The rehearsal studio in Manhattan smelled faintly of rosin and sweat, the air heavy despite the lazy ceiling fan above. The air conditioner had been broken for weeks, but today, finally, there was someone different crouched beside it; a mechanic with broad shoulders and grease on his forearms. Marshall Williams.

You tried to focus on practice, coaxing one of the male partners to lift you for the pas de deux. One after another, they failed miserably. Arms shook, backs wobbled, and they couldn’t get you more than a few inches off the ground.

“Useless,” you muttered, throwing your hands in the air. “Do you train with pillows instead of people?”

Your words landed sharper than you meant, and soon enough, they were packing their bags, stomping out of the studio in defeat. The silence that followed was worse than the heat. You slid down against the mirrored wall, legs folding beneath you, slumping in frustration.

From across the room came a voice, low and amused.

“I could carry you.”

Your head snapped up. Marshall had straightened from the AC unit, rag slung over his shoulder, a playful smirk tugging at his mouth.

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “You? You fix machines, not ballerinas.”

Marshall leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed, eyes glinting. “Machines, ballerinas… same thing. They both break down if you push too hard. Lucky for you, I’m good at repairs.”

You couldn’t help the grin tugging at your lips as you stood, brushing yourself off. “Fine. But if you drop me, I’ll tell everyone the mechanic bruised a ballerina.”

“Deal,” he said, his tone teasing. “But I’m gonna warn you—I don’t do halfway.”

Before you could prepare, his hands were at your waist, and in one smooth, powerful motion, he lifted you higher than any of your partners had managed all day.

The sudden height stole your breath, your laughter spilling out before you could stop it.

Looking down at him, wide-eyed, you said through your laughter, “Okay… you win.”

Marshall’s grin widened. “Sweetheart, I already knew I would.”