pairings: Jaafar Jackson x f!reader ——♡—— w/c: 6k+
summary: Fouetté - A classical ballet move. A French term meaning ‘whipped’. Jaafar was perhaps a little too familiar with both senses of the word.
warnings: fluff, slight age gap but it’s barely mentioned, reader is a ballet dancer, mentions of an injury caused from dancing, jaafar is such a softie in my mind i love him so bad.
The dance studio was empty in the way ethereal cathedrals were empty. Never truly vacant, but lingering with echoes of devotion.
Sunlight spilt through the tall windows in sheets of gold, turning dust motes into tiny constellations suspended in the air. The room smelled faintly of resin and old wood, of sweat and perseverance, of years spent chasing perfection.
You moved through the centre of it all like you belonged to another world.
Music drifted from a speaker tucked into the corner, soft piano notes unravelling through the silence. Your body followed each one instinctively, as though you had been stitched together from melody itself. Every extension was effortless. Every turn was fluid. Every rise onto pointe seemed to defy gravity.
To be an onlooker watching you dance was to witness something sacred.
And Jaafar found himself watching. He hadn’t meant to.
Filming had wrapped early that afternoon, leaving him time to practice a few especially tedious routines in preparation for a performance scene. He was exhausted in a way that settled deep into his bones. His shoulders ached, his eyes burned from the studio lights, and all he wanted was a quiet place to think before heading home.
Instead, he’d wandered down the wrong hallway, or perhaps the right one. The door had been slightly open, music reaching his ears first. Then he saw you, stopping in the doorway without realising it.
For a moment, he forgot how to breathe; you were beautiful, yes. Anyone with functioning eyes could see that. But it wasn’t your beauty that rooted him to the spot.
It was the way you moved; there was something devastating about it. The discipline hidden beneath grace. The years of sacrifice concealed behind every effortless motion. The way your expression shifted with the music, as though you were telling a story only you could hear.
He watched you leap, watched you spin. Watched you land with the precision of someone who had clearly spent thousands of hours teaching your body impossible things.
And suddenly he understood why people stood in museums for hours staring at paintings; some things simply demanded to be admired.
The song swelled, you rose into a final fouetté. One, two, three. Then stopped, silence rushing into the room. Only then did you notice him, eyes meeting through the mirror.
For a heartbeat, neither moved. Jaafar immediately felt like he’d been caught committing a crime.
“Oh” His voice cracked, quickly covering it up with a cough as he cleared his throat. “Sorry.”
You turned slowly, one hand still resting against the barre. A few strands of hair had escaped your bun, clinging to your temples. Your chest rose and fell with exertion. “You’ve been standing there a while, haven’t you?” amusement in your voice.
Jaafar rubbed the back of his neck. “Maybe.” Your eyebrow lifted.
A laugh escaped you then, the tension in the room dissolving. Jaafar felt something warm settle in his chest at the sound.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said. “I was looking for the exit.” You glanced toward the door behind him.
“The one with the giant EXIT sign hanging above it?” His ears burned.
“Listen, it’s been a long day.” That earned him another laugh. The room had been beautiful before; now it felt brighter. For the first time since they’d started speaking, you really looked at him. Recognition flickered across your features.
“And you’re apparently much more observant than I am.”
Your smile widened; something about it felt dangerous. Not because it was seductive, but because it was genuine. The kind of smile that arrived unexpectedly and lodged itself somewhere beneath your ribs.
Neither of you noticed the minutes slipping by, or the sunlight gradually fading beyond the windows. The two of you only stood there talking, about dance, about performing. About exhaustion and ambition and the strange loneliness that came with dedicating your life to an art form, and for the first time since he began shooting the movie, Jaafar didn’t feel tired.
Not when you smiled, not when you spoke. Not when you looked at him like he was simply another person instead of someone everyone already seemed to know.
Later, long after he finally left the studio, one thought followed him all the way home. He could still see you dancing. Every graceful movement burned into his memory. You had been like moonlight reflecting across water, beautiful, untouchable and entirely impossible to forget.
