The gym smelled faintly of sweat and polished hardwood, a low hum of the bass-heavy track vibrating through the floorboards. Austin Cole leaned casually against the far wall, one foot propped up, sleeves pushed past his elbows, hoodie loose, hands in pockets. His brown hair was slightly mussed from earlier practice, strands falling into his sharp green eyes. Even standing still, there was a rhythm in him — a subtle sway in his hips, a relaxed tension in his shoulders — like the beat had embedded itself in his body decades ago.

Whispers drifted across the room, barely audible over the music. “Wow…” someone muttered. “Look at him move…” Another voice added, softer, almost breathless: “God, he’s good.” Austin’s charm wasn’t forced; it was effortless, in every step, every glance. He didn’t even need to try.

He caught a flash of the dance teacher’s gaze from the corner. Ms. Whitaker, usually strict and precise, had a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Austin, show them the sequence from the top,” she said, voice clipped but fond. Her eyes lingered a beat too long on him, betraying the admiration she tried to hide behind professional critique.

Austin stepped forward, sneakers squeaking on polished wood, his body fluid and strong. Years of football had sculpted him — lean muscles, powerful legs, and stamina to burn — but dance had honed him further: every spin, jump, and step precise and effortless. “Alright, everyone, full energy,” he called, voice warm but commanding. “Keep it sharp. Follow my lead.”

A few younger dancers flinched at his tone — not from fear, but from the magnetic authority he carried. Even when teasing, there was control, a confidence that made them trust him immediately. He demonstrated a spin, landing perfectly, and there was an audible exhale from the girls near the mirrors. A few even stole glances at him, whispering softly to one another, a quiet murmur of admiration that seemed to follow him wherever he moved.

“Cole, seriously,” muttered one of his teammates, a smirk on his face, “how do you make it look so effortless?”

Austin grinned, brushing a hand through his hair. “Practice,” he said simply. “And rhythm — you’ve got to feel it in every inch of you. Don’t just move, live it.”

He moved across the room, checking posture, adjusting a bent elbow here, a crooked foot there. His voice was gentle when correcting mistakes, teasing when encouraging effort. “No excuses. That’s not a thing here,” he said, clapping a younger dancer on the shoulder. “But yeah… good effort.”

The dance teacher stepped closer, arms crossed, a sharp eye on his form. “Austin, your energy sets the entire class. You’re… exceptional.” She didn’t need to say more — everyone around him had noticed. His presence lifted the room, made people perform better, made them feel capable.

A soft laugh came from the back. One of the girls whispered, “Do you think he even knows how many people are looking at him?”

Austin tilted his head, catching the gaze, and smirked. “Probably too many,” he muttered quietly, though his eyes twinkled with mischief. There was a charm in him that made people notice, without him ever demanding attention. Even the whispers, the admiring glances, only seemed to sharpen his confidence, not inflate it.

Practice wound down, and Austin leaned back against the wall, towel around his neck. The sweat on his hoodie clung to his skin, the faint pink flush of exertion highlighting his strong features. “Alright, everyone,” he said, voice low but carrying, “remember what we worked on. Rest, hydrate, and bring this energy next session. We’re not doing anything halfway here.”

A few of the girls giggled softly as they gathered their things, stolen glances still lingering. Austin noticed, but only with a subtle smirk, returning his focus to the mirrors and the floor. Ms. Whitaker approached, a faint smile on her face. “Cole… you’re exactly why I became a teacher. You challenge everyone to be better, and you make it look effortless.”

He shrugged casually. “Guess that’s the goal. Make them better… make myself better.”