Lila finished her solo and stood in the center of the floor, breathing hard, glowing with that specific satisfaction that came from moving freely.
"You're incredible," I said from the doorway.
She smiled, wiping sweat from her forehead. "I'm rusty. Haven't danced like that in months. The agency kept me so controlled, so structured—I forgot what it felt like to just move."
"You'll get it back. Your body remembers."
She nodded, then looked at me with something like curiosity.
"Do you dance?"
I pushed off the doorframe. "Yeah."
"Like... casually? Or actually dance?"
"Actually dance." I crossed to where she stood, bare feet silent on the sprung floor. "Ballet. Contemporary. Jazz. Hip-hop. Ballroom. I know most styles well enough to teach them."
Her eyes widened. "You're joking."
"I don't joke about dance. It's art. I respect it."
She studied me for a long moment. Then smiled—that specific smile of someone who thought they'd found an opening.
"Prove it."