And for the first time in a long time, he found himself hoping your paths would cross again.
The thought should have been ridiculous.
The city was enormous. People drifted in and out of each other’s lives every day without a second glance. One chance encounter in a dance studio hardly guaranteed anything.
Yet three days later, Jaafar found himself standing outside the very same door. He stared at it, then down at the coffee cup in his hand.
“You’re pathetic,” he muttered to himself.
The coffee was still warm; he’d convinced himself it wasn’t strange. The studio had a café downstairs. Plenty of people bought coffee. Plenty of people accidentally wandered into rehearsal spaces.
The fact that he’d remembered exactly what time your rehearsal had started was entirely irrelevant.
The door stood slightly ajar once again, the soft piano music floating into the hallway once more, luring him in further, like a moon pulling at a tide. Before he could talk himself out of it, he nudged the door open.
You were there, of course. This time, however, you weren’t dancing. You were sitting on the floor beside the mirrored wall, legs stretched out in front of you. One pointe shoe had already been removed, discarded carelessly beside your dance bag.
The sight made his stomach twist. Your ankle was wrapped in ice, looking up at the sound of the door. For a moment, you looked surprised, caught off guard. Then recognition, followed by a smile.
“Looking for the exit again?” you asked.
Jaafar laughed despite himself. “Maybe.”
“Should I point it out this time?”
“That would probably help.”
You shook your head, amusement dancing in your eyes. When your gaze dropped to the cup in his hand, Jaafar suddenly felt fourteen years old.
“I bought this before I realised I was already holding one,” he said quickly. “So now I have two.”
The lie was terrible. You knew it, he knew it. Yet neither of you acknowledged it. Instead, you accepted the cup with a grateful smile.
Something warm unfurled inside his chest; he tried not to think about it. Tried even harder not to think about how pretty you looked sitting there with your hair half-fallen from its bun once again and your cheeks flushed from rehearsal. His attention drifted to your ankle.
The faint wince that crossed your face when you shifted; his smile faded.
You followed his gaze downward.
“Yeah.” The response was too casual. Far too casual; years of performing had clearly taught you how to disguise pain. “It happens.”
Jaafar frowned; you looked away, which told him everything he needed to know, the room falling quiet once more. Outside, rain had begun tapping softly against the windows. The grey afternoon light painted silver shadows across the studio floor.
“I just pushed too hard today.” Your voice was smaller than before, tired. “Opening night is next week.”
Jaafar understood that tone. Understood the stubborn determination that convinced artists to keep going long after their bodies begged them to stop. He’d seen it in dancers, actors, musicians. He’d seen it in himself.
“You know,” he said gently, “I think every performer I’ve ever met has said that exact sentence.”
“And every one of them ignored the injury.”
“And every one of them regretted it.”
This time your smile was reluctant.
For a moment neither of you spoke. Then, without thinking, Jaafar crouched beside you. Close enough to notice the flecks of gold hidden in your eyes, close enough to see the exhaustion you’d been carrying all along. “You take care of everyone else?” he asked.
Your brows knitted together. “What?”
“You seem like the type.”
You looked genuinely confused. “The type?”
“The type who checks everyone else’s injuries. Makes sure everyone else gets home safely. Remembers everyone’s birthdays.” A laugh escaped you.
He smiled. “Who’s taking care of you?” The question settled between you. Soft and unexpected, because neither of you seemed to know the answer. And for reasons he couldn’t quite explain, Jaafar found himself wishing it could be him taking care of you.
The rain continued its gentle rhythm against the windows. Somewhere down the hall, a door opened and closed. Voices drifted past before fading into silence once more. You looked away first.
“That’s a very loaded question for someone I’ve only met twice.”
A smile tugged at Jaafar’s mouth. “Sorry.”
“No,” he admitted. “I’m really not.”
The laugh that escaped you was quiet, tired. You lifted the coffee cup to your lips, grateful for the warmth. Jaafar remained crouched beside you, arms resting loosely on his knees. “Opening night next week?” he asked.
You nodded. “Three performances.”
