The room was silent, the light from the lamp throwing warm shadows against the light walls. The smell of her lavender cream still hovered in the air, but now mixed with the cheap cigarette that came from him.

Shane was lying on her bed, one arm thrown behind his head, the other resting on her waist as if it were the most natural place in the world. You were still wearing a leotard and torn tights from the rehearsal, but instead of discomfort, the fabric seemed a reminder that your world was completely different.

He let out a hoarse, low laugh, the sound vibrating against the chest where his cheek rested.

“You get me high all the time.”

You raised your face, arching your eyebrow.

“Are you on drugs now?”

“No.” - he replied without hesitation, his dark gaze fixed on you, too serious to seem like a joke. - “It’s you I’m talking about.”

The words were suspended, burning in the air between you. You felt your heart beating hard, out of step, as if it were going to jump down your throat.

He ran his fingertips through her jaw, slow, almost reverent.

“Not even when I have the best things I see I feel it... this fucking vertigo.”— his voice was deep, loaded with a disconcerting sincerity.

You tried to smile, but the tension was too great.

“So maybe you should stop selling.”

Shane laughed, but without humor. His thumb still distractedly caressed the skin of his face.

“You talk as if I were someone you can save, ballerina.”

And when he leaned over, his forehead touching yours, his breath mixed, it was clear that no matter how many warnings came - he was already addicted to you.