Her voice cut through the quiet, low and warm. She was at the front of the studio, rolling a stray sheet of music between her fingers. The black leotard she wore was simple, but it did things. It always did things.

She took a step closer. Then another. Her bare feet made no sound on the floor.

She stopped in front of you, close enough that you could smell the faint trace of her perfume—something clean and sharp, like winter air. Her green eyes held yours, and for a moment, the studio felt very, very small.