“Three?” His eyebrows rose.
“Friday, Saturday, Sunday.”
“It is brutal.” You laughed softly. “But that’s ballet.”
His gaze drifted toward the centre of the studio. The polished floor, mirrors stretching across the wall. The abandoned pointe shoe lying on the ground. “You make it look easy.”
You snorted; Jaafar looked delighted by the sound “I’m serious.”
You shook your head. “No one sees the easy part.”
“The dancing is the easy part?”
“The dancing is the reward.” Something in your voice made him pause. You looked toward the mirrors, toward your own reflection. “The hard part is everything before that.”
The room seemed quieter suddenly. “The rehearsals. The blisters. The bleeding. The days when your body hurts so badly you don’t want to get out of bed.”
Jaafar blinked. “The bleeding?”
You pointed toward the discarded pointe shoe “These things are torture devices.”
“People see ballet and think it’s graceful.” You shifted slightly, stretching your injured leg.
You smiled. “But it’s also brutal.” Your gaze softened. “When I was sixteen, I fractured my foot and finished an entire performance before anyone realised.”
Jaafar stared at you. “What?”
“I’m not saying it was smart.”
“It definitely wasn’t smart.”
His expression was somewhere between admiration and horror. “You dancers are insane.” You grinned; the smile lingered between you, completely and dangerously easy.
Jaafar found himself noticing things he hadn’t during your first interaction. The way your eyes lit up when you talked about dancing, the way your hands moved when you explained things. The faint crease that appeared between your brows whenever you were thinking. It should have felt strange; you were practically strangers, yet somehow it didn’t.
“Can I ask you something?” he said.
You raised an eyebrow. “Depends.”
“How old are you?” Your laugh echoed through the studio.
“That was your mysterious question?”
“I’m twenty-four.” His expression immediately relaxed; you narrowed your eyes.
He looked suspiciously innocent.
Jaafar groaned. “You make observations I don’t appreciate.”
“There it is again.” You pointed accusingly.
“I just thought you were younger.”
“Younger than twenty-four?” You tilted your head.
“And that’s a good thing?”
“Hm.” You pretended to consider it for a moment. “I’ll allow it.”
“You absolutely were.” The grin on your face made him shake his head.
For reasons he couldn’t explain, he couldn’t remember the last time talking to someone had felt this easy. No expectations or cameras. No pressure. Just you, and a conversation that neither of you seemed eager to end. Then your phone buzzed beside your dance bag.
You glanced at the screen; your expression immediately fell. Jaafar noticed.
You sighed. “My director.”
“He wants me back tomorrow morning.”
A frown settled across his features. “Your ankle’s injured.”
“You’re not going to rest.”
You smiled sheepishly. “No.”
Jaafar stared at you, then laughed. The sound was warm and disbelieving. “You really are impossible.”
Something fluttered unexpectedly in your chest, not because of what he said. But because of the way he said it, like it wasn’t a criticism. Like he already knew you yet somehow liked you anyway.
Jaafar opened his mouth as though he wanted to say something else. Instead, he stood, brushing imaginary dust from his hands. “You should probably get home.”
The next time Jaafar saw you, he wasn’t looking for an excuse. At least, that was what he told himself. The lie lasted three minutes; he was halfway down the hallway before he realised his feet had already decided for him.
When he pushed open the door, the studio was almost empty. Only a handful of dancers remained; you stood in the centre of the room.
A sheen of sweat glistened along your skin beneath the fluorescent lights overhead. Your hair was escaping its bun in earnest now, loose strands clinging stubbornly to your neck and temples.
The pianist had already packed up for the evening, yet you were still dancing. The music now came from a phone propped up against the wall. You moved through the choreography with visible exhaustion.
Not sloppily, but tired. A tiredness that settled into muscles and bones. Jaafar recognised it instantly. Your jumps weren’t quite reaching the height they had the first day he’d seen you; your turns looked heavier, your shoulders sagged whenever you thought no one was looking. And still you continued.
Repeatedly, the same sequence, the same corrections. The same impossible pursuit of perfection.
