ALEX’S HAND IS WARM in mine as he leads me through unfamiliar streets, the buildings growing more weathered with each block we pass. He won’t tell me where we’re going, just tugs me along with that secret smile playing at his lips—the one that makes my stomach flip even though I’m trying to act annoyed. I’ve peppered him with questions for the last twenty minutes, but he just shakes his head. Whatever this surprise is, it matters to him. So I follow, my curiosity building with every step.
“Are we almost there?” I ask for the dozenth time, squeezing his hand.
“Patience,solnyshko. Just a little further.”
We turn down a street lined with buildings that have seen better days—peeling paint, cracked sidewalks, graffiti bloomingacross some of the brick walls. The neighborhood isn’t dangerous, but it’s definitely several social rungs below Alex’s usual haunts. I raise an eyebrow as he slows his pace, scanning the storefronts like he’s looking for something specific.
“Seriously, Alex. What are we doing here?”
He stops so abruptly I nearly run into his back. “We’re here.”
I follow his gaze to a two-story brick building with boarded windows and a faded sign hanging crookedly above the entrance. I have to squint to make out the weathered letters.
“A dance studio?”
My eyes dart to Alex’s face, but he’s watching me with an intensity that makes me look away. I focus on the building instead—abandoned for years, judging by its condition. The door is secured with a heavy chain threaded through a rusted padlock.
“Okay,” I say slowly, trying to piece together what’s happening. “I don’t get it. Why are we looking at an abandoned dance studio?”
Alex steps closer to the building, tugging me with him. “Don’t you want to see inside?”
I laugh nervously. “We can’t just break in, Alex.”
“It wouldn’t be breaking in.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a set of keys, dangling them from his fingers.
“Where did you get those?”
“I have my ways,” he says with a smirk, already moving toward the padlocked door.
I hang back, watching as he fiddles with the lock. “You ‘have your ways’? What does that even mean? Did you bribe someone? Threaten them? Use your father’s connections?”
“Vincent,” Alex says, looking over his shoulder at me, “just trust me, okay?”
Something in his expression—a mixture of nervousness and hope—makes me swallow my questions. I nod, stepping closer as the padlock finally gives way with a rusty groan. Alex unwraps the chain, letting it clatter against the door.
“After you,” he says, pushing the door open.
I hesitate at the threshold, peering into the dimness beyond. A shaft of sunlight cuts through the gloom from where a board has come loose over one of the windows, illuminating dust motes that dance in the air like tiny stars.
“It’s safe,” Alex assures me, his hand warm on the small of my back. “I had it inspected.”
Inspected? Why would he have an abandoned building inspected? The questions multiply in my mind, but I step inside anyway, drawn by a curiosity I can’t explain.
The space opens up before me—larger than it looked from outside. My footsteps echo on wooden floors that have warped with time and neglect. To my right, ballet barres still line the wall, though one hangs askew where its brackets have come loose. Directly ahead, a cracked mirror spans the entire wall, fracturing our reflections into dozens of pieces.
“What do you think?” Alex asks, his voice oddly tight.
I walk slowly around the room, my fingers trailing along the dusty barre. My eyes assess the space automatically—high ceilings with exposed beams, good natural light potential if those boards came off the windows, surprisingly solid floor beneath the dust and grime. In my mind, I’m already seeing what it could be instead of what it is.
“It’s amazing,” I say, surprising myself with how much I mean it. I press my foot against a loose floorboard, feeling it give slightly under my weight. “Needs work, obviously. But the bones are good, as far as I can see.”
Alex watches me from near the entrance, hands shoved in his pockets, a strange tension in his shoulders. He’s nervous, I realize. But why?
“What is this place?” I ask, turning in a slow circle to take it all in. “Why are we here?”
Instead of answering, Alex moves to a counter near the front—what must have been a reception desk once—and slides a folded document across its dusty surface.
“It’s yours,” he says simply, “if you want it.”
