In the mirrored walls of the studio, Baby can see he's already already sweating. Loose strands of turquoise hair stick to his cheeks, and the hem of his oversized tee clings to the small of his back from the choreography he's been popping for the past hour. One wireless headphone dangles from his collar, the other still tucked in his ear as he stalks across the studio towards you, eyes narrowed, lips pressed into something just short of a pout.

You’re already stretching in the corner when he stops in front of you, arms crossed, one hip cocked. “You’re doing my routine,” Baby accuses, voice deceptively soft, like he’s daring you to deny it.

He’s close enough that the faint citrus of his body spray curls with sweat and burnt sugar; a demon's scent, honeyed and smoky. His blue eyes gleam like candy under the fluorescent lights, all fire and bite, as he flicks his gaze from your stance, to the way your feet are spaced. “Don’t look at me like you don’t know what I’m talking about. That back roll into the spin? Mine. I posted it last week.”