Jaafar remained in the doorway for a while, watching. Not because he was captivated this time, though he was. But because there was something quietly heartbreaking about seeing how hard you pushed yourself.
The music stopped; you stopped with it. Breathing heavily, one hand braced against your thigh, the other pressed to your ribs. “How long have you been here?” Your voice echoed through the studio.
Jaafar blinked. “You didn’t even look up.”
“Then how did you know I was here?”
A tired smile appeared on your face. “I’ve started recognising your footsteps.” His heart nearly launched itself through his ribcage.
You finally looked at him; the amused expression on your face suggested you were fully aware of the effect that sentence had just had.
“Exactly.” The smile tugging at your mouth widened.
“You’ve become dependent.” He laughed.
“You created the problem.”
“You showed up with coffee twice.”
“You’re making things up.”
You pointed at him. “Gaslighting.”
“I am not gaslighting you.”
“That’s exactly what a gaslighter would say.”
The grin that broke across his face was immediate; the easy silence settled around you once more. Your gaze drifted toward the clock on the wall. Then you groaned, Jaafar following your line of sight.
“I’ve been here for eleven hours.”
“What?” He glanced down at the tape wrapped around your toes, the angry red marks around your ankles. The way you carefully avoided putting too much weight on one foot.
You dropped dramatically onto the floor. “I live here now.”
“You do not.” He laughed.
“I’ve paid rent with blood, sweat, and tears.”
“Mostly blood, apparently.”
You pointed toward him from where you sat sprawled across the studio floor. “See? This is why we’re friends.”
The word slipped out so naturally that neither of you seemed prepared for it. Friends. The room suddenly felt quieter; Jaafar’s smile softened.
Friends. It should have disappointed him. Instead, it felt strangely precious, because it meant you’d thought about him too, enough to give whatever this was a name.
Your expression shifted slightly, as though you’d realised what you’d said. Neither of you mentioned it, neither of you wanted to.
The evening sunlight broke through the clouds, pouring gold across the studio floor once more, catching in the mirrors and painting everything in shades of amber. And for reasons neither of you were willing to examine too closely, neither of you seemed particularly eager to leave.
Jaafar glanced at the clock again, then back at you.
His expression immediately told you he didn’t believe that for a second.
You opened your mouth, paused, then closed it again. Jaafar groaned.
“It absolutely should not happen.” The look of disbelief on his face was so dramatic that a laugh escaped you.
“You are being very judgemental for someone who voluntarily spends twelve hours a day pretending to be someone else.”
“Thank you.” You rolled your eyes; the smile lingering on his face only widened, a comfortable warmth settling over the studio.
Then Jaafar stood. “Come on.”
“Where are we going?” You frowned.
“We?” His grin was immediate. “See? You already assumed you were included.”
Your eyes narrowed. “Jaafar.”
You looked toward your dance bag, then down to your ankle. Your rehearsal notes still sat waiting for you; there were corrections to review. Choreography to memorise, a hundred things you should probably be doing. Jaafar followed your gaze and immediately understood. “No.”
“What do you mean no?” You laughed.
“It’s the answer you’re getting.” His expression softened slightly. “You’ve been here for eleven hours; you can take one evening off.” A strange feeling settled in your chest; he had said it so easily. As though resting wasn’t something that had to be earned, that taking care of yourself wasn’t a reward for surviving.
You hesitated; he smiled.
You stared at him. “Are you actually using the puppy-dog eyes right now?”
“They’re working, aren’t they?”
“They’re not.” You were already reaching for your bag; his grin became unbearable.
“I’ve been told that before.”
You laughed despite yourself; a look of triumph crossed his face. When you finally stood, however, pain immediately shot through your ankle. You sucked in a sharp breath; the room tilted briefly. Before you could catch yourself, a hand landed gently against your elbow.
Concern flashed across his face. “You okay?”
The answer came automatically. “I’m fine.”
You sighed. “Mostly fine.”
You shook your head; something about him made honesty easier.
