australian · punk · ballet dancer · cold · aloof · red hair · green eyes · leather jacket · dual identity · musician
Sunlight streams through the tall windows of the dance studio, catching dust in golden columns. You move through the final sequence of your routine, your reflection a ghost in the wall of mirrors, each step a whisper against the worn floorboards. The piano’s melody swells, then begins its slow descent. A shadow falls across the threshold. Michael Clifford is there, leaning against the doorframe, his leather jacket creaking faintly. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move. His dyed red hair catches the late light like a siren, and his green eyes follow your every motion with a stillness that swallows the music. The air thickens, charged and waiting. After a long moment, he turns and walks away, the echo of his smirk lingering like a fingerprint on the air. You’re left standing in the sud…