In Sync

The next day, when Faye and Lena returned to the studio, the memory of the Christmas market clung to them like the scent of cinnamon and frost—faint but ever-present.

It was there in the way their shoulders brushed as they walked in, in the way Faye still remembered the sound of Lena’s laughter weaving through the winter air.

But the moment their feet met the polished wood, the world of reindeer plushies and strawberry chocolate faded.

Rehearsals waited for no one.

Madam Lumière stood in the center of the studio, her arms crossed, her gaze sharp. She didn’t need to say a word for the shift in atmosphere to settle like a weight in the room. The warmth of the holiday was gone. Today, there was only the work.

“Let’s begin,” she said, her voice as precise as a perfectly executed pirouette. But there was something in the way her eyes lingered on them—assessing, waiting.

-

They moved into position, bodies falling into the familiar steps of the pas de deux, but today, the air felt thick—charged with something just beneath the surface.

The way Lena’s fingers found Faye’s, the way their arms brushed in passing, the way their breathing fell into sync. It had always been second nature, and yet today, it felt different.

Madam Lumière’s voice cut through the quiet. “Faye, Lena, you aren’t just performing a routine. You are telling a story. I don’t want to see technique—I want to see everything. The longing. The ache. The inevitability.”

She stepped closer, her gaze locking onto them. “You are Romeo and Juliet.”

Faye’s breath caught.

She had always lost herself in the rhythm, let the movement take over. But now, the dance was demanding something deeper, something she wasn’t sure she was ready to give.

The moment Lena’s fingers brushed against her skin, it was like a spark had caught fire. It was nothing—just a fleeting touch—but it sent a pulse of warmth through her veins.

She swallowed hard, trying to focus. The lift was next. She knew Lena’s weight, knew the exact strength it took to hold her, the way her body fit effortlessly into the movement.

And yet, as she lifted her, she felt the tremor in her own hands, the hesitation coiling in her chest.

“Faye,” Madam Lumière called, sharp as a blade. “Control. Don’t let it slip.”

Faye blinked, adjusting her grip, forcing herself to ignore the strange pull between them. She had to push past it. This wasn’t about them—it was about the performance, the story, the technique.

And yet, as Lena’s body shifted against hers, the warmth of her skin lingering where their hands met, Faye knew—

Some lines, once blurred, could never be redrawn.

“Again,” Madam Lumière commanded.

-

Faye exhaled sharply, giving her head the smallest shake, as if she could clear the haze threatening to pull her under. There was no room for hesitation. No room for uncertainty. They had to finish this. They had to perfect it. She couldn’t let the dance—their dance—blur into something neither of them were ready to face.

So they started again.

This time, each movement was sharper, more deliberate. Every step was a silent conversation, every breath drawn in sync. And yet, as Faye guided Lena through the promenade, her hands steady, her focus razor-sharp, she couldn’t ignore the weight pressing against her ribs—the unspoken emotion spilling into their performance whether they wanted it to or not.

When the final note rang through the studio, they froze in place, locked in that perfect, breathless stillness.

The tension didn’t dissipate. It lingered. Unseen. Unspoken. Like an invisible thread tethering them together.

Madam Lumière studied them, her gaze sharp and knowing.

“This…” she said finally, “is promising.”

Faye’s pulse stuttered.

“But you two,” Madam Lumière continued, her voice edged with something unreadable, “must learn to control that emotion. Harness it. Do not let it control you.”

Faye’s stomach twisted. That emotion? Was it truly that obvious?

Madam Lumière folded her arms. “I’ve arranged for an acting coach to work with you both. Method acting. If you cannot feel this piece—if you cannot make the audience believe every step, every glance, every heartbeat—then you will fail.”

Lena’s breath hitched. “Fail?”

Madam Lumière’s gaze darkened, pinning them in place. “Did you think this was just another performance?”

A heavy silence fell.

Then, in a voice both softer and laden with gravity, she continued, “This isn’t merely a showcase. This performance is for him—the benefactor, the one who shapes the future of this school and this company. The entire ballet world will be watching, and you two, competing for that scholarship, are at the very center of it all, aren’t you?”

