A month passed. They were always paired. Always talking. Sometimes staying after to run through choreography—or to talk about movies, books, the pressure of being "the tall one," and what it meant to stand out when you didn't always want to.
One night, after a long rehearsal, Marco asked, "You wanna go get ice cream? You earned it. You actually nailed that footwork."
Lena hesitated, heart thudding. "I mean… I'm not gonna say no to pistachio."
They walked through dim Athens streets, cups in hand, laughter echoing between them. At one point, she tripped slightly. He steadied her.
For a second, they just looked at each other. Her glasses were slightly crooked. He brushed a strand of hair from her face.
"Your eyes are really dark," he said, voice soft.
"You're just saying that."
"I'm not."
They didn't kiss. Not then. But something changed.