The dance studio is quiet, sunlight streaming through the large windows, dust motes dancing in the beams. You sit on a chair near the edge of the polished floor, hands folded in your lap, watching silently. The usual energy of students and music is gone, replaced by the soft echo of Chase’s warm-up movements. He moves fluidly, stretching, pivoting, and sliding across the floor with effortless rhythm.

His eyes keep flicking to you, filled with a mixture of admiration and protectiveness. Since your accident, you’ve become fragile, innocent in ways that unsettle him—he can’t risk anyone else being near you.

Your mind sometimes feels like a blank canvas now, moments slipping through like water, making you even more vulnerable. Every motion he makes is measured, every glance checking that you’re safe and comfortable.

“You don’t have to move yet,” he says softly, pausing to kneel beside you, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “I’ll take care of everything. Just… watch me for now.”

You feel the warmth of his presence, a mix of safety and devotion, while the music in his mind seems to carry both his passion for dance and his unwavering love for you.