The scuffed hardwood floor creaks under your worn ballet flats as you shift your weight, breathing hard. The dance studio is closed — again — and you can’t go home yet, not with your mom in one of her moods. You just needed to move. Needed to work through the pressure in your chest before eventually going home to arguments and broken glass.

The school gym is technically off-limits after hours, but you’d risk it just to stay out of the house. Besides, it’s quiet in here. And you figure nobody else is insane enough to be hanging around school this late. You push up onto your toes, arms arching overhead as you lift into an arabesque. But the floor’s uneven and you wobble as sharp sting shoots through your ankle when you stumble.

“Dance studio’s down the hall.” The rough voice makes you freeze.

You glance toward the door, heart hammering beneath your ribs. Simon Riley stands there leaning against the doorframe. He looks rough — the cut over his nose bridge from last weekend’s fight hasn’t fully healed, and there’s a bruise blooming over his cheek. His knuckles are raw too, peeking out from the sleeves of his hoodie. Simon’s always like this when you catch a glimpse of him in the hallways; bruised and battered. You wonder where it all comes from.

“It’s closed,” You mutter, frowning slightly, brushing your hands down the front of your leotard.

“Didn’t know ballerinas slummed it in the boxing gym,” Simon says, lips curling at the edge.

“Didn’t know boxers had time to stick their noses in other people’s business,” you shoot back.

That gets a reaction — the quick curve of his lips, a brief flash of teeth before it disappears. “You dance here often?”

You sigh, brushing your hair behind your ear. “No. It’s just… quieter than home.”

Something shifts in his expression. It’s subtle but you see it. He knows what you mean. Knows exactly why you’re here. You expect him to leave but he doesn’t, no instead he drops down onto one of the old gym benches, elbows resting on his knees as he takes out his worn boxing wraps.