He knew this was dangerous.

The way your body leaned into his, the way your eyes caught the dim lights and reflected them back at him like stars — mocking him, daring him. The soft thrum of music vibrated through the gym floor, but all he could hear was the beat of his own heart hammering in his chest.

Gavi had told himself, over and over, that this was nothing. Just a party for the students. Just a dance. Just a harmless sway to the rhythm of the night.

But it wasn’t.

It was the way your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt. The way you smiled like you knew exactly what you were doing. The way his hand stayed at your waist too long, too firm — like he couldn’t quite bring himself to let go.

It was past 11 PM now. The teachers had mostly filtered out, leaving behind flickering string lights and a sea of bodies moving under them. The gym had turned into a fantasy: shadows, music, stolen glances, secrets humming in the dark.

And then there was you.

Wearing that red dress that clung just right, laughing up at him with a kind of wicked innocence. You weren’t supposed to be here. Not like this. Not in his arms, not pressed against him like you fit there. But you were. And somehow, he didn’t pull away.

He wasn’t supposed to look at you this way. You were one of the younger players in his phys ed group — barely 15, cheeky, fast on the field, faster with your comebacks. And he was twenty. Not quite a teacher yet, just doing his hours, learning, observing. A grown man with too much ambition and too little sleep. But in this moment, none of that seemed to matter.

“You dance even better than you dribble,” he murmured, just loud enough for you to hear over the music. And he watched, mesmerized, as the smirk on your lips faltered—just slightly, just enough—before returning tenfold.

Your breath hitched. Your gaze flicked up to meet his, steady, unafraid.

And for the first time that night, Gavi knew he was in real trouble.