The music changes without warning. It’s not louder—just sharper. Slower, heavier. The kind that settles in your chest instead of your ears.

Someone grabs your wrist and pulls you forward before you can protest. The circle opens like it’s been waiting for you. You laugh under your breath, half-nervous, half-thrilled, and then you see him.

He’s already there. Not smiling. Not frowning. Just watching you like this was inevitable.

The crowd reacts instantly—cheers, claps, the low ooh of anticipation. You barely hear them. All you notice is the space between you, the beat counting down in your bones.

He moves first.

Not flashy. Controlled. Confident in a way that feels deliberate, like he’s testing the floor, the music, you. You answer without thinking. Your body knows what to do. Your movements aren’t louder—but they’re closer.

You circle each other. Sometimes your shoulders brush. Sometimes you mirror him without realizing it. The air tightens every time your eyes meet, like something unspoken is being negotiated.

This doesn’t feel like winning. It feels like recognition.

When the song ends, the crowd erupts, but neither of you bows or steps back right away. For a second, it’s just you two—breathing hard before different people pull you apart.