Faye felt her breath catch as Lena stiffened beside her.

-

When suddenly, the studio doors swung open as a hush fell over the room.

Footsteps echoed—measured, deliberate—each click of polished shoes against the wooden floor carving through the air like the opening notes of an overture.

At first, Faye barely recognized him. Tall. Poised. Moving with the kind of effortless control that didn’t need to announce itself—it was simply felt . The weight of his presence pressed down on the room, an invisible force demanding attention.

Then Madam Lumière spoke, her voice carrying the kind of reverence rarely heard within these walls.

“Meet Laurent Deneuve.”

The name landed like a thunderclap.

A ripple of shock spread through the dancers, gasps barely stifled as whispered disbelief flitted from mouth to mouth.

Laurent Deneuve.

The Laurent Deneuve.

And just like that, the air in the room was different. Charged. Waiting.

Because when a name like his entered a space, nothing remained the same.

-

The man whose performances could hold an audience in the palm of his hand with nothing more than a flicker of his gaze. The legend who had turned method acting into something almost mythical , shaping some of the greatest stage performers of their time.

He needed no introduction—not when his presence alone shifted the air, made it heavier, made people stand just a little straighter without even realizing why. He didn’t demand attention. He owned it, effortlessly, like it had always belonged to him.

Faye’s throat went dry.

Laurent’s sharp eyes swept over them, and she could feel the weight of his gaze—calculating, stripping them down to whatever truth lay beneath their polished technique. 

He didn’t speak right away, just watched. Read them. Like he already knew every crack they tried to hide.

Then, finally, he clasped his hands behind his back, expression unreadable.

“So,” he murmured, voice as smooth as a well-rehearsed monologue, edged with something almost amused. “I hear you two are struggling to… feel your roles.”

Lena, standing beside Faye, tensed.

Madam Lumière folded her arms, her eyes hard as she declared, “They have the foundation.” She stepped forward, her voice rising with passion. 

“But that’s only the beginning. They must live the dance. They need to ignite the chemistry, capture that push and pull—the unspoken dialogue between their souls. Without that fire, if the audience isn’t swept away by every movement, they might as well never set foot on the stage.”

Then, with a deliberate tilt of his head, Laurent stepped forward. Bending slightly, he met both of their eyes, his own blazing with an unspoken fire. 

“That’s where I come in.”

-

Laurent moved deliberately, circling them like a master director scrutinizing his lead actors. Every step was measured, every movement a silent command. His eyes, sharp and relentless, dissected their posture and expressions, as if reading lines of an unwritten script.

Faye and Lena stood back-to-back as instructed by Laurent, their bodies pressed together, the heat of each other’s presence the only solid thing in the room. Under Laurent’s scrutiny, it felt as if he could see straight through them—past the careful technique, past the poised facades, down to the very flaws they tried to conceal.

“We won’t just work on acting,” he said, his voice smooth yet resonant with authority. “You’ll dive into chemistry readings, mirroring exercises, and trust work.”

His gaze danced between Faye and Lena, assessing every flicker of doubt, every spark of potential.

“You need to learn how to exist in each other’s space so completely that there’s not a sliver of uncertainty left.”

Faye’s heart thudded painfully in her chest— chemistry reads . The term resonated like a promise of intimacy, a bridge between performance and something far more raw, far more unspoken.

Turning his intense gaze toward Madam Lumière, he asked, “How much time do I have with them?”

“Three weeks,” she replied, her tone final.

A slow, confident smirk ghosted across Laurent’s lips as he returned his focus to Faye and Lena. His eyes held them captive, as if an invisible force had bound them in place.

“This won’t just be about the dance anymore,” he murmured, the low timbre of his voice dripping with conviction. “It’ll be about what’s underneath it.”

Not a statement. Not a suggestion.

A challenge. A dare.

Faye’s gaze locked with Lena’s, and in that instant, something ignited between them—a challenge, a fire that neither of them had ever known how to extinguish. They weren’t known for backing down.

Not in class, not on stage, and certainly not now.  

So if stepping into Laurent Deneuve’s world meant diving headfirst into the unknown, then so be it.