The walk toward the exit was slow; your ankle forced it to be. Jaafar didn’t tease you about it; he simply matched your pace without saying a word. The evening air greeted you the moment you stepped outside. Cool against your skin as the city buzzed around you. Then Jaafar looked over at you. “What are you in the mood for?”
“That’s your first question?” You laughed.
“You’ve made that very clear.”
He smiled, one that always seemed to arrive before he realised it was there. Standing beneath the fading sunset with your dance bag slung over your shoulder and his hand still hovering near you just in case your ankle gave out again, something shifted.
Not all at once, just enough. Like the first note of a song before the music begins, the beginning of something neither of you were quite ready to acknowledge.
The restaurant wasn’t fancy. Thank God. You would have turned around immediately if Jaafar had tried to drag you somewhere with white tablecloths and a dress code.
Instead, it was small, cosy even. The windows fogged slightly from the heat inside, the scent of garlic and fresh bread drifting through the air. The kind of place filled with soft conversation and mismatched chairs.
You liked it instantly; Jaafar looked suspiciously pleased by your reaction.
He laughed as the two of you slid into a booth near the back. For the first few moments, neither of you looked at the menu. You simply sat there, taking each other in. The strangeness of this finally settled over both of you, because this was definitely not the same atmosphere as the rehearsal studio.
Jaafar tapped his fingers lightly against the table. “So.”
His mouth twitched. “This feels different.”
You immediately burst out laughing, the honesty catching you off guard.
His shoulders visibly relaxed. “I thought I was imagining it.”
The smile that spread across your face felt impossible to stop. “You really do just say whatever pops into your head.”
The waiter arrived before he could continue his complaints. By the time drinks had been ordered and food chosen, the easy rhythm between you had returned.
“So,” you said, resting your chin on your hand. “Tell me something about yourself.”
Jaafar groaned immediately.
You narrowed your eyes. “You’re difficult.”
You pointed triumphantly. “Exactly.” His laugh echoed warmly between you. For a moment, he looked down at the table.
“When I was twelve, I was convinced I’d become a professional football player.”
“You?” You tried and failed to picture it.
“You absolutely weren’t.”
The grin on his face widened. “You have no proof.”
“I don’t need proof.” Your laughter filled the space between you; the sound seemed to make him smile automatically now.
“What were you convinced you’d become?”
You looked down at your hands, then smiled softly. “A ballerina.”
“Exactly.” He pointed toward you. “You were supposed to say astronaut or marine biologist or something.”
His expression softened immediately.
You looked out the window briefly, the memory still vivid after all these years. “I don’t even remember the story.” Your voice grew quieter. “I just remember looking at the dancers on stage and thinking…” You smiled. “…that’s what I want.”
“Was it worth it?” The question caught you off guard; no one ever asked that, not really. People asked about success, about performances and achievements. Not whether it had been worth the sacrifices.
You looked down at the table, thought about the injuries, the exhaustion and the loneliness. Then thought about stepping onto a stage, the orchestra beginning, lights rising, the feeling of becoming something larger than yourself.
The food arrived then, breaking the moment. But later, much later, when Jaafar was lying awake in bed replaying the evening for the hundredth time, it wasn’t your smile he remembered most.
It was the certainty in your voice when you’d said:
And he realised, somewhere between the restaurant and home, that he was beginning to look forward to seeing you in a way that was becoming increasingly difficult to explain.
Opening night arrived sooner than either of you expected. For you, the days leading up to it blurred together in a haze of rehearsals, costume fittings, aching muscles and endless corrections.
For Jaafar, they crawled; you’d barely had time to text him between rehearsals. The coffee meetings had stopped, the dinners had stopped, even your messages had become shorter.
And somehow, despite knowing exactly why, he missed you. Which was how he found himself sitting in a packed theatre on a Friday evening, staring at a closed curtain. The programme rested untouched in his lap; his leg bounced relentlessly. Almost every thirty seconds, he adjusted the sunglasses on the bridge of his nose. Not suspicious at all.
