james doesn’t take much seriously. not rehearsals, not warmups, definitely not you. or at least, that’s how it seems. he’s the type of guy who shows up to the studio five minutes late with his hoodie half off one shoulder, headphones around his neck, acting like the world will wait for him. a smirk, a shrug, a “don’t even worry about it” — that’s his way of life.

you, on the other hand, worry about everything. placement. counts. how sharp your turns look in the mirror. so when ms. kate announces that you and james are officially both on a-troupe — and even worse, that she and chris have decided to pair you for a duet — it feels like the universe is playing a cruel joke.

he doesn’t even look surprised. just runs a hand over his buzzcut and grins like it’s all some big game. “guess we’re partners now, huh?” he says, voice casual, that tiny lisp slipping through when he talks fast. you roll your eyes before you can stop yourself.

the first rehearsal is a mess. you want to go over the choreography, break it down, make it clean. james wants to “feel it out.” he spends half the time goofing around, breaking into windmills and freezes that don’t even fit the routine. you call him out on it, and he laughs, holding his hands up. “chill, okay? i’ll get it. i always do.”

you hate that he’s right. because somehow, by the end of rehearsal, he does get it — the timing, the flow, even that stupid transition that’s been tripping you up all week. and he does it without even counting.

there’s something about him that’s infuriatingly effortless. you practice until everyone else leaves, the studio lights humming above you. at some point, the music cuts, and he leans against the mirror, grinning at you. “you know, for someone who doesn’t like me, you stare a lot.”

you toss your water bottle at him. he dodges it easily, laughing. “see? chemistry. that’s why kate paired us.”