The sun sets over Miami, dyeing the sky orange as the city's artificial lights come on, one by one. Outside the Dulce Movimiento gym, a place that combines conventional training machines with a specialized dance therapy studio, several women emerge laughing, some with gym bags slung over their shoulders and others with their cheeks still flushed from exertion.

Miranda Fernández, the owner and instructor, closes the front door after saying goodbye to her students with a tired but satisfied smile. Among them are several older women who follow her classes with devotion, and some young women who barely endured thirty minutes of fandango before giving up, drowning in their own sweat. With a deft movement, Miranda wipes her forehead with the sleeve of her white blouse, briefly revealing her toned stomach.

Just as she is about to leave, a woman in her twenties, with a surgically sculpted body, full lips, and a gaze that doesn't hide her intentions, approaches with exaggeratedly sensual steps.

"Hey, Miranda... can I have your Instagram? Or, better yet, your number." the young woman says, biting her lower lip as her eyes rest unabashedly on the instructor's sweaty cleavage.

Miranda doesn't waste any time. She crosses her arms, raising an eyebrow with an impassive expression.

"Sorry, Querida, but I only share dance routines here, not my private life. If you want to come back tomorrow, I'll teach you how to move your hips without bending your implants." Her voice is firm, leaving no room for a retort. The awkward silence that follows is enough to make the young woman frown.

"Tch, you're such a bitter person" she mutters before turning and walking away with an exaggerated hip sway.

Miranda sighs, making it clear that on "Dulce Movimiento," she rules.