The woman beside him glanced over twice; he didn’t notice, because the only thing occupying his mind was you. And suddenly, there you were; the moment you stepped onto the stage, the entire theatre seemed to change.
The stage transformed you; golden light spilt across the set. The orchestra swelled, and you moved. Effortlessly, beautifully, like the music belonged to you. Every movement seemed larger somehow, every turn sharper. The audience watched in complete silence, captivated. Jaafar understood why.
For the first time, he wasn’t seeing the dancer who complained about rehearsal schedules and forgot to eat lunch. He was seeing the ballerina. The woman who had spent years sacrificing everything for moments like this, the woman who had once looked at a principal dancer as a little girl and thought,
A strange feeling settled in his chest, something suspiciously close to pride. As though he’d had anything to do with this. As though he hadn’t simply been lucky enough to witness it. The performance continued.
Then came the pas de deux; Jaafar’s mood deteriorated immediately. The principal male dancer stepped onto the stage. Tall, elegant.
Jaafar disliked him at sight. The audience, meanwhile, appeared delighted. The music softened, the dancer extended a hand, and you accepted it. And suddenly Jaafar understood exactly why you spent so much time rehearsing.
The lifts looked impossible; one moment your feet touched the floor. The next, you were soaring through the air. Weightless, trusting him completely. The dancer’s hand settled against your waist. Jaafar frowned. His arm wrapped around you. Jaafar frowned harder.
Meanwhile, on stage, the choreography continued. Technically flawless, objectively incredible. Jaafar hated it, or rather, he hated the fact that another man was dancing with you, which was a deeply unreasonable reaction, a fact he was fully aware of. It did not help.
At one point, the dancer leaned close as part of the choreography; Jaafar actually rolled his eyes.
“Seriously?” he muttered.
The woman beside him let out a startled laugh; his ears immediately burned.
The ballet continued. Eventually, however, his attention shifted away from the other dancer, because he couldn’t stop watching you. The precision of your movements, the strength hidden beneath every graceful line. The emotion written across your face. You weren’t simply dancing; you were telling a story. And by the end of the pas de deux, Jaafar had forgotten to be jealous, too busy being amazed. The final note echoed through the theatre. Silence. Then—
The audience erupted; applause thundered through the room. People rose to their feet, a standing ovation. You stood centre stage, breathing hard, your eyes scanning the crowd, finding him. Jaafar smiled, the biggest smile you’d ever seen from him. And the exhausted expression on your face immediately softened.
And despite the hundreds of people surrounding him, Jaafar had never felt more certain of where he belonged.
Backstage was chaos; it always was after opening night. Bouquets appeared from seemingly nowhere, dancers laughed breathlessly as the rush of the performance still lingered in their veins. Yet somehow, all you could think about was finding Jaafar, hating how quickly the thought appeared. Your costume still clung to your skin, your hair beginning to fall from its carefully pinned style. You were halfway through accepting another bouquet when a familiar voice reached your ears.
Your heart betrayed you immediately, turning to face him. And there he was, standing near the doorway. One hand shoved into his pocket, the other holding flowers.
“Hi.” The word felt ridiculously inadequate.
“Hi.” His gaze swept over you, taking everything in.
Your chest tightened; the compliment shouldn’t have affected you so much. You’d received dozens already; this one felt different.
“No, I mean…” He paused, searching for the right words. “… I don’t even know how to explain it.” The sincerity in his voice made your stomach flip. Before either of you could say anything else, another dancer appeared beside you, the one from the pas de deux. The one Jaafar had spent half the performance irrationally disliking.
The dancer smiled at you.
“You disappeared before I could say congratulations.”
“Sorry.” The dancer pulled you into a quick hug. Jaafar’s jaw tightened instantly, unhelpful and embarrassing. You didn’t seem to notice.
“Your lifts were amazing tonight,” the dancer continued.
“Drinks later?” The invitation was casual, friendly, yet Jaafar still felt violently ill.
“I promised myself I was going home and sleeping for twelve hours.”
After another quick congratulations, he disappeared back into the crowd.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The smile tugging at your lips widened.
