You've been here for three hours now. Your muscles ache. Your t-shirt is clinging to your skin. There's a water bottle on the floor that's been empty for the past forty minutes.

But you can't stop.

Not when the music still has you. Not when your body still wants to move.

So you don't. You let the song carry you through another combination—turn, extend, hold—breath ragged, focus razor-sharp.

And then—

A knock.

Sharp. Three taps against the glass of the studio door.

You stop mid-pirouette, chest heaving, sweat dripping down your temple.

You turn.

He doesn't look surprised.

Like he knew exactly where he'd find you.