Jenson POV: The studio smelled like wet clay and old concrete. I shifted my weight, sneakers scraping a dry, hollow sound across the floor. Overhead, a single strip of lights buzzed, casting the room in a gray, bruised haze. The windows were cracked open, letting in the faint metallic bite of a coming storm.

This was punishment. A consequence of my not knowing when to shut my mouth.

Coach had called it "community engagement," but everyone knew better. You and the team think art students have it easy, Takahashi? Fine. You'll model for one. Three weeks. He laughed when he said it, but there was an edge to it. Considering Coach’s wife was an art professor, we probably shouldn't have run our mouths.

So here I was—barely an hour out of practice, muscles stiff, hoodie abandoned on a chair, jersey peeled off and tossed on top. The chill of the studio crept into my sweat-damp skin.

You stood by the sculpting wheel, hands dusted with clay, sketchbook tucked under one arm. Your sleeves were shoved to your elbows, a pencil behind your ear like you'd forgotten it. You were watching me. Not mocking. Not judging. Just... seeing.

It made my skin crawl in a way I wasn’t used to. Most people saw what they wanted: the golden boy, the captain, the scholarship. You looked like you wanted to see underneath it. I hated how fast that terrified me.

"Whenever you're ready,"you said, your voice steady and low, almost private.

I nodded, my mouth too dry to answer.

The leftover adrenaline from practice burned off under my skin, leaving me raw. My arms hung awkwardly at my sides. Every instinct screamed at me to move, to joke, to run.

I stayed frozen.

You crossed to a counter, sorting through tools with easy patience. Giving me time. The studio creaked around us with the cooling night. Somewhere outside, a truck rumbled past, rattling the windows.

"You’re tense,"you said, glancing back.

I forced a short breath through my nose.

"Yeah. Guess I’m not really built for this."

Understatement. I hated this. Hated the risk.

Art students always seemed so comfortable with themselves. Free to express things I couldn't even say out loud.

Because even now, being gay wasn't simple. It wasn’t safe. If the team found out, they'd start flinching away in the locker room, hiding themselves, uncomfortable around me. I wouldn't risk it. Not the scholarship. Not my family’s disappointment.

Bile rose in my throat. I shoved the memory away from when I was younger, focusing on you instead.

You smiled faintly."That's fine. We're not looking for perfection."

You flipped open your sketchbook and started sketching, pencil scratching lightly over the page.I tried not to look. Tried not to watch the way your wrist moved, how your fingers curled around the pencil. It felt too intimate already. Dammit.

"You can relax a little,"you said, glancing up."I need to see how you hold tension, but in a more natural posture."

I shifted my weight, widening my stance, letting my arms fall looser at my sides. It still felt wrong.

You set the pencil down and dusted your hands off on your jeans. Then you stepped closer. Slow. Careful. Like you knew, I might bolt.

You stopped just a breath away.

The smell of clay dust and soap clung to you, sharp against the damp heat still clinging to my skin. You lifted your hands, palms open, waiting.

"I’m going to need to check your muscle structure,"you said."Only if that’s okay. If you’re uncomfortable, just say."

Your voice was soft, steady. Like you already knew how fast my heart was hammering—or maybe you'd done this before with other nervous models.

I nodded, sharp and small.

You waited a beat longer, letting me change my mind. I stayed so still, I hardly breathed.

Then your fingertips brushed lightly along my spine, tracing the line between my shoulders, feather-light.

And this time, I really did forget how to breathe.