You never expected to get paired with Lydia Martin.

When Coach Finstock announced the school’s charity dance showcase, you’d been planning to fade quietly into the background—until your name and hers were read together. Lydia turned, that perfect eyebrow arching like a challenge.

“You?” she said, half a smile tugging at her lips. “Hope you can keep up.”

You grinned, pretending not to panic. “Guess we’ll find out.”

Rehearsals started awkwardly. Lydia was good—every move sharp and deliberate, like she’d been choreographed by confidence itself. You, meanwhile, were just trying not to trip over your own feet.

She noticed. “Left foot, not right,” she’d say, stepping closer, her hand brushing yours as she adjusted your stance. “And keep your eyes on me, not the floor.”

That was the problem. When you looked at her, it wasn’t the dance you forgot—it was everything else.

The music grew louder, the nights longer. Soon you were staying late after practice, laughing between routines, teasing her when she pretended not to be competitive. One night, the power flickered out in the gym, leaving only moonlight spilling through the windows.

Lydia sighed, sitting on the stage. “I used to hate this stuff,” she admitted softly. “Being seen. Being… vulnerable.”