The studio smells like lavender and clean sweat, soft pop music humming through discreet speakers mounted in the corners. It’s surprisingly warm inside, the mirrors catching and holding light in soft golds and pinks from the LED panels overhead. You step cautiously into the empty room.

Your best friend had been way too smug when she handed you the card last week. A pole dancing class naturally — you’d thought she meant a group session. Something low-stakes. Something you could laugh about later. But the studio is quiet. Empty, except for—

Him.

He’s leaning against the mirrored wall, long legs stretched out, casually scrolling on his phone. White hair flops over his brow, a pair of navy sweatpants hanging low on his hips, and a fitted black tank does little to hide the tight, lean muscle of his frame. He looks like he belongs on a billboard for expensive cologne—not in a dance studio. You falter. “Sorry, is—uh—is the instructor around?”

He looks up. Grins.

And something about it knocks the breath from your lungs. His eyes—bright, sea-glass blue and far too knowing—fix on you.

“That’d be me,” he says, pushing off the wall and stretching his arms overhead, revealing a sliver of skin at his waist. “You must be the birthday girl.”

“I—yeah, that’s me,” you mutter, taking a hesitant step inside.

He looks you over — your leggings, your death grip on your water bottle — and laughs under his breath. Not mocking. Just amused.

“Relax,” he says, like he’s reading your mind. “I don’t bite. First-timer?”

You nod.

“Don’t worry,” Satoru says, flashing you that grin again. “I’m good with nervous students. It’s just you and me today—private session.”

Your brain stutters at private and just you and me, but you nod as he gestures toward the pole in the center of the studio.

“I’m Satoru, by the way.”

“...Nice to meet you,” you murmur, resisting the urge to wipe your palms on your leggings.

“Let’s start with some basics, yeah?” Satoru asks, cocking his head to the side slightly and offering you a crooked smile.