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By the time Eris pushed open the heavy door to Rehearsal Room No. 3, the building had already slipped into that particular kind of stillness only found long after hours, when the city outside had exhaled its last breath of noise, and only the old fluorescent lights remained, buzzing softly overhead.
She was there.
Of course.
Nesta stood alone at the centre of the studio, arms lifted above her head, her spine curling in slow, sinuous arcs, not for the mirror and not for him. Her black leotard caught the light like silk turned to shadow, slicing clean across the sharp lines of her shoulder blades. Bare feet grounded her, her pointe shoes, pink and tired, sat folded neatly beside the speaker like they, too, were catching their breath.
Eris lingered at the threshold for a beat longer than he should have, the door clicking shut behind him with a sound far too loud.
He didn’t say anything.
There were no greetings between them anymore. No need for small talk. Not when the air between their bodies was already thick with unspoken things. Not when every rehearsal left his hands on her skin longer than choreography required.
Instead, he padded across the scuffed wooden floor, settling himself in the far corner where the mirrors met at an imperfect angle. He dropped his dance bag silently by the wall, rolled out his ankles, and knelt to stretch. His body ached. The kind of ache that only came after years of pas de deux, of catching and lifting and holding partners who never quite gave him all their weight.
His body protested slightly as he rose, the ache in his knee a remnant of last night’s rehearsal, or maybe something older. The knee cracked as he straightened to his full height, just loud enough for her to hear.
“You’re limping,” she said without turning.
“How would you know?” He mumbled, rolling his shoulders.
“You favour the right every time you come out of a tour en l’air.”
He exhaled a dry sound, not quite a laugh. “You watch that closely?”
“You're my partner, aren’t you?” She offered in response.
"The director wants us to run the final pas again," he said, voice low, the French in him audible in the rhythm of the words, rounded vowels, soft consonants, the faint ghost of Paris in his mouth.
Nesta glanced over her shoulder. Her hair had already begun to fall from its low bun, strands clinging to her neck, damp with sweat. She looked like a Degas sketch, undone at the edges, caught mid-motion, every muscle coiled tight beneath that composed stillness.
She didn’t roll her eyes. Didn’t sigh. Just said, “Of course she does.”
She crossed to the stereo. He watched her elegant fingers press play.
The music began, strings both delicate and fractured.
Eris moved to his mark. Nesta mirrored him.
Her body folded into his, her arm slipping over his shoulder as he lifted her into an arabesque porté, her thigh brushing high against his hip. He felt her inhale, sharp and controlled as he guided her through the lift, and something in his chest tightened at the sound.
They landed.
Turned.
He caught her in a développé, her leg extended high, her toes pointed like she was sculpted from marble. His palm was under her thigh. His breath fanned her skin.
She didn’t look away.
“Again,” he said quietly.
She nodded.
He reset the step. She leapt. He caught her midair, her body curled around him, back arching, one arm slipping around his neck.
Their faces hovered.
Their lips did not touch, but they were close enough for it to hurt.
They kept going until the music reached the end.
Until the moment Eris knew too well.
The final beat before the kiss that wasn’t written into the choreography, but always lived there, trembling beneath the surface.
Their bodies were pressed together. Her chest rose and fell against his. His hand was under her ribs, fingers splayed. She was breathing like she’d run a marathon. He was holding her like he might never let go.
Nesta’s voice broke the silence. “You’re late on the entrance,” she whispered.
Her hand moved first, fingers sliding up his chest slowly, curling faintly at the collar of his loose shirt, anchoring him there.
He smiled. Barely. “I like watching you. Makes me... lose track.”
Her breath caught, and she didn’t pull away. Didn’t drop the pose.
So he leaned in.
Her lips parted. Her chin tilted. Their mouths met, slow and soft, just the pressure of two dancers too used to control, too afraid to break the spell.
Her breath hitched. Her lips parted. The soft, surprised sound she made against his mouth undid him more than it should have.
He kissed her again, deeper.
Nesta responded instantly, her hands sliding up into his hair, dragging him closer, pulling herself to him like she did in every lift, instinctive and necessary. Her tongue brushed his, hesitant and then not. He groaned, one hand slipping down, fanning across her lower back, pulling her flush against him.
Eris let the rest of his restraint fall away.
She arched into it. Into him.
They stumbled backward, her spine meeting the mirror with a soft thud, and she gasped, mouth breaking from his only to breathe his name.
Eris.
Their kiss deepened, months of stillness unraveling all at once.
Her teeth caught his bottom lip. He groaned, low and guttural. His hands fanned across her ribs, already knowing the shape of her. He moved to her thighs, hitching her leg higher around his waist, his mouth dragging down her jaw, over her throat, teeth grazing skin as soft as silk and slick with sweat. He didn’t bite, but he wanted to.
She tilted her head back anyway, gave him more.
For a moment, the world outside that room ceased to exist, no company, no director, no dawn waiting to unspool it all.
Just Nesta’s breath against his skin.