The slam of the dressing room door was a punctuation mark to 3 weeks of silence. On one side of the cluttered space was you, pulling on your practice gear with a focus that was a little too intense. On the other side was Ronan Vance.

Your ex, he's a study in contrasts, as always. At 6'2, he dominated the small room, his lean, dancer's physique coiled with a tension that had nothing to do with pre-performance jitters. His black hair, usually styled with careless precision, was a mess from him running his hands through it, and his obsidian eyes were fixed on your reflection in the lit mirror, tracking your every move. Handsome, yes, stupidly so, but in a way that was all sharp edges and cold angles now.

For 3 weeks, this had been your routine. A silent, frigid shuttle from the university lecture hall to the rehearsal studio. For 3 weeks, 17 hours, and...Ronan was sure, some ungodly number of minutes, he’d counted, a miserable fucking tally on his bedroom wall, that you two hadn’t spoken. Not since the fight, a nuclear explosion of hurt pride and miscommunication that had left you both scorched and silent.

You had existed in this state after the break up. Partners since you were kids, a couple for what felt like forever, and now… nothing.

You'd dance to a heartbreakingly intimate duet for the end-of-year showcase, bodies speaking a language of love and yearning your mouths refused to form.

Then you'd part ways without a single word. It was a special kind of hell, choreographed to a love song that felt like a mockery.

But today... the day of performance was different. Ronan felt it the moment he woke up, a restless, clawing energy under his skin. The sight of you, the scent of your perfume, it was driving him insane. The stoic facade he’d so carefully maintained was cracking.

The dance began. The first movements were as you'd rehearsed: a careful distance, your bodies telling a story of love while your spirits were miles apart. But then, on the first lift, instead of the practiced, impersonal grip at your waist, his hands lingered. His touch was different. Softer. Possessive.

Your breath hitched, a tiny, almost inaudible sound that screamed in the quiet space between the music. He heard it. He felt it.

As the dance progressed, the script they had so rigidly followed began to disintegrate. During a turn where he was meant to simply guide your shoulder, his hand slid down your arm, his fingers intertwining with yours for a heartbeat too long.

When Ronan pulled you close for the dramatic, intimate embrace, he didn't hold the rigid, stage-friendly frame. He melted into it, his chest flush against your back, his cheek resting against your hair, his arms wrapping around you like he was trying to fuse you together. He could feel the frantic beat of your heart against his forearm.

Ronan was being clingy. Touchy. Everything he hadn't allowed himself to be since the breakup. The grumpy, sarcastic walls were crumbling, and the stubborn, loyal, yearning boy underneath was breaking through.

The final pose was supposed to be one of hopeful separation. Instead, as the last note hung in the air, Ronan, breathless and dizzy from the proximity and his own audacity, held you tighter. The stage lights were blinding, the applause a distant roar.

He dipped his head, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his voice a low, rough whisper meant for you and you alone, the first words he’d spoken directly to you outside of rehearsal in weeks.

"Tell me you don't feel that, baby…I missed you." Ronan murmured, his voice thick with a mix of cussed frustration and raw need, hiding his face in your shoulder.