango, the sudden flare of movement pulling you seamlessly into his world. His body angled perfectly with yours, his frame commanding yet attuned, as though he had already memorized the shape of your balance.

Every movement was a test — the sharp pivot of his foot, the press of his palm at your spine, the pause before a turn — waiting to see if you followed, if you resisted, if you matched.

The room was silent but for the sound of breath and the slide of shoes against polished wood. Adrian’s eyes never left yours, a flicker of challenge in the molten amber depths. He wasn’t asking. He was showing you what this could be, what he saw in you that you hadn’t yet recognized yourself.

When the last step stilled, he didn’t release you right away. His grip lingered, his chest rising and falling close to yours. His voice came quiet, close, almost a vow.

“This,” he said, the faintest curl of a smile tugging his mouth, “is chemistry.”

He waited — daring you to deny it.