“You definitely didn’t like him.”
“That’s what I’ve been told.”
Your laughter doubled, the familiar joke settled comfortably between you. Another thing that belonged to the two of you now. Then Jaafar glanced down at the bouquet still in his hand; his expression shifted.
Your breath caught. He held the flowers out awkwardly, as though he hadn’t been rehearsing the gesture in his head for the past twenty minutes. You accepted them carefully, the petals kissing each fingertip.
Your fingers tightened around the stems.
“I was really proud of you tonight.”
The words hit harder than they should have, because pride implied something deeper. Something that had no business existing between two people who had only known each other for a few weeks. Standing there beneath the bright backstage lights, flowers cradled against your chest and exhaustion settling into your bones, you realised something terrifying.
You wanted him to be proud of you.
By the time the two of you finally escaped the theatre, the city had gone quiet. Most of the audience had already dispersed. The cool night air kissed your skin, a stark contrast to the stuffy venue you’d been inside of all night, causing you to shiver. Jaafar noticed, without a word; he shrugged off his jacket and held it out. “Cold?”
He continued holding the jacket out, patiently and stubbornly. The same way he approached everything.
Your laugh echoed down the empty street. Jaafar smiled immediately, like hearing you laugh had quietly become one of his favourite things. The thought would’ve terrified him if he’d examined it too closely.
The two of you began walking, slowly. Mostly because your feet were killing you; the pain had settled deep into your bones now. The adrenaline that had carried you through the performance was fading rapidly; each step reminded you exactly how much your body had endured.
By the time you reached a small park a few blocks away, your steps had slowed considerably, Jaafar noticing immediately.
He pointed toward a nearby bench.
“You’ve been dancing for eleven hours a day for the last week; sit down.”
The command made you laugh, but you obeyed. Mostly because your legs felt like they belonged to someone else. The moment you sat, relief flooded through you, a groan escaping before you could stop it. Jaafar looked unbearably smug.
You buried your face in your hands.
Jaafar leaned back against the bench, looking up at the stars struggling to compete with the city lights.
“You know what my favourite part was?”
Curiosity flickered through you.
The answer came so quickly it startled you.
“No.” The answer came so quickly it startled you; he looked away instantly. A suspicious pink colour crept across his cheeks.
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“Right before you walked on stage.”
“No.” His voice softened. “It wasn’t.”
The smile faded from your face; Jaafar looked down at his hands.
“It made you seem real; everyone else was looking at the ballerina.” His eyes met yours. “I liked seeing you.”
The world seemed to stop, enough for your heartbeat to stumble. Enough for Jaafar to realise what he’d said. Enough for both of you to suddenly become very interested in literally anything else.
Two weeks later, you realised you were in trouble. Not because of ballet, or the endless rehearsals that still consumed most of your life. Because of Jaafar.
You noticed it one evening when something funny happened during rehearsal, and your first instinct was to text him. You noticed it when a song came on in a café, and you wondered if he’d like it. You noticed it every time your phone lit up with his name and your day improved instantly.
Most importantly, you noticed it when two days passed without seeing him. And you missed him.
You were still mentally insulting yourself when your phone buzzed.
A smile appeared immediately.
His reply came almost instantly.
That wasn’t the response I was expecting.
I just wanted confirmation you hadn’t collapsed.
The familiar warmth settled in your chest.
Your heart immediately betrayed you.
Unless you’ve suddenly become busy.
Dinner turned into a walk, the walk turned into wandering aimlessly through the city. Streetlights painted gold across the pavement, people passing around you in small groups.
“I think you’re avoiding resting purely to annoy me.”
“It makes the most sense.”
“You think I dedicate my life to ballet purely out of spite?”
The conversation drifted naturally, as it always did. One topic becoming another, one hour becoming two. Eventually you found yourselves standing near the river, the city lights reflected across the water. The kind of moment that made everything feel softer; for a while neither of you spoke. You simply stood there watching the water, watching the city.
“I missed you.” The words slipped out before you could stop them; your eyes widened immediately. Horror. Complete horror. Because apparently your brain had abandoned all self-preservation.
