# The Gala Rehearsal – Daniel's Calculated Descent
Daniel had always been a planner—not just of events, but of desires. His loft was scattered with mood boards for the gala: swatches of deep blue fabric for the "try line" bar, sketches of auction displays with rugby balls signed by pros, lighting diagrams to cast dramatic shadows on the stage. But tucked away in his notebook, between vendor contacts and timelines, were notes on Nick: \*Broad shoulders – highlight with spotlights. Easy smile – draw it out with compliments. Bi curiosity – nudge gently, no rush.\* Daniel knew the art of the slow burn; he'd perfected it through years of hookups that started as "just friends" hangs. Rush, and they bolted. Tease, and they came crawling.
The rehearsal was set for a Thursday evening at the Shoreditch hall—two days before the gala. Daniel arrived early, directing setup crews with his usual flair: shirt sleeves rolled, dark curls slightly tousled, a clipboard masking the predator beneath. He wore fitted black trousers that hugged his ass and a slim button-down in charcoal gray, top two buttons undone to show a hint of smooth chest. Subtle cologne—cedar and amber, warm and inviting.
Lisa, the coordinator, texted: \*Coaches arriving soon. Need anything?\*
Daniel replied: \*All good. Send Nick my way for demo run-through.\*
His plan: Isolate. Escalate subtly. He'd "forgotten" to schedule the other coaches for this slot—oops, miscommunication. Just him and Nick for an hour, under the guise of perfecting the rugby demo. Daniel had prepped excuses: low blood sugar from skipping lunch (he'd eaten, of course), leading to dizziness. Nick, the hero type, would help. Proximity breeds temptation.
Nick showed up at 6 PM, duffel over one shoulder, in casual coach attire: gray joggers that clung to his thighs, a white tee stretched tight across his chest, trainers squeaking on the polished floor. His hair was damp from a post-work shower, cheeks still flushed. Daniel's mouth went dry for a second—\*quarterback fantasy, live and in person.\*
"Nelson," Daniel called from the stage, voice echoing in the empty hall. He hopped down lightly, handshake turning into a brief bro-hug—chest to chest, his hand lingering on Nick's back. "Thanks for coming early. The others are running late—traffic or something. Figured we could nail your bit first."
Nick nodded, easy grin hiding the wariness in his eyes. "No worries. What do you need?"
Daniel led him to the stage, lights dimmed to half for "atmosphere testing." He explained the demo: Nick would show basic rugby moves—passes, tackles (on a dummy)—while engaging the crowd. "Make it interactive," Daniel said, standing close, their arms brushing. "Get a volunteer up here. Show 'em how to hold the ball right."
Nick picked up a rugby ball from the props, demonstrating a pass. His form was flawless—shoulders rolling, power coiled. Daniel watched openly, eyes tracing the flex of biceps, the way Nick's tee rode up slightly to show a strip of abs.
"Impressive," Daniel murmured, stepping closer under the pretense of adjusting the ball's position in Nick's hands. His fingers grazed Nick's—warm, callused. "You've got that natural power. Crowd's gonna eat it up."
Nick chuckled, but his posture stiffened slightly. "Thanks. Charlie says I overdo the showboating."
Daniel's smile sharpened. "Charlie's got good taste." He let the words hang, then shifted gears. "Here, show me the tackle setup. I need to gauge spacing."
They moved to the dummy—a padded stand-in. Nick demonstrated: low stance, drive forward, wrap and roll. Sweat beaded on his forehead from the effort, tee clinging damply. Daniel volunteered as "spotter," hands on Nick's waist to "steady" him post-move. "Solid form," he said lowly, thumbs pressing into the dip above Nick's hips. "Feel that core engagement? Bet it translates everywhere."
Nick pulled back, ears pink. "Yeah. Uh, what's next?"
Daniel wiped his brow dramatically, swaying just a touch—first hint. "Lighting check. Stand center stage, I'll adjust from the booth."
Nick complied, spotlights hitting him like a halo—broad silhouette commanding. Daniel fiddled with controls, but really, he watched: Nick shifting weight, muscles shifting under fabric. From the booth, he called over the intercom: "Looking good up there. Turn a bit—yeah, like that. The light catches your shoulders perfectly."
Flattery, slow drip. Nick laughed it off, but Daniel saw the subtle preen.
Back on stage, Daniel "tripped" lightly on a cord—stumble recovered, but with a wince. "Shit, head rush. Skipped lunch—big mistake."
Nick frowned, concern immediate. "You okay? Sit down."
Daniel waved it off, but leaned against the stage edge, hand to temple. "Yeah, just... dizzy spell. Happens when I push too hard." His voice softened, vulnerable edge calculated. "Events planning's nonstop. Forgot to eat again."
Nick's hero instincts kicked in. "Here, I've got water in my bag." He fetched it, handing it over, standing close—protective stance. Daniel sipped slowly, eyes meeting Nick's over the bottle rim. "Thanks, man. You're a lifesaver."
"No problem." Nick's hand hovered, then patted Daniel's shoulder—firm, reassuring. Touch initiated by him. Hook deepening.
