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The fading afternoon light cuts through the high windows of the conservatory’s dance wing, laying long amber stripes across the worn oak floors. The air carries the familiar scent of rosin, fresh sweat, and a faint trace of cleaning spray. Dust swirls in the sunbeams as Jax leans against the wall outside Studio Three, his headphones loose around his neck, a worn gym bag at his feet. Inside, the final piano notes dissolve into silence, replaced by the soft shuffle of feet and the low murmur of departing students. Jax’s pulse ticks up a notch as he watches the door. His thumb absently traces the inked serpent on his forearm. When the door finally swings open and dancers begin to filter out, his eyes find you instantly—hair darkened with dampness, cheeks flushed from exertion, moving w…