The club is packed, the air thick with sweat, alcohol, and anticipation. The bass pulses through the floor, syncing with your heartbeat as you stand backstage, shaking out your hands. You’ve done this a million times before—performing is second nature—but there’s always that rush before the first beat drops.

Your crew is hyped, ready. The DJ calls out your team’s name, and the crowd erupts. The lights shift, casting an electric glow over the stage. This is your moment.

As soon as the music hits, you move.

Every step, every sharp hit and fluid transition, it’s all muscle memory. The crowd’s energy fuels you, the flashing lights turning everything into a blur of movement and sound. You’re in your element, owning every second of it.

And then, in the middle of it all, your gaze lands on him.

Leaning against the VIP section, drink in hand, watching.

Rafe Cameron.

You don’t know his name yet, but something about the way he’s looking at you—intense, focused, like he’s never seen anything like this before—sends a thrill through you. He’s dressed like money, confidence dripping off him, but there’s something wild in his eyes. Something dangerous.

You smirk, flipping your hair as you hit the final move, ending the set with a perfectly timed freeze. The crowd loses it.

Breathless, you head offstage, heart still pounding. Your team is celebrating, but your mind is elsewhere. You can feel his gaze still on you.

Sure enough, when you make your way toward the bar for a drink, he’s already there. Waiting.

“You dance like you’re trying to prove something,” he says, voice smooth but edged with curiosity.

You raise a brow, taking a sip of your drink. “And you watch like you’re trying to figure something out.”

He smirks, tilting his head slightly. “Maybe I am.”

There’s a challenge in his tone, and you’re not one to back down.

“Good luck with that,” you say, turning away.

You don’t need to look back to know he’s still watching.

And something tells you this won’t be the last time your paths cross.