They resumed, but Daniel amped the act: slight sways during explanations, a hand braced on Nick's arm for "balance." "Mind if I lean? Legs feel wobbly."
Nick nodded, arm flexing under Daniel's palm. "Sure. Take it easy."
Seduction layered in: compliments laced with heat. "Your demo's gonna steal the show. That build—it's distracting in the best way." Said casually, while adjusting a mic stand near Nick, their bodies inches apart. Daniel's hip brushed Nick's thigh—accidental, lingering.
Nick cleared his throat, but didn't move. "Appreciate it. Charlie's coming, right? He'll keep me grounded."
Daniel nodded, eyes flicking to Nick's lips. "Lucky guy. But yeah, the event's couple-friendly. Open bar helps loosen things up."
Tension built slow—Daniel's touches: a hand on Nick's lower back guiding him to a mark, fingers trailing off slowly; a "dizzy" lean that pressed their sides together, Daniel's breath warm on Nick's neck. "Sorry," he'd murmur, but his eyes said otherwise—dark, inviting.
Halfway through, Daniel "faltered" harder—knees buckling slightly during a walkthrough. "Whoa—head spinning." He grabbed Nick's arm, pulling himself close, face inches from Nick's chest.
Nick caught him instinctively—strong arms wrapping around Daniel's waist, holding him up. "Easy. Sit." He guided Daniel to a nearby chair, one hand on his back, the other on his thigh for stability. Concern etched his features, but Daniel felt the heat: Nick's pulse quick under his skin, the subtle shift in his joggers.
"Thanks," Daniel breathed, looking up through lashes—pretty, dizzy facade perfect. "Must be low sugar. You're too nice, helping like this."
Nick knelt in front of him, eye level—bad move for resistance. "You need food? I can grab something from the vending machine."
Daniel shook his head, hand reaching out to squeeze Nick's shoulder—fingers digging into muscle. "Nah, just... company helps." His voice dropped, intimate. "Feels better already, with you here."
Nick's cheeks flushed. The air thickened—Daniel's cologne mingling with Nick's clean sweat scent. Daniel leaned forward slightly, "dizzy" again, their faces close. "Your hands are steady. Rugby thing?"
Nick swallowed, eyes flicking to Daniel's mouth. "Yeah. Habit."
Daniel's free hand brushed Nick's knee—light, testing. "Good habit." The touch lingered, thumb circling slowly.
Nick didn't pull away immediately. His breath hitched, body leaning in fractionally—falling for the vulnerability, the proximity. Daniel's plan working: tempt with need, draw out the protector, heat the slow burn.
Then Nick's phone buzzed—Charlie's text: \*How's rehearsal? Home soon?\* Reality snapped.
Nick stood abruptly, ears red. "Uh, others should be here soon. You good now?"
Daniel nodded, smile slow and knowing. "Better than good. Thanks to you." He stood too, "stable" now, but brushed full-body against Nick in the process—chest to chest, hips aligning for a heartbeat.
Nick stepped back, adjusting his joggers subtly. "Cool. Let's finish up."
They did—demo polished, but tension crackled. Daniel's touches continued: a hand on Nick's elbow during notes, a lean-in whisper about "stage presence" that ghosted his ear. Nick responded with laughs, but his glances lingered—on Daniel's collarbones, the curve of his ass when he bent to pick up a prop.
As the other coaches arrived, Daniel clapped Nick on the back—fingers splaying low, near the dip of his spine. "Nailed it, Nelson. See you Saturday. Wear something fitted—spotlights love you."
Nick left flustered, cock half-hard in the Uber home. He told Charlie: "Rehearsal was fine. Daniel got dizzy—helped him out. Nothing weird."
But in bed that night, Nick's mind replayed the touches, the heat. Daniel texted later: \*Thanks for the save today. Owe you a drink at the gala. No dizziness promised. 😉\*
Nick didn't reply. But he didn't delete it either.
The slow burn flickered higher—Daniel patient, Nick tempted, the gala a tinderbox waiting.
# Gala Night – The Ignition
Saturday arrived crisp and electric. The hall transformed: blue uplighting casting oceanic glows, rugby-themed decor everywhere—goalposts framing the bar, silent auction tables with jerseys and tickets. Guests milled in black-tie: donors in suits, athletes in tuxes, a buzz of chatter over canapés.
Daniel was in his element—circulating, charming sponsors, but eyes always scanning for Nick. He wore a tailored navy suit, slim fit accentuating his lean build, white shirt open at the collar, no tie—casual elegance. A subtle chain necklace drew eyes to his throat.
Nick and Charlie arrived together—Nick in a fitted black tux that hugged his broad frame, making him look like a James Bond extra; Charlie in slim gray, curls styled, hand tight in Nick's. They looked solid, but Daniel caught the undercurrent: Charlie's wary glances his way.
"Spring, Nelson," Daniel greeted, hugs for both—his with Nick lingering, hand sliding down his arm. "You clean up nice. Both of you."
Charlie smiled tightly. "Thanks. Place looks amazing."
Daniel nodded, but focused on Nick. "Demo's up soon. Meet me backstage in ten? Final check."
Nick agreed, Charlie staying front-of-house with friends.
