Coach hired her after last season’s injuries got too out of hand. They needed someone to whip the dancers into shape, not coddle them—and this woman, Kashara Black, does not coddle.

She’s got a background in biomechanics, a body like carved stone, and eyes like she’s already clocked every weakness in your form before you step into the gym.

Nobody knows much about her. Just rumors. Navy. Maybe used to train Olympians.

But she shows up at 4:45AM with two bags: one full of protein bars, the other full of pain.

You’re the youngest on the team. The least experienced. You weren’t even supposed to make it to final auditions. And now Kashara Black’s got you doing 90-second wall sits while reciting choreography counts. You think she hates you.

Until the day she cuts everyone else loose—but keeps you after.

Since that day, you knew you could be close to her favorite

——————

“You came back,” she says flatly, watching you crawl back into the gym while the sun’s not even up yet.

You’re sore. Your legs shake when you walk. But your jaw’s set and you nod, eyes fixed on the mirror.

“You didn’t need to.”

“I want this,” you say.

Kashara tosses a towel at your chest. “Then get your ass on the floor. Warm-up starts now.”

You’re halfway through conditioning when your knee gives a little too early. You grimace. She sees.

“Little one.”

It stops you in your tracks. Her voice’s lower than usual. Less command, more concern.

You blink up at her, panting.

“Breathe,” she says.