"Hey—" he started.
"Shut up."
She pulled him out into the hallway. Away from the studio entrance. Away from the curious eyes and whispered speculation and the twenty pairs of students who were definitely going to have questions later. Found an alcove near the emergency stairs—concrete and shadows and that particular smell of institutional buildings everywhere: cleaning products and old paint and air that didn't quite circulate properly.
She shoved him into the alcove. Hard. He let her, which was infuriating because it meant he was allowing this, which meant he wasn't taking her seriously, which meant—
"Are you kidding me right now?" Her voice was low. Furious. Shaking with the effort of not screaming. "Dance class? You're in my dance class?"
Coy leaned against the concrete wall, infuriatingly calm. Infuriatingly relaxed. Like this was amusing to him. Like he wasn't currently ruining her entire life. "Your father picked my schedule. Blame him."
"I am blaming him. I'm also blaming you for existing."
"That's fair," he said mildly.
"This is—" She gestured wildly with both hands, trying to encompass the enormity of how wrong this was. "This is my space. The one place I thought I could have away from you, away from my father, away from all of this, and now you're here with your—your arms and your—"
"My arms?" The corner of his mouth lifted. Just slightly. Just enough to be infuriating. "What's wrong with my arms?"
"Nothing! Everything!" She wanted to hit him. Or scream. Or throw something. Or all of the above. "You can't be in there."
"Pretty sure Professor Russ just said I could."
"Coy—"
"Norah." He said her name deliberately. Carefully. Knowing it would irritate her because she hadn't given him permission to use her first name, and using it anyway because apparently he didn't care about permission. "I told you. Everywhere you go, I go. That includes dance class."
"You don't even dance!" It came out louder than she intended. Almost a shout. She forced herself to lower her voice. "You don't dance. You don't know anything about contemporary movement or choreography or—"
"I can learn."
She stared at him. Incredulous. "You're going to learn. Contemporary dance. You."
"I'm very flexible," he said, and there was definitely amusement in his voice now.
"I hate you."
"Yeah, you mentioned that." His eyes drifted down—just for a second, just a flicker—then back up, and his expression shifted. Still amused, but something else beneath it. Something harder to read. "Speaking of flexibility... that's an interesting outfit."
Norah looked down at herself.
The dance dress was standard for the class. She'd worn variations of it a hundred times in London without thinking twice. Short—hitting mid-thigh, maybe a little higher. Form-fitting because it needed to be, because dance required freedom of movement and you couldn't move properly in baggy clothes. Black fabric that stretched and breathed. Thin straps. Low back to keep from restricting shoulder movement. Functional. Professional.
But something about the way Coy said it, the way his gaze had tracked down and back up, the way his jaw had tightened just slightly...
Heat flooded her face. Actual heat. She could feel it spreading across her cheeks, down her neck, and she hated it. Hated that he could make her self-conscious about something she'd never been self-conscious about before.
"It's a dance dress," she said, and her voice came out more defensive than she wanted.
"It's very short."
"It's supposed to be short. We need mobility for—" She stopped. Caught herself. Realized she was defending her clothing choices to her bodyguard in a concrete alcove near the emergency stairs. "Why am I even explaining this to you? Stop looking at me."
"Hard to protect you without looking at you."
"Try."
"Can't." But he did look away. Finally. His gaze shifted to somewhere over her left shoulder, his jaw tightening slightly, a muscle jumping near his ear. "Look, I know this is... awkward."
"Awkward," she repeated flatly. Testing the word. Finding it completely insufficient. "That's what we're calling this?"
"What would you call it?"
"A nightmare. A catastrophe. A complete and utter violation of my personal space and autonomy and the one thing I had that was mine."
Coy was quiet for a moment. Really quiet. The kind of quiet that meant he was actually thinking instead of just waiting for his turn to talk. Then: "You know what? Fine."
Norah blinked. That wasn't the response she expected. "Fine what?"
"Fine, we stay out of each other's faces. In class, we don't interact unless we have to. You do your thing, I do mine. I'll keep my distance unless there's an actual threat. I'll be as invisible as possible."
She stared at him, searching his face for the catch. The trap. The place where this was going to turn into something worse. "Really?"
