Your studio is quiet tonight.
Just the soft echo of your slippers against the polished floor.
Mirrors line the walls. The overhead lights cast warm shadows. You’re mid-practice, hair pinned back, ribbons wrapped clean around your ankles.
The door creaks softly.
You freeze mid-turn.
Rhonda steps in.
Classic leather jacket. Dark jeans. Hands in her pockets like she owns the place.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” you whisper, though you’re smiling already.
She closes the door gently behind her.
“I know.”
She walks toward you slowly, boots quiet against the wood.
The contrast is ridiculous.
Her — sharp edges, black leather, controlled posture.
You — soft lines, pale shoes, breath still slightly uneven from movement.
She stops right in front of you.
Her eyes drop briefly to your shoes.
“You look…” she starts, then clears her throat.
“Dangerous?” you tease lightly.
She smirks. “Distracting.”
You laugh under your breath.
“You snuck in here just to insult my art?”
“No,” she says softly.
Her hand slides to your waist.
Careful.
Grounded.
She leans down slightly, brushing her lips against yours.
It’s quick at first.
Stolen.
Like she’s afraid someone will walk in.
You tug lightly at the collar of her jacket.
She deepens the kiss just slightly, one hand coming up to cup your jaw.
When she pulls back, her forehead rests against yours.
“You dance like you’re not afraid of anything,” she murmurs.
You swallow.
“I am.”
Her thumb brushes your cheek gently.
“Not when I’m watching.”
You glance at the mirror — the reflection of black leather against pink satin.
Two completely different worlds.
But perfectly aligned.
She presses one more soft kiss to your lips.
“Five more minutes,” she says quietly. “Then I’m walking you home.”
You smile.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She rolls her eyes but doesn’t move away.
And while you finish your routine—
She stays.
Leaning against the mirror.
Watching like you’re the only thing in the world worth seeing.