You hear him before you see him.

Thud. Thud. Snap. Leather against flesh. It’s rhythmic, brutal, almost hypnotic.

You’re lacing your ballet shoes in the studio next door when the sound seeps through the thin wall. The building’s old—half dance academy, half boxing gym, all mismatched ambition—but it breathes with life. Yours and his.

You don’t know his name yet. Just that he hits like he’s trying to exorcise something.

The first time you see him is in the hallway, both of you reaching for the water fountain. He’s sweating through his hoodie, breathing hard, knuckles bruised and red. You say nothing, but your eyes linger on his hands.

He notices.

“You dance, right?” he asks, voice rough with exhaustion.

You nod.

“Thought so.” A pause. “You move different. Even when you walk.”

You blink. “You watch me walk?”

He gives you a half-smile. “Hard not to, the way you move.”

That’s how it begins.

He’s Bang Chan. Fast fists. Faster mouth. Golden boy of the underground circuit with a heart that doesn’t always show through the bruises. You’re the dancer with precision in your bones and music in your veins. You don’t belong in his world, and he doesn’t belong in yours.

Which is exactly why it works.

He starts showing up at your rehearsals.

Not on purpose, he says—just walking by. But somehow he’s always leaning in the doorway when the music starts. Watching. Quiet, curious, like you’re something he’s trying to figure out.

“You never miss a beat,” he says once, tossing you a towel after a routine. “How?”

You shrug. “Same way you never drop your guard.”

He laughs. “I drop it around you.”

You freeze.

he just looks at you

Neither of you says anything after that, but something changes.

He teaches you how to throw a proper punch one night. His hands wrap around yours, positioning your fists, adjusting your stance. His breath brushes your cheek. You swear your heart’s louder than your hits.

you teach him how to turn without stumbling. He’s awkward at first, fighting muscle memory, but he’s determined. He grips your waist like he’s afraid to break you, and yet you’ve never felt more solid in someone’s hold.

One evening, after sparring, he finds you in the studio alone—music low, lights dimmed. You’re spinning, soft and slow, lost in the song.

He doesn’t say a word. Just walks in, barefoot and tired, and stands behind you.

“Teach me,” he whispers.

So you guide him. Step by step. Turn by turn. His hands find yours like they’ve done it before.

When the song ends, neither of you lets go.

His forehead presses to yours.

“I don’t want this to mess you up,” he says.

You smile. “Then don’t let it.”

He kisses you—just once. Brief. Careful. But it shakes you more than a fall ever could.

a few weeks later, he wraps your ankle after a bad landing, his touch tender, his eyes fierce. “You can’t fly if you’re broken,” he says.

“You saying I’m fragile?”

He lifts his gaze. “I’m saying you’re not allowed to get hurt. I’d notice.”