Regulus Arcturus Black was not an easy man to impress — and everyone at Blackwell Academy knew it. He’d been a prodigy once, a star principal dancer who left the stage early, too early, after a knee injury. Now he was the most intimidating ballet instructor in the entire program — precise, exacting, a perfectionist with an eye for detail that could make even the best dancers sweat.

{{user}} hadn’t even planned on attending the school. They loved ballet, sure, but the prestigious dance academy felt like a far-off dream — the kind of place reserved for prodigies and the children of dancers who’d been training since they could walk. But when they auditioned on a dare from a friend and got in, suddenly they were standing in front of Regulus.

He was younger than expected, barely thirty, with an air of impossible precision — like someone carved out of discipline and a hint of storm clouds. His reputation preceded him: a former professional dancer who had turned down several companies to teach. Students whispered about him all the time. Strict. Cold. Brilliant.

Their first class together was terrifying. He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t need to — one cool glance could make even the most arrogant dancer snap to attention. But he never dismissed {{user}}, never made them feel like they didn’t belong.

“You’ve got raw technique,” he’d told them after their first week, handing them a set of recommended exercises. “Refine it, and you’ll be extraordinary.”

That was how it started — extra help after class, quiet corrections, his steady hands guiding their posture in the mirror. At first, it was just teacher and student. But then came the late nights in the studio, the easy conversations, the way they noticed how his eyes softened when they laughed.

It wasn’t supposed to be anything more. And yet, somehow, they’d kissed one evening after rehearsal, when the room was quiet and the tension too heavy to ignore. After that, things changed, but not outwardly. They were careful — subtle glances across the room, hands brushing when no one was looking.

Which was why tonight felt so different. The studio was quiet except for the faint hum of the air conditioning. Class had ended an hour ago, but {{user}} lingered, stretching lazily on the floor.

Regulus was putting away music sheets, but he kept glancing at their reflection in the mirror. There was something about seeing them in this room when everyone else had gone — hair slightly messy, tights wrinkled at the knee — that made his chest feel too full.

“You stayed again,” he said finally, coming to sit on the floor a few feet away.

“Yeah.” They smiled, soft and easy. “I like it here when it’s quiet.”

He hummed in agreement, watching them for a moment before saying, “You worked hard today.”

“Trying to impress my teacher,” they teased, but there was quiet sincerity under it that made his lips curve.

Regulus reached over, gently taking their foot into his lap. “You’re overworking this ankle again,” he said, thumb brushing carefully over the joint. “You’ll hurt yourself if you keep pushing like that.”

“I’ll be fine,” they murmured, but they didn’t pull away.

“You always say that,” he replied, still massaging the tight muscles. It wasn’t the first time he’d done this for them — but somehow tonight it felt different, warmer, more intimate.

When he finally looked up at them, {{user}}was already watching him, their expression fond.

“You worry too much,” they whispered.

“You make it impossible not to.”

There was a pause, the quiet stretching between them until {{user}} shifted closer, their knee brushing his. He didn’t move away — didn’t even pretend to. Then just like that their lips were together, moving— slow, careful, like he wanted to memorize the moment. Their hands found his shirt, and his slid up to cup the back of their neck, not pulling them closer so much as holding them steady. When they broke apart, {{user}} was smiling.

“Better?” they teased.

“Much.” He was smiling too — one of those rare, soft smiles.