Rehearsal

The echo of my footsteps bounced off the empty arena as I made my way to the stage for rehearsal. My body was still warm from this morning's workout—an hour of weight training, an hour of stretching, and another hour running through routines until the movements felt second nature. I didn't need to go that hard every day, but perfection wasn't an accident. It was discipline, sweat, and muscle memory.

And I didn't settle for anything less.

The crew was already setting up, checking lights, making sure the stage was ready for tonight's show. The air smelled like metal, sweat, and fog machines—familiar, almost comforting. Some of the dancers were stretching on the floor, chatting in low voices. I spotted Freddie adjusting his hair in a mirror propped up backstage, and Tara was off to the side with her makeup bag, talking animatedly to one of the stylists.

"Lena!" Tara waved, her face lighting up.

I jogged over, my duffel bag slung over my shoulder. "Morning, babe," I said, kissing her cheek.

"Don't 'morning, babe' me like you didn't ghost the group last night," she teased, smirking. "Where'd you disappear to?"

"Out," I said simply, stretching my arms over my head. She didn't need to know details. Tara gave me a knowing look but didn't press. She knew me too well.

A sharp whistle cut through the air. "Alright, let's go!" Richard, the choreographer, clapped his hands. "Full out, no marking. We need it clean for tonight."

I dropped my bag, exhaled, and took my place. The music started, a heavy beat vibrating beneath my feet. Instinct took over. My body moved with precision, every step sharp, every turn flawless. I lived for this—this moment where my mind emptied, and all that existed was rhythm and breath.

Halfway through the routine, I caught a glimpse of her.

Gaga stood off to the side, arms crossed, watching us.

She was dressed down—oversized hoodie, leggings, platform boots she had no business wearing at this hour—but somehow still looked like a fucking rockstar. Her assistant hovered nearby with a clipboard, whispering something in her ear, but she wasn't paying attention. She was looking at us.

Looking at me.

I held her gaze just a second longer than I should have. Maybe she smirked. Maybe I imagined it.

Focus, Lena.

The routine ended, and Richard clapped. "Better. Keep the energy up like that tonight."

I grabbed a towel, wiping sweat from my neck. The dancers broke off, some grabbing water, others chatting. My pulse was still high, my skin buzzing.

Gaga made her way over. "You're a machine," she said, tilting her head at me.

I grinned. "You pay me to be."

Her lips curled at that, like she wanted to say something but didn't. Instead, she reached out, her fingers grazing my arm—a light touch, barely there, but enough to send a shiver down my spine.

"Are you nervous?" she asked.

I huffed a laugh. "Never."

She tilted her head. "Liar."

I smirked but didn't argue.

Tara and Freddie appeared, breaking the moment. "Okay, okay," Freddie said, fanning himself. "I don't know what I just walked in on, but I'm obsessed."

I rolled my eyes, but Gaga just laughed. "Get out of here," she told him, nudging his shoulder.

Freddie gasped dramatically. "Wow. You've changed."

Tara linked her arm through mine. "Come on, superstar, let's get you hydrated before you collapse."

I let them drag me off, but not before stealing one last glance at Gaga.

She was still looking.