The last class of the day had run over by twenty minutes. The pianist had packed up and left. The other dancers had trickled out one by one, leaving only the faint smell of rosin, floor wax, and the particular tiredness that settled into bones after hours of repetition.

Lucinda reached down, fingers wrapping around the cold aluminum of her water bottle. She took a long sip, letting the lukewarm water wash down her throat. Her reflection stared back at her—hair pulled back in a tight bun, flyaways stuck to her temples, dark circles that hadn't been there the semester before.

She was about to crouch down and shove her things into her duffel bag when her hand froze mid-air.

There she was. Claire Debella, standing at the center of the studio floor like she owned it. The late afternoon sunlight slanted through the tall windows, catching the highlights in her dark hair, which was loose and fell past her shoulders in soft waves. She was wearing a lavender leotard that made her look like something out of a Degas painting, one leg extended gracefully behind her in a perfect arabesque.

Lionel stood beside her, one hand resting lightly on her waist to steady her balance.

She swallowed. She knew she should leave. She should grab her bag and walk out before Claire even noticed she was there. That was the smart move. That was the safe move.

But her feet didn't move.