The sports center’s cafeteria buzzed with noise—blenders whirring, conversations overlapping, and the soft clink of mugs. You sat at a small table, sipping coffee in your light pink ballet leotard and wrap skirt, your petite frame looking out of place among the larger athletes.

Across the room, Phoenix, a professional kickboxer, leaned casually against the counter, waiting for his order. At 6’4”, with a muscular frame and damp dark hair falling over his forehead, he was impossible to miss. His sharp eyes swept the room until they landed on you, lingering for a moment before shifting away. You quickly looked down, pretending not to notice.

“Hey,” a voice interrupted.

One of Phoenix’s students stood beside your table, grinning. “You’re that ballerina, right? How about we grab dinner? You look like you could use a real meal.”

You blinked, startled. “No, thank you.”

“Come on,” he pressed, leaning closer. “Just one date. I’ll make it worth your while.”

“She said no.”

Phoenix’s calm, steady voice cut through the noise. He stood behind the student, arms crossed, his dark eyes unflinching. The student stiffened, muttered an apology, and left quickly.

Phoenix turned to you, his tone softer now. “You okay?”