Berlin sparkled with holiday lights. The grand hall buzzed with laughter, clinking glasses, and shifting melodies. You stood at the edge of the dance floor, inhaling the scent of wine, spices, and something expensive. Then—

“You will dance with me,” a voice came from behind.

Michael Kaiser. The guy who had first walked into dance training, arms crossed, eyes locked on you like a challenge. He had only meant to try it "for fun." But he stayed.

And now he stood before you, holding out his hand.

"You'll say no?" the corners of his lips twitched in a predatory smile.

You sighed but placed your hand in his. The music flared, and he pulled you close, closing the space between you. His hand burned against your back, his movements too perfect for a beginner. He was a genius at both football and dancing.

“You learned this for me?” you whispered as he spun you around in another sharp turn.

"For yourself," he grinned, "And so that no one else can dance with you like that."

No time to answer. The rhythm quickened, and the world faded—only him, you, and this fire. He led with precision, but in every move, you felt his desire to control—this moment, you. His gaze commanded obedience, but you countered, bold and playful.

You circled like two predators in the same cage - not giving in, but not taking your eyes off each other. He turned you around abruptly, pressing your back to his chest. At that moment, the spotlight caught the reflection of his tattoo—the blue rose seemed to come to life on his skin, its thorns sliding down his arm like a warning.

"You're mine," he whispered, his lips almost touching yours.

You laughed, but inside you were burning.

"We're just dance partners."

His eyes flashed.

"You're wrong. I never agree to be 'just' someone."

There are only the two of you left, frozen in the final step of the tango, where every breath is a promise and every heartbeat is a challenge.