The hallway was too quiet.
Samuel stood in front of the door marked 208, like it might bite if he knocked too hard. His backpack strap dug into one shoulder, a bead of sweat slid dangerously close to his temple, and his phone screen—checked four times already—still read:
Class 208 – Contemporary Dance Foundations.
"Okay," he whispered. "This is it. Probably. Hopefully."
He reached for the handle. Paused.
What if it wasn't the right room? What if this was, like, an advanced technique lab and he walked in on people doing backflips in silence?
No. Deep breath. This was fine. He could do this. He'd danced in competitions. He'd worn mesh tank tops in public.
The door creaked open with a quiet click. A few heads turned, and he gave a quick nod to no one in particular, clutching his bag like a shield.
The room was bright—wide mirrored walls, smooth wooden floors, and the morning sun streamed in through the windowpanes.
Rows of dancers were already stretching, emitting that calm, flexible chaos only dancers could radiate.
Jazz pants. Leotards. Cropped hoodies.
Samuel scanned the room once, heart in his throat.
Okay. He could breathe again. Maybe.
"Hi," he said to no one in particular. "Uh, I'm… new."
A tall girl with a bun and Bluetooth headphones gave him a peace sign without looking up from her hamstring stretch.
He stepped inside and closed the door behind him, doing his best impression of someone not actively disintegrating. A normal guy. Just walking. Totally casual. Definitely didn't almost cry over being called a good boy this morning.
People were already stretching, chatting, pulling on leg warmers, or sipping from metal bottles like they knew exactly what they were doing.
Samuel, meanwhile, was just trying to breathe without looking lost.
His gaze swept across an empty spot, praying no one would notice he had no idea what to do with his limbs. Maybe if he just blended into it—
"You there—tall one. Name?"
A sharp voice had cut through the room like someone snapped a ruler midair.
Samuel flinched.
The instructor, built lean and hard in joggers and an oversized tee that read Rhythm or Death, was pointing straight at him.
Samuel cleared his throat.
"Samuel. Samuel Sebastian. Sam. Whichever's… fine."
"Pick one and stick to it."
The man made a sharp clapping sound.
"You stretching?"
"I—uh—yes. I do now."
The instructor hummed like he wasn't convinced but moved on. Sam sighed, just barely keeping his soul from detaching and ascending through the ceiling.
He unrolled his mat, dropped into a passable attempt at a butterfly stretch, and tried to copy what the others were doing without making it obvious he was copying them.
A few students cast glances his way, but nothing hostile. Just curiosity.
One of them, a guy with short bleached hair and socks pulled over his calves, leaned over with a friendly grin.
"First day?"
Samuel nodded slowly. "That obvious?"
"Not just the nervous face. You picked the spot directly in the instructor's line of fire."
Samuel blinked. "Line of—?"
"You'll see."
Samuel choked on a laugh before he could stop it, but his brain was already glitching.
"…Cool," he muttered. "Awesome."
He looked over his shoulder.
Back row. Furthest from the instructor. Safest bet, right?
Why the hell would that be in the line of fire?
Fifteen minutes in, the instructor clapped once, loud enough to make his soul flinch. "You. New kid."
Samuel froze mid-quad stretch.
"Front. Now."
He blinked. "Me?"
"Do we have another 'new kid' I'm unaware of?" the instructor said, deadpan.
Oh.
So that's what he meant.
Line of fire, indeed.
Snickers fluttered across the room. Samuel swallowed whatever sound was trying to crawl up his throat and stepped forward.
"Demonstration time," the instructor said, already queuing the track on the studio speakers. "We're doing isolations. Fluid hips, sharp core. Watch your control."
Samuel had done these before.
Not like some beginner. Not in a room this quiet, maybe—but he'd been on stages, in front of lights, judges, and shaky microphones. He'd danced with crowds watching and adrenaline in his veins.
This wasn't that scary.
But it was new. New city. New school. New classmates. Even the hardwood floors didn't feel familiar. So yeah—he was tense. Focused. Hyper-aware of his arms, his balance, and his damn breath. But not really scared.
He nodded once, stepped forward, and exhaled through his nose like he'd seen dancers do in documentaries. The music hit. A low beat, heavy on rhythm and muscle memory took over.
Samuel closed his eyes for a second—just remember regionals. Just move.
He started slow. The first steps were stiff and robotic. Then his body remembered what his brain forgot.
Hips rolled, chest popped. A quick ripple down his torso. Controlled. Clean. He let his shoulders drop and his arms flow with the rhythm, locking, releasing, then cutting across in a tight diagonal that sent a flick of sweat flying from his temple.
He twisted into a backstep, arms overhead—his shirt rode up with the motion, clinging for a second to his stomach before falling again.
Without missing a beat, he dropped.
One leg kicked back as his hands met the floor. He caught the handstand. Held it.
Steady. Controlled. Grounded.
A beat passed. Then his elbows bent.
Slowly—deliberately—his arms began to fold, spine curving down one vertebra at a time like a ribbon dropping in the air. His chest brushed the floor first. Then his stomach, his hips trailing in a controlled arc, and finally his legs glided down with barely a sound.
The motion didn't stop there.
