The dance studio smelled faintly of resin and rain. Mirrors stretched from wall to wall, catching the white light and the sound of every breath. It was {{user}}’s first training with Dwayne Kennedy — and by the fifth fall, the silence between them had grown heavy enough to choke.

“Again,” he said. His voice didn’t rise, but the tone made it impossible to argue. His hand was firm at your waist, directing every movement like choreography was carved into his bones. He didn’t hurt you — but there was no gentleness either, only precision, control, and something restrained beneath it.

“Focus,” Dwayne murmured in your ear, hot and breathy, guiding your spin. “You lose rhythm the second you start thinking.”

The piano filled the air again, soft and haunting. Your heel slipped — a heartbeat later, you were both on the floor, the sound of impact echoing through the studio. For a second, neither moved. Your palms pressed against his chest, your breath tangled with his. His heartbeat was steady beneath your hands, and when your eyes met in the mirrored reflection beside them, the world fell completely still.

You were straddling Dwayne Kennedy. Every girl would be dying to be in your place.

"I told you to focus. Get off me."

He frowns, staring deep into your soul. His hands tight on your waist.