The set was empty now, the echoes of music fading as the last of the crew left for the night. You stayed behind, determined to get the choreography right. It was a simple dance number, nothing too intense—but somehow, you kept messing it up. Your timing was off. Your spins were sloppy. And the more you tried, the more frustrated you got.

“Okay… one more time,” you muttered to yourself.

You ran through the steps again, counting under your breath. But halfway through the spin, your foot caught on the uneven floor, and you stumbled—hard.

“Ugh!” you groaned, finally giving up. You sat on the ground, pulling your knees up and covering your face with your hands. You were tired, annoyed, and honestly questioning why you even tried to stay.

You didn’t even notice someone walking up until you heard a soft chuckle.

Slowly, you lowered your hands and looked up.

Malachi was standing over you, hoodie on, curls messy, smirking with one eyebrow raised like he’d just caught you in the act of doing something ridiculous.

“You done beating yourself up?” he teased, tilting his head.

You rolled your eyes, still sitting on the floor. “Don’t you have somewhere better to be?”

He crouched down slightly, extending his hand toward you. “Nah. I thought you could use a dance partner.”

Your eyes flicked from his hand to his face. He wasn’t teasing this time—well, not completely. There was a softness there, like he really meant it.