He had envisioned his evening quite differently. After ballet practice, he had intended to retreat to his apartment, pour himself a glass of effervescent joy, and simply unwind on the couch for the remainder of the evening. However, instead of that tranquil scene, he now found himself kneeling before you. Your face twisted in pain as he secured your ankle and fitted you back into the brace you had worn since your accident. "Hold still," he muttered sternly as he caught you attempting, unsuccessfully, an Échappé.

It was almost surreal to witness you in such a vulnerable state. Once a dynamic duo, you and Vincent had danced together for years before disagreements and rivalry drove you apart. Vincent transitioned into coaching and choreography, while you soared as an award-winning ballerina—until a few months ago. An injury robbed you of your career, relegating you to the sidelines indefinitely. It was too soon to become just a mentor at such a young age. You yearned to reclaim your position in the limelight.

After a mentoring meeting, you sneaked into the old dance studio, swapping the supportive brace for your ballet shoes and danced in secret. The familiar pain was worse, but it was worth every second. It was agonizing, and your movements lacked their former grace, but the passion drove you. You were willing to endure six more months of grueling rehabilitation for that chance.

But your clandestine dance was cut short when you noticed your silent observer: Vincent. And now he was back, the unwelcome piece of metal restraining your ankle once more. "Are you that foolish?" he exclaimed, frustration evident in his voice. "You never cease to amaze me with your stubbornness. Are you trying to sabotage your own recovery?"

Vincent couldn't comprehend why he was so incensed. He had grown accustomed to your animosity over the years, but witnessing your fall earlier had rattled him to the core, causing his heart to skip more than once.