The final bell of the day rang with a jarring, metallic resonance that seemed to vibrate through Liam's very bones. As the students of Class 4-A scrambled to escape the gravitational pull of the "Iron President," Liam remained at the front, meticulously wiping the chalkboard until the slate was a void of blackness.
He felt a shadow fall over his shoulder.
"You're working very hard for a man who is about to fail his most important elective," a melodic, teasing voice whispered.
Liam didn't need to turn around to know that Noah was leaning against the edge of the lectern, his hip cocked, a playful glint in his eyes that made Liam's grip on the eraser tighten until his knuckles turned white.
"The teacher in charge of the Exchange called me during lunch," Noah continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur that felt like a warm breeze against Liam's neck. "Apparently, he noticed our 'training sessions' only last ten minutes before you go running back to your rugby tapes. He said he's going to supervise us today. Personally. He wants to see if the President actually has any... flexibility."
Liam's jaw set. The thought of a faculty member watching him struggle through ballet was humiliating, but the thought of being trapped in a room with Noah under a spotlight was worse.
"I'll be there," Liam grunted, finally turning.
Noah stepped into his personal space, his eyes dancing. He reached out, his fingers ghosting over the lapel of Liam's blazer, flicking away a stray speck of chalk dust. "Don't be late, Captain. Or are you going to hide in the locker room to avoid being 'sensed' by the mere mortals? You look a bit pale. Is the thought of me touching you in front of an audience that terrifying?"
Liam recoiled, his boots clicking sharply against the floor as he backed away, his eyes darting to the few remaining students in the hallway. "Get out, Valentine. I have Council business."
Noah laughed—a light, silvery sound—and winked before spinning on his heel and disappearing into the crowd.
Forty minutes later, Liam arrived at the East Wing. The hallway was silent, the evening sun casting long, golden bars across the linoleum. He had changed into his black leggings and a tight-fitting compression shirt that felt like a second skin, accentuating the massive, rugged landscape of his shoulders and chest.
He pushed open the heavy double doors of Studio A, bracing himself for the stern gaze of the supervisor.
"Mr. Harrison? I'm here for—"
Liam's voice died in his throat.
The studio was dim, the overhead lights turned off. The only illumination came from the floor-level footlights, casting a warm, amber glow that turned the marley floor into a stage. There was no teacher. No supervisor.
There was only Noah.
A haunting, orchestral piece was playing softly from the speakers—something with deep, thrumming cellos and a lonely violin. Noah was in the center of the room, and he was mid-movement.
Liam stayed frozen by the door, his hand still clutching the brass handle. He couldn't move. He couldn't breathe.
Noah was dressed in professional rehearsal gear—high-waisted, charcoal-grey leggings that were so tight they left absolutely nothing to the imagination. They mapped every long, lean muscle of his legs, the curve of his calves, and the hard, disciplined strength of his thighs. Over his torso, he wore a sheer, white mesh wrap that was soaked with a light sheen of sweat, clinging to the graceful planes of his stomach and the delicate arch of his ribs.
He was performing a series of developpés, his leg rising in a slow, agonizingly beautiful arc until it was high above his head. The control was inhuman. Liam watched, mesmerized, as Noah's body rippled—a perfect, seductive machine of bone and grace.
Noah spun, a slow, controlled pirouette that ended in a deep, arched cambré. He bent backward, his spine curving like a bow, his head dropping back until his blonde hair nearly brushed the floor. The sheer mesh shifted, exposing the pale, sweating skin of his throat and the frantic pulse beating there.
It wasn't just ballet. It was an invitation. It was a sin.
Liam felt a violent, primal jolt in his chest. His heart didn't just crack; it shattered. He stared at the way the light caught the sweat on Noah's collarbone, the way the tight leggings outlined the perfect, firm shape of his lower body. Every "straight" thought Liam had ever forced into his brain evaporated, replaced by a dark, hungry roar of desire that made his vision swim.
Noah finished the phrase, sinking into a deep floor stretch, his legs split wide, his chest pressed to the cool floor. He stayed there for a moment, his breath coming in rhythmic huffs, before he slowly looked up.
He didn't look surprised to see Liam. He looked satisfied.
"The teacher had an emergency," Noah panted, his voice low and raspy from exertion. He stayed on the floor, looking up at Liam through his eyelashes, his body splayed out in a pose that was a blatant, agonizing provocation. "It's just us, Liam. Just you and me. In the dark."
Liam's heart was hammering so hard he was sure Noah could hear it from across the room. He felt a bead of sweat roll down his own temple. He wanted to turn and run.
"You... you shouldn't be dancing like that," Liam managed to say, though his voice was a broken, pathetic shadow of his Presidential tone.
"Like what?" Noah asked, slowly rising to his feet. He moved like a cat, closing the distance between them without making a sound. He stopped an inch away from Liam, the heat of his worked-up body rolling off him in waves. The scent of vanilla and sweat was overwhelming.
Noah reached out, his damp, warm hand sliding over Liam's chest, feeling the frantic, galloping heart beneath the compression shirt.
"You've been watching me for five minutes, Liam," Noah whispered, his eyes dark with a triumphant, wicked fire. "Your pupils are blown wide. Your hands are shaking. Tell me again how much I don't affect you. Tell me again how 'straight' you are while you're looking at me like you want to eat me alive."
Liam looked down at the boy who was ruining his life. He looked at the sheer mesh, the tight leggings, the flushed, beautiful face. He felt the "Iron King" die a quiet, violent death.
"Noah," Liam groaned, a sound of pure, unadulterated defeat.
He didn't back away this time. He didn't hide. He stood his ground, the President and the Captain drowning in the sight of the dancer who had finally, successfully, brought him to his knees.