From flat on the floor, chest down and limbs resting. Then slow and deliberate. His body shifted, rolling with a subtle twist so that he ended up facing the ceiling, spine curving as his back arched off the floor.
His palms pressed firmly to the floor, feet braced beneath him like loaded springs, ready to release.
Then—with a smooth push through his arms and a curve of the spine—he rose.
Not a jump. Not a scramble. A controlled unfurling, like something blooming from the ground up.
First the hips lifted, then the chest, then the head. The movement was all flow and muscle memory until he was crouched and—one final push—standing again.
Breathless. Upright. Still.
It wasn't perfect—his balance had wobbled once, and the landing lacked polish. But for a second, the room was hushed. Someone dropped their water bottle.
Even the Bluetooth girl looked up.
The instructor crossed his arms, unimpressed on the outside. "Not bad. Floor control is dramatic. Edges need cleaning. But I've seen worse."
The guy with the bleached hair gave a low whistle. "Dude, what was that? Do you come with a slow-mo button or...?"
Samuel just shrugged, panting softly, cheeks flushed from the movement—not embarrassment, just the heat of focus and adrenaline.
"Used to freestyle a bit," he said, brushing his damp bangs from his forehead.
"You used to kill, you mean."
"Sloppy," the instructor repeated. "But fine. Sit down."
Samuel caught the faintest flicker in the man's expression—eyebrows raised a hair too high for indifference. It wasn't praise, but it wasn't nothing either.
He huffed a breath, the corner of his mouth twitching up.
Not quite a smile. More like a half-grin—wry, crooked, and involuntarily charming. The kind that lit up his whole face with the barest clown energy.
"I live to disappoint," he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for the bleached-hair guy to snort behind him.
"Sloppy, huh? If that was 'sloppy,' I'm quitting now." He held out a hand. "Miles, by the way. Welcome to chaos."
Samuel still panting "Samuel. Thanks, I think?"
Samuel sat down—heart pounding, warmth still buzzing in his limbs—but something loosened in his chest. The first step always felt like this. Sharp. Scary. But he'd survived.
And he knew it didn't totally suck here.
***
Joanna didn't mean to be walking past the dance room again.
She just needed a tuner. Her usual one had disappeared somewhere between her apartment and rehearsal hall, and the backup supply closet was a few classrooms over—past that studio she was definitely not thinking about.
She got what she came for and started heading back.
Then came the music. Sharp and pulsing, just faint enough to bleed through the hallway tiles. Her steps slowed.
A glance toward the classroom nameplate.
Of course. 208.
She let out a small laugh—more like a scoff. Not really. mocking. Just remembering. That dramatic twirl earlier. Just amused.
Of course he was being dramatic.
Her gaze flicked sideways—automatically, stupidly—drawn through the tall glass slider window left open for airflow.
And through the gap, she caught a scene.
With his legs lifted high behind him, Samuel's hands caught the floor. He froze mid-handstand, perfectly still, perfectly balanced. For a split second, he looked carved from wire and motion—shoulders taut, wrists strong, spine like a steel rope.
His black tee had ridden up completely, bunched at his chest.
A glint of silver swung across his collarbone, and the stretch of his torso shimmered—sweat tracing along carved muscle. Bare. Sculpted. Defined.
Bless it, her expression practically whispered.
Her gaze, caught between the motion and the heat of it, lingered for half a second too long. Not her usual mock-flirty gawking. Not a teasing wink meant to make Lilith squirm. Just—awe.
She'd seen confidence before. But this wasn't arrogance—it was dominance.
Then, his elbows bent.
He dipped low, a slow, coiled unraveling. Chest brushed the floor. Then his core. Then hips, legs, everything settling like silk falling into place.
The motion shifted again.
From flat on the ground to a twist to a roll until he lay on his back—face tilted upward. Palms pressed to the floor. Feet braced. And then, fluid and unbothered, he rose. One long push, one curve of motion, until he was crouched—then standing.
Joanna blinked.
Her lips parted like she might say something, but nothing came.
Then, a breath. A blink. "...Huh."
The mask slid back on.
And with a smirk tugging at her mouth, she murmured, "W…d…n~"
Mid-rise, his palms braced, spine still curving toward standing, he caught it.
A face beyond the glass, just past the sliding window.
The girl from the corridor. The one with the bold liptint and the fierce stare. Silver-black strands spilled down like moonlight in the night.
Her mouth moved, a smirk tugging at her mouth—
"Well, damn~"
And somehow—through the blur of movement and the beat pounding in his ears—he read her lips. His balance didn't waver, but something in his chest jolted.
"I live to disappoint," he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for Miles to snort behind him.
He sat down—heart pounding, limbs still buzzing warm from the routine—but now there was heat in his cheeks, too.
Not the sweaty kind. The kind that crept up, uninvited. The kind that had nothing to do with dance and everything to do with her.
Maybe it blended in with the adrenaline. Maybe no one noticed. But he felt it.
And she didn't stick around. Just turned—tuner in hand, smirk locked in—and walked off like witnessing disaster-boy's surprise muscle showcase was part of her Wednesday schedule.
No pause. No comment. Just a flip of her hair and a grin, while her thoughts screamed 11 out of 10 core strength.