"Really." He pushed off the wall, standing at his full height—and God, why was he so *tall*? Why did he have to be tall and muscled and covered in tattoos like some kind of walking cliché of dangerous masculinity?—and looked down at her. "But the second we leave that classroom, the rules change. I'm still doing my job. I'm still your shadow. Clear?"
She wanted to argue. Wanted to push back just because that's what she did, because giving in felt like losing, because accepting any compromise from him felt like admitting he had power over her.
But this was more than she'd expected. More than she thought she'd get. A compromise, however small. A boundary, however temporary.
"Clear," she said finally.
"Good." Coy started moving past her, back toward the studio. Their shoulders almost brushed. Almost. "And Norah?"
"What?"
He glanced back over his shoulder, and there was that almost-smile again. The one that was infuriating precisely because it suggested he was enjoying this. "Nice dress."
Then he was gone. Disappearing back through the studio door. Leaving her standing in the alcove with clenched fists and burning cheeks and a rage that had nowhere to go.
"I really hate him," she muttered to the empty hallway.
But when she walked back into the classroom thirty seconds later—counting to ten first, trying to calm down, trying to get her professional dance face back on—and saw him settling into a spot on the opposite side of the room while half the girls in class tried to subtly position themselves nearby, she couldn't help but notice something.
He kept his eyes firmly on Professor Russ. On the front of the room. On anything and everything except Norah and her dress and her corner of the studio.
Keeping his word.
She hated that too. Hated that he was being professional. Hated that he was keeping his distance like he said he would. Hated that she couldn't even be properly angry at him for breaking his promise because he wasn't breaking his promise.
Professor Russ cleared her throat. "Now that we're all here..." She shot Norah a look—questioning, concerned, the kind of look that said we'll talk later—then continued. "Let's begin with warm-ups. Everyone find your space. We'll start with floor work today. Basic sequences to get us back in the groove after break."
The class spread out across the hardwood. People claimed their usual territories—front row for the show-offs, middle for the solid dancers, back for the people who wanted to hide. Norah took her usual corner. Far from the door. Far from everyone else. Her spot. Her space.
Across the room, Coy stretched his arms overhead. The movement made every tattoo shift and flow like they were alive. Made his shoulders broaden. Made the muscles in his back visible even through the vest.
Three girls—Mia, Jessica, and another one whose name Norah couldn't remember—literally stopped their warm-ups to watch. Just stopped. Stared. Probably forgot how to breathe.
Norah rolled her eyes so hard she almost saw her own brain. Focused on her breathing instead. In through the nose—two, three, four. Out through the mouth—two, three, four. Centered herself in her body. In the stretch. In the familiar burn of muscles waking up.
This was her sanctuary. Her escape. Her control.
And Coy was here now, invading it with his arms and his tattoos and his infuriating ability to keep his word.
This was going to be a very long semester.
Professor Russ clapped her hands again. "Alright. Let's start with spinal rolls. Nice and slow. Feel each vertebra. We're waking up the body, not forcing it."
The class began to move. Twenty bodies rolling down through the spine. Controlled. Fluid. Years of training making it look easy even when it wasn't.
Norah rolled down—head heavy, neck released, shoulders following, ribs, lower back, all the way until her hands brushed the floor. Hung there for a breath. Two. Then rolled back up in reverse. Stacked her spine vertebra by vertebra. Lifted her head last.
Across the room, she could see Coy in the mirror. He was following along. Actually following along. His movement was rougher than everyone else's—less trained, less refined—but he was trying. Actually trying.
He caught her looking in the mirror. Their eyes met in the reflection.
He raised one eyebrow. Just slightly. A question? A challenge?
Norah looked away first. Focused on Professor Russ. On the next exercise. On anything except the tattooed bodyguard who was currently doing spinal rolls in her dance class.
"This is fine," she muttered under her breath. "Everything is fine. This is totally normal and fine."
It wasn't fine.
Nothing about this was fine.
But she rolled down again anyway. Because that's what dancers did. They kept moving. They kept performing. They kept going even when everything was falling apart.
Even when their father's bodyguard was watching from across the room.