The room was still.
Jenna stood in the doorway, confused and speechless. She had expected Ameya to be on the other side of the door.
But instead, there was Rico—with a small travel bag over his shoulder, sunglasses tucked in his collar, and that familiar calm smile.
"I got a week off," he said simply.
She blinked. "You came here to tell me that?"
"Well… also this—" he paused, handing her a printed flight ticket.
Jenna glanced at it, confused. "What is this?"
"A trip. Just a short one. A getaway. Out of the country."
She stared at him like he had lost his mind. "Are you serious?"
"I've already booked everything. Just the two of us. No cameras. No fans. No pressure."
"I can't just go with you!" she scoffed.
"Why not?" he asked. "Your manager thinks you went home. Your friends believe the same. No one knows except... Michael."
Jenna took a step back. "But why me? Why now?"
Rico looked at her. His voice was quieter now. "Because… I want to be around you. And maybe… I thought you might want to breathe too."
She swallowed. The sincerity in his voice unnerved her more than the sudden plan.
"I need time to think," she mumbled.
"You have ten minutes," he teased gently. "We'll miss the flight."
Jenna glared. "You're unbelievable."
But she didn't close the door.
---
Later – A Foreign City
The vibrant city buzzed with life. Jenna kept her hoodie up, eyes wide with the rush of being somewhere so far from the dorm, the studio, and the spotlight.
She followed Rico through the hotel lobby—luxurious, glowing, and high-end. The kind of place where chandeliers reflected like diamonds in the marble floors.
At the reception desk, the attendant bowed. "I'm so sorry, sir. Due to the peak season, only one deluxe suite is available."
Before Jenna could react, Rico simply said, "We'll take it."
Jenna glared at him as they entered the elevator. "You couldn't ask?"
"Would you have said yes?"
She opened her mouth, then closed it. "Still."
The suite was stunning—king-size bed, wide balcony, plush couches, a sunken tub, and a sea view.
"Relax," Rico said. "I'm not some sleazy guy. I'm not going to cross any line."
Jenna glanced at him, suspicious. "Who are you, really?"
He chuckled softly and leaned against the window frame. "Let's just say I've stayed here before."
"You talk like someone who owns the place."
He smiled but didn't answer.
Later that night, as Jenna was arranging her toiletries in the bathroom, she noticed something: Rico's wallet on the table—half-open. Inside was a VIP black card with his full name embossed: Rico V. Renhart.
Her eyes widened.
Renhart…?
That name was famous. Renhart Industries—clothing, media, real estate.
She stared at the card in silence.
So he's from one of the wealthiest families in the country... and yet he hides it?
But why?
---
Evening – Rooftop Garden
The moonlight wrapped the rooftop in silver glow. Jenna stood at the railing, sipping warm tea as city lights sparkled below.
Rico joined her with his own cup, standing quietly beside her.
They didn't speak for a while.
"Why do you stay so hidden?" she asked suddenly.
He didn't look at her. "People treat you differently when they know."
"Even your closest friends?"
"I have… very few of those."
She turned to look at him. "And what about me?"
His eyes met hers.
There was a flicker of emotion there—something almost confessed, but not quite.
"I'm still figuring that out," he said softly.
Jenna's heart skipped a beat.
She quickly looked away. "You're annoying."
He grinned. "So I've been told."
The tension melted into a laugh.
But when their hands brushed accidentally—Jenna didn't pull away.
Neither did he.
---
Meanwhile – Dance Studio
Ameya and Michael sat on the studio floor, resting after their intense routine. The warm air buzzed with exhaustion and faint music.
"You've improved a lot," Michael said.
"You noticed?" Ameya asked with a grin.
"I notice a lot when it comes to you."
She paused. "What does that mean?"
Michael shrugged playfully, then looked into her eyes. "You're real. When you dance, when you speak. It's not like the others."
Ameya's heart fluttered unexpectedly.
"I mean," Michael added, a little nervous now, "you don't have to pretend around me. You're not perfect, but you're honest."
She looked down. "Michael…"
He smiled, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "You don't need to say anything."
Their faces were close—not a kiss yet, but something new was blooming between them.
She felt warm. Safe.
And scared.
---
---