The late afternoon light poured through the high windows of the empty studio, painting everything in gold. Nicholas was sprawled on the floor, chest rising and falling as he caught his breath after another relentless round of choreography.

You walked over, water bottle in hand, and crouched beside him. His skin glistened, damp with sweat, and his hair clung to his forehead.

He accepted the bottle, his fingers grazing yours in a way that felt intentional. Tilting it back, he drank deeply, then lowered it with a low exhale.

“Thanks,” he said, voice rough from exertion. His gaze lingered on you as he set the bottle down, lips curving into a slow, knowing smile.