The air in the East Wing's Studio A didn't smell like the locker rooms Liam was used to. There was no scent of damp earth, copper-scented blood, or the pungent sting of wintergreen liniment. Instead, it smelled of floor wax, rosin, and a faint, maddening drift of vanilla—Noah's scent.
Liam Thorne stood in the center of the polished marley floor, feeling like a titan trapped in a glass box. He was still wearing his rugby shorts, his thick thighs mapped with purple-and-green bruises from Saturday's match against Vancouver Prep. He looked entirely out of place against the floor-to-ceiling mirrors and the slender, white-painted barres.
"You're late, Mr. President," a voice drifted from the back of the room.
Liam didn't turn. He watched Noah's reflection in the mirror. Noah was stretching, his body folded over itself with a terrifying, liquid ease. He wore a sheer, black mesh wrap over a white leotard that should have looked ridiculous on a boy, but on Noah, it looked like armor.
"I had a meeting," Liam grunted, his voice sounding like gravel hitting silk. "And I don't see why I need to be here. This 'Exchange' is a farce. I'm a Flanker, Noah. I don't do... whatever this is."
Noah finally stood, his movements so light they didn't even make the floorboards groan. He walked toward Liam, stopping only when he was inches away. Liam was a head taller and fifty pounds heavier, a wall of Canadian muscle, but Noah didn't flinch. He looked up, his eyes tracing the jagged scar on Liam's jaw—a gift from a rival's boot.
"What you 'do' is run into people, Liam," Noah whispered, his tone mocking. "What I do is art. And since the Board won't give you that scholarship unless you pass my class, I suggest you shut your mouth and find First Position."
"First what?"
Noah sighed, a sound of pure exasperation. "Turn out your feet. Heels together. Toes out. Like a book."
Liam tried. He forced his heavy, athletic legs to rotate. His joints popped, a loud, violent sound in the silent studio. He felt absurd. He felt exposed. He hated it.
"Pathetic," Noah murmured. He stepped behind Liam.
Noah didn't just tell him what to do; he reached out. His hands were small, the fingers calloused from years of tying ribbons, but they were surprisingly strong. He placed his palms flat against Liam's lower back, pushing his hips forward to correct his alignment.
Liam's breath hitched. Through the thin fabric of his shirt, Noah's touch felt like a brand. It wasn't the rough, aggressive shove of a teammate in a scrum; it was precise. Intentional.
"Your core is a mess," Noah said, his voice dropping an octave as he moved his hands around to Liam's stomach, pressing firmly to engage the muscles. "You think because you can tackle a two-hundred-pound man, you're strong? You can't even hold your own center."
Noah's chest brushed against Liam's shoulder blade. The proximity was a crime. Liam could see them in the mirror—the dark, bruised athlete and the pale, ethereal dancer. He looked like he was about to crush Noah, but in the reflection, it was Noah who held all the power.
"Don't touch me," Liam growled, though his body didn't pull away. In fact, he leaned back, just a fraction of an inch, into Noah's warmth.
"Then do it right," Noah challenged. He slid his hand down Liam's thigh, tracing the line of the muscle down to the knee. "Turn out from the hip, Liam. Not the ankle. If you break your own leg, I'm not carrying you to the infirmary."
The touch was electric. Liam felt a surge of heat that had nothing to do with the studio's temperature. He hated how Noah's fingers felt against his skin. He hated that he had noticed Noah's eyelashes were dusted with a fine, silver glitter from his morning rehearsal. Most of all, he hated that his heart was thumping against his ribs like a trapped bird.
"You're shaking, President," Noah teased, his breath ghosting over the back of Liam's neck. "Is the big, scary Rugby Captain afraid of a little ballet?"
Liam snapped. He spun around, his hand shooting out to catch Noah's wrist before the smaller boy could retreat. He pinned Noah back toward the barre, the wooden rail digging into Noah's waist.
The silence in the room became heavy, suffocating.
"I'm not afraid of anything, Valentine," Liam hissed, leaning down until their foreheads almost touched. He could see the confusion in Noah's eyes—the way the playful mockery died and was replaced by something wide-eyed and breathless.
Liam's gaze dropped to Noah's lips, then back to his eyes. He wanted to shake him. He wanted to kiss him. He wanted to run out of the room and never look back.
"You think this is a game?" Liam's grip on Noah's wrist tightened, not enough to hurt, but enough to show the sheer disparity in their strength. "You think I'm just some 'jock' you can toy with for a month? I've spent my whole life being exactly what I'm supposed to be. And you..."
Liam's voice broke. He looked at Noah—really looked at him—and saw the girl-like beauty that he had spent years trying to convince himself was "annoying." It wasn't annoying. It was a siren song.
"You're a distraction," Liam whispered, the words a confession and a curse.
Noah's pulse was visible in his neck, jumping wildly. For the first time, the "cheerful" dancer looked truly rattled. His lips parted, his voice barely audible. "Then distract me, Liam. Or are you too scared of what happens if you stop being the 'Perfect President' for five minutes?"
Liam didn't answer. He couldn't. Instead, he let go of Noah's wrist and stepped back, his face returning to its frozen, icy mask.
"Same time tomorrow, Valentine," Liam said, his voice cold as a winter gale. "And if you touch me like that again... I'll make sure the Board hears about your 'unprofessional' teaching methods."
He turned and strode out of the studio, his heavy footsteps echoing like thunder. He didn't look back to see Noah standing by the barre, clutching his wrist and breathing hard.
Liam didn't stop until he was outside in the freezing Canadian air. He leaned against the brick wall of the East Wing, his hands trembling. He looked down at his palms—the palms that still felt the ghost of Noah's waist.
I hate him, Liam lied to himself, the words cold and empty. I have to hate him.
Inside the studio, the scent of vanilla lingered, and the mirror held the image of a boy who had finally realized his rival wasn't just a bully—he was a man standing on the edge of a cliff.