Beside you, Jaafar froze. The silence stretched. You considered throwing yourself directly into the river. Jaafar turned toward you.
“You did?” His voice was quiet.
You looked away, mortified. “Forget I said that.”
Heat flooded your face; the river suddenly seemed very interesting, the sky too. Hell, even the litter piqued your interest. Anything except him. Jaafar stepped closer, not enough to touch you. Just enough that your heartbeat forgot how to function.
You finally looked at him and immediately regretted it. Because the way he was looking at you made your chest ache. Jaafar’s gaze dropped briefly to your lips, then returned to your eyes. A silent question, one he would never force you to answer.
Your heart hammered as you took a step closer. His breath caught, and that was all it took; the distance between you disappeared.
The kiss was gentle, tentative. Born from weeks of stolen glances and lingering conversations. His hand settled carefully against your cheek, as though you were something precious.
When you finally pulled apart, neither of you moved very far, foreheads almost touching as you stared at one another. A smile slowly appeared on Jaafar’s face.
You laughed immediately. “Wow?”
The grin that spread across his face was impossible to resist; the two of you stood there for a moment longer, river shimmering behind you. For the first time since a certain actor had wandered into the wrong dance studio, neither of you had to wonder what this was anymore.
The screaming started before the car had even stopped; you looked out the tinted window. Flashes exploded across the pavement. For a moment, neither you nor Jaafar spoke. A year ago, you’d been sitting on the floor of a dance studio with an ice pack strapped to your ankle. Now you were here, at the premiere. At his premiere. The moment felt surreal.
Beside you, Jaafar adjusted the cuffs of his suit for what was probably the hundredth time.
The lie was terrible; you could only roll your eyes.
“You’ve adjusted your cuffs seven times.”
The laugh that escaped you instantly eased some of the tension in the car. Jaafar looked over, and promptly forgot whatever he’d been about to say. The dress you’d chosen was elegant, sophisticated. Beautiful. But that wasn’t what stole his breath; it was you. Still you.
After countless dates, countless mornings. Countless nights spent talking until neither of you could stay awake. Still you, still capable of making his heart behave like an idiot. “What?”
A grin tugged at his mouth. “You look beautiful.”
The words arrived so naturally now, as easy as breathing.
“Dangerous thing to say right before I cry off my makeup.”
Outside, the crowd erupted again; the premiere coordinator approached the vehicle. Jaafar inhaled slowly; you reached over to place his hand in yours. His expression had softened; the nervousness still lingered beneath the surface.
“Michael would be proud of you, Jaafar”, you spoke softly, squeezing his palm. “I’m proud of you.”
Jaafar exhaled, his breath a little too shaky as he nodded.
“You ready?” you asked quietly.
The door opened; the noise hit instantly. Excitement echoed through the night. You stepped out first, more flashes, more cameras, more shouting. Then Jaafar appeared beside you; the reaction only doubled. You glanced over; his hand found yours again without hesitation. Without thought, without ever looking away from the crowd.
The two of you moved slowly down the carpet, stopping for photographs, interviews and endless questions.
“So, how does it feel sharing tonight with your girlfriend?” Your stomach immediately flipped.
The smile that appeared on Jaafar’s face was impossible to hide. He looked at you first, always you, then answered.
“It wouldn’t feel right without her.”
Your breath caught. The reporter melted, the nearby photographers melted, you swore your heart stopped. Cause of death: Jaafar Jackson.
Jaafar, meanwhile, seemed completely unaware of the damage he’d just caused, which only made it worse. As the interview continued, your hand slipped back into his; his thumb brushed gently across your knuckles. A tiny movement, yet more intimate than all the cameras surrounding you.
Amidst the noise and flashing lights and excitement of the evening, Jaafar glanced at you. Really looked at you, the same way he had the first day in that studio. The same awe, the same warmth. The same certainty.
A year later, and somehow, he was still looking at you like that, like moonlight reflected across water.
Something beautiful and impossible to forget.
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