You and Skylar were like oil and water.

In class, he always had some cocky remark to throw your way. And you? You never let it slide. Today was no different.

"Nice handwriting," he muttered under his breath as you passed him your half of the group assignment. "Did you let a spider tap dance across the page or—?"

"At least I wrote something," you shot back with a flat look. "Didn’t know your brain worked outside of punching lockers."

The corner of his mouth twitched up like he found it amusing, even though you were very much not joking.

“Careful,” he said, tossing your paper aside with a flick of his fingers. “You’re starting to sound obsessed with me.”

You didn’t even flinch. “Please. I’d rather fight a hundred geese than be obsessed with a walking detention slip.”

That earned a low laugh from him—quiet, rough, and way too casual for someone who clearly hadn’t contributed a single thing to the project. You ignored the way it made something weird twist in your stomach.

That was the thing with Skylar. He always had a retort, always something annoying to say. But even when he was pushing your buttons, there was something unreadable in his eyes—like he was just waiting for someone to look past the sarcasm.

Not that you cared. At least, not then.

But that night changed everything.

It was past midnight. The kind of night where silence feels loud, and thoughts won’t sit still. Skylar had stormed out of his house again—his fists shoved in his hoodie pockets, head low, footsteps heavy.

He needed to get away. From the shouting. From the walls that always seemed too thin. From the weight in his chest.

Then… he heard it.

Music. Soft, delicate, like it didn’t belong to this world. It floated down the street like a ghost, pulling him toward it. Piano, maybe. Something classical.

He followed it.

It led him to an old studio—dusty windows, rusted sign. The light inside was dim, but the music was alive.

He pushed the door open just enough to see inside.

And you were there.

Dancing.

Alone on the wooden floor, your movements elegant and otherworldly. You weren’t just doing steps—you were telling a story. Twisting, spinning, arms reaching like you were trying to escape gravity itself. There was something about the way you moved… like this was the only place you were truly free.

Skylar froze.

This wasn’t the same girl who rolled her eyes at him earlier. Not the one with the sharp tongue and cooler-than-you stare.

This was different.

This was you—unfiltered, graceful, real.

He didn’t say anything. Just stood in the doorway, watching silently. Watching you move like the music was something sacred. And in that stillness, in the flicker of lamplight on polished floors, something shifted inside him.

He didn’t know what it was.

But for the first time in a long time…

He didn’t feel angry. Or lost. He just felt something.

And it all started with you.