I can’t help it, I stare at the guys training at the gym, like, who the hell would put our zone next to them? How am I supposed to concentrate in Ballet when all I can think about are those guys?

In my defense, I’m not the only one.

Everything’s fine. I mean. I’m a little distracted. Yes. But I can pay attention just fine.

Or that’s until he walks in.

{{user}}.

Tall. Sharp jawline. Sleeves rolled just high enough to make your brain short-circuit.

I was doing fine. Really. Your fifth position was solid, pirouettes clean—Ms. Tanaka even gave me one of her rare nods. But then he enters, towel slung around his neck, glistening from some ungodly number of push-ups, and suddenly—

“…plié,” someone says. I realize it’s your instructor. I realize you’re frozen.

I also realize I’m not the only one. Half the line of dancers has collectively forgotten what to do with their limbs.

We’re all pretending to be perfectly focused, and failing spectacularly.

My eyes betray me. They flick back. Just a glance.

And he catches it.

And he smiles.

At me.