The music cuts too early. It's subtle—barely noticeable to anyone who isn't counting. But I am.
Always.
My foot lands a fraction off-beat. Not enough to fall. Not enough to stop. Just enough to know.
I finish anyway.
Arms extend. Chin lifts. Expression untouched. The final pose settles into place like it always does—precise, deliberate, flawless to anyone watching.
Silence follows.
Then—
"Again."
I don't move immediately. My fingers curl slightly at my sides, nails pressing into my palms just enough to anchor me. "From the second sequence," my instructor adds, tone clipped. "You're anticipating the music." she says.
"I'm not," I reply evenly.
A pause.
The kind that hangs.
"Again, Vera."
I reset.
Of course I do.
⸻
By the time rehearsal ends, my body feels like it's been pulled apart and stitched back together incorrectly.
Controlled.
Functional.
Barely.
I slip my jacket over my shoulders, ignoring the way my muscles protest, and reach for my phone.
Three missed calls.
One message.
Professor Langford:
If you don't pass this module, Miss Ardent, your placement will be reconsidered.
My jaw tightens.
Reconsidered.
Such a polite word for removed.
I lock the screen without replying.
There are things I can fix.
This—
this should be one of them.
The library is colder than I remember or maybe I just notice it more tonight. My heels echo once against the marble before I stop, slipping them off and carrying them in one hand instead. The floor is unforgiving beneath my feet.
Good.
I need that.
Grounding.
Control.
I scan the room once, twice—
—and find him exactly where they said he'd be. Corner table. Back to the window. Laptop open. Still. Like he belongs there more than anyone else in the room.
"Julian Mercer?" I say.
Nothing.
Of course.
"I don't repeat myself." I say. He looks up then.
Slowly.
And just like that—
something shifts.
Not in him.
In me.
Because he doesn't react.
No recognition. No hesitation. No adjustment.
His gaze just settles on mine like I'm... normal. "You just did," he says.
Right.
So that's how this is going to be.
"I need help with my coursework," I say, sitting across from him without waiting to be invited. I set my heels down neatly beside me, crossing one leg over the other. "You'll be compensated." I say. "No." he declines.
I blink.
"You didn't even hear the terms." I say. "I don't need them." he replies. I study him properly now.
Dark hair. Unbothered posture. Eyes that don't wander, don't linger where they shouldn't.
He's not avoiding looking at me. He just doesn't care to.
"You're ranked top in your cohort," I say. "You don't tutor. You don't take requests." I continue. "You did your research." I add. "I don't approach blindly." he says.
A pause.
Then, deliberately—
"I'm offering you more than money." I say.
His fingers still over the keyboard. "...Go on."
There it is.
"I can get you in front of people you don't have access to," I say. "Sponsors. Teams. Recognition." I add. He leans back slightly, like I've said something mildly interesting instead of something that should matter.
"You assume I need help." he states. "You assume you don't." I correct. Silence stretches between us, thin and sharp.
He studies me. Not the way people usually do—not the surface, not the obvious.
Something else.
"You want something," he says. "Not just grades." he adds. I tilt my head slightly and shrug. "I want efficiency," I reply. "And discretion."
His gaze drops briefly—To my bare feet. The tension in my posture. The way I'm holding myself just a little too still.
Then back to my eyes. "You're failing a core module." he flatly states.
Not a question.
"...Struggling," I correct.
"Same thing."
I don't react.
I don't react.
"There are conditions," he says.
"Of course there are." I say.
"No attitude. No missed sessions. You do the work—I don't carry you."
A flicker of irritation curls low in my chest.
Controlled. Contained.
"Fine." I agree. "And," he adds, almost like it doesn't matter, "you don't interfere with how I do things."
"You're very demanding," I say coolly, "for someone being offered an opportunity."
"And you're very confident," he replies, "for someone asking for help."
That lands.
Clean. Precise.
I hold his gaze anyway. "...When do we start?" I ask. He turns the laptop toward me, already pulling something up. "You're late." he states. "I'm right on—" he cut me off. "Ten minutes." he says. "Don't make it a habit." he advises.
Something sharp flickers under my skin.
Not anger.
Not quite.
"Fine," I say. "What are we starting with?" I ask. He taps the screen once, bringing up a document filled with code and annotations. "Foundations," he says. "Since you don't have any."
My eyes narrow slightly.
"I wouldn't be here if I didn't need help."
"You wouldn't be here," he replies, "if you didn't ignore it long enough."
I exhale slowly through my nose.
Measured.
Controlled.
"Explain it," I say.
He watches me for half a second longer—like he's deciding something.
Then he starts.
And just like that—
the deal becomes real.
It takes fifteen minutes for the headache to start. Twenty before I realise he's not simplifying anything for me.
"Stop," I say. He doesn't. "Julian." I say again. He pauses then, glancing up. "What?" he questions. "You're explaining it like I already understand it." I state. "You should." he says. "I don't." I whined.
A beat.
Then, flat—
"That's the problem."
I stare at him.
"You're not adjusting your approach."
"You're not adjusting your effort."
There it is again.
That sharp, infuriating precision.
"I don't have time to relearn everything from the beginning," I say. "Then you should've thought about that earlier." he says.
My jaw tightens.
"You're unbelievable."
"You're unprepared."
Silence.
Thick this time.
Heavy.
"You're not used to this," he says after a moment. "To what?" I ask. "Not being good at something." he says.
My fingers still.
Because that—
that's the one place he shouldn't have gone.
And somehow—
he went there without hesitation.
I should leave. I should stand up, put my heels back on, and walk out like this never happened. Like he's just another inconvenience I don't need.
But I don't, because… he's right. And I hate that more than anything. "...Continue," I say quietly. Something shifts in his expression.
Not softer.
Just... different.
He nods once and starts again. I don't understand everything. Not even half of it but I stay. I listen. I try.
And somewhere between frustration and focus—
I forget to be perfect.
When I finally stand to leave, my body aches in a way that has nothing to do with dance.
"You'll revise what we covered," he says without looking up. "Next session builds on it."
"I have rehearsal."
"Not my problem."
I slip my heels back on. Controlled. Composed.
"Same time tomorrow?" I ask. He glances at me then.
Brief.
Assessing.
"Don't be late."
I almost laugh. Probably giggled.
Almost.
"Goodnight, Julian."
No response.
But as I turn to leave—
I feel it again.
That sharp, unfamiliar shift under my skin.
Not annoyance.
Not offense.
Something else.
Something I don't have a name for yet.
And somehow—
I know this was a mistake.
Not the deal. Not the tutoring.
Him.