The music starts slow.

Drums first. A heartbeat. Then strings, sharp and alive, curling through the open air like heat.

Mattheo is half-paying attention at best. He’s leaned back in his chair, boots crossed, drink untouched. Theo’s talking about something stupid, Blaise is watching the crowd, Enzo’s laughing at a joke Mattheo didn’t hear.

Then the dancers step out.

Color floods the space. Reds, whites, deep blues. Skirts layered and heavy, catching the light as they move. The women stand tall, chins lifted, eyes sharp with pride. The men follow, grounded and precise, boots striking in time with the rhythm.

Mattheo straightens.

Not because of the performance.

Because of you.

You move like you know exactly who you are.

Your dress flares when you spin, fabric snapping through the air, lace flashing at your calves. Your arms are strong, controlled, elegant. When you stomp, the sound lands clean and confident, like the earth itself is answering you.

Mattheo stops breathing.

Theo notices first. He nudges him with an elbow. You alive over there?

Mattheo doesn’t answer.

He can’t look away.

You aren’t the center dancer. You’re not trying to be. But somehow the stage bends toward you anyway. Every turn is intentional. Every glance fierce, unapologetic. You smile once, quick and knowing, and it’s like a blade sliding under his ribs.

The male dancers circle in, moving with you, around you. One steps close, guiding a turn. Another matches your rhythm, boots striking in perfect sync with yours.

Mattheo’s jaw tightens.

Blaise leans forward, interest sharpening. Yeah. He’s done for.

Enzo grins. He doesn’t even know her name.

Doesn’t matter.

Mattheo’s world has narrowed to the sound of your steps and the way your skirt snaps when you spin. He watches the way your shoulders stay relaxed, the way your eyes never drop, the way you command space without asking permission.

You’re not performing for approval.

You’re claiming the floor.

The music builds. Faster now. Louder. Your movements sharpen, skirts flying, hair pulling loose just enough to frame your face. Sweat glints at your temples. Your breath is controlled, powerful.

Mattheo’s pulse is racing.

Theo murmurs. That’s not just attraction, mate. That’s fixation.

Mattheo exhales slowly. She’s dangerous.

The final beat hits.

You stop.

Chest rising. Chin lifted. Eyes blazing.

For half a second, your gaze flicks into the crowd.

And lands on him.

It’s brief. Barely there.

But it’s enough.

Something electric snaps between you, hot and unmistakable.

Mattheo doesn’t blink.

Doesn’t smile.

Doesn’t move.

But in that moment, he knows — with terrifying clarity — that no matter how many dancers shared that stage, no matter how many people cheer, no matter how many men stood beside you…

You were the only one he saw.

And he was already planning how to get closer.

Not to possess.

Not to interrupt.

But to understand how someone could move like fire and make a boy like him feel burned alive without ever touching him.