Backstage: dim, cluttered with props, private. Daniel waited, loosening his collar further. "Nervous?"
Nick shook his head. "Nah. You?"
"Always a bit." Daniel stepped close, "adjusting" Nick's lapel—fingers brushing his chest. "But you? Born for the spotlight."
Touch one: innocent fix.
Nick's breath shallowed. "Thanks."
Daniel swayed then—dizzy act redux, hand to forehead. "Shit—again? Must be the heat back here."
Nick's concern flared. "Whoa, sit." He guided Daniel to a crate, hand on his elbow.
Daniel leaned into it, head dropping to Nick's shoulder "accidentally." "Sorry. Adrenaline crash."
Nick's arm went around him instinctively—holding, comforting. "Breathe. I've got you."
Proximity: Daniel's face near Nick's neck, inhaling his cologne—clean, masculine. His hand "steadied" on Nick's thigh, high up, fingers inching inward.
Nick tensed but didn't move. "Better?"
"Mm. Your voice helps." Daniel looked up, eyes half-lidded—pretty, tempting. Lips parted slightly.
The air charged—Nick's hand tightening on Daniel's back, pulling him closer subconsciously. Daniel's fingers traced a slow circle on Nick's thigh, heat building.
"You feel solid," Daniel whispered. "Like you could hold anything."
Nick's eyes darkened, leaning in—falling, breath mingling.
Then applause from the hall snapped them. Nick pulled back, flushed. "Showtime."
Daniel stood, "recovered," smile victorious. "Break a leg."
Nick performed flawlessly—crowd loving him. But backstage glances continued: Daniel's hand brushes during transitions, whispers praising his "commanding presence."
Post-demo, at the bar: Daniel bought Nick that owed drink—whiskey neat. "To heroes," he toasted, clinking glasses, fingers brushing.
Charlie watched from afar, prickle returning.
Nick sipped, heat in his veins—not just alcohol. Daniel leaned in: "If you ever need to... unwind after this, my loft's close."
Temptation dangled.
Nick hesitated—fell a little more. "Maybe."
The burn slowed no more—flames licking higher, Daniel's plan unfolding perfectly.
\--×-×--
# Gala Night – The Slow Burn Ignites
The Shoreditch hall pulsed with polished energy. Crystal chandeliers threw fractured light across the crowd; rugby memorabilia gleamed under spotlights on silent-auction tables; the “try line” bar served cocktails in miniature rugby-ball glasses. A string quartet played something upbeat and jazzy in the corner, but the real soundtrack was the low hum of moneyed conversation, laughter, clinking glasses, and the occasional burst of applause from the small stage where short talks and demos had just wrapped.
Daniel was everywhere and nowhere at once—gliding between clusters of donors, sponsors, and local celebrities like he’d been born in a tux. His navy suit moved with him, the slim cut emphasizing the lean lines of his body: narrow waist, long legs, shoulders just broad enough to look elegant rather than bulky. The open collar showed the hollow of his throat and the glint of that thin silver chain every time he tilted his head to laugh. He smiled wide and easy, teeth flashing, dark eyes catching the light. People gravitated. Men especially.
Nick noticed.
He was standing near the bar with Charlie and three other academy coaches—Mark (mid-30s, stocky prop who still played amateur), Liam (younger, wiry winger), and Sarah (the only woman on the coaching staff, sharp and dry-humored). They’d just finished their group photos for the academy’s Instagram and were nursing drinks, decompressing.
Nick kept glancing across the room.
Daniel was currently charming a silver-haired businessman in a three-piece suit—leaning in to hear him over the music, one hand lightly on the man’s elbow, head cocked, listening like the guy was the most fascinating person alive. The businessman’s eyes kept dropping to Daniel’s mouth, then lower. A younger guy in a velvet blazer—probably a sponsor rep—sidled up, clapped Daniel on the back a little too familiarly, and laughed too loud at something Daniel said. Daniel turned that megawatt smile on him, touched his forearm in thanks. The guy’s gaze lingered on Daniel’s ass when he turned to grab a fresh drink from a passing tray.
Nick’s jaw tightened. He didn’t even realize he was staring until Charlie nudged him.
“You okay?” Charlie asked quietly, thumb brushing the back of Nick’s hand under the table.
“Yeah. Just… people-watching.” Nick forced a smile, but his eyes flicked back. Another man—tall, dark suit, late 30s—had joined the cluster around Daniel. He was standing close, shoulder brushing Daniel’s, saying something that made Daniel throw his head back and laugh, throat working, chain catching the light. The guy’s hand found the small of Daniel’s back for a second—casual, but not.
Nick swallowed. Heat crawled up his neck. He told himself it was irritation. Protective instinct. Nothing more.
Across the room, one of the coaches—Liam—leaned in toward Charlie with a grin. “So, Charlie, right? Are you a friend of Nick and his boyfriend Daniel, the planner?”
Charlie blinked. “No. I’m Nick’s boyfriend.”
Liam’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh shit—sorry. We just assumed… I mean, the way he talks about you two, and he’s always glued to Nick at rehearsals…” He trailed off, realizing he was digging deeper. “Anyway. Cute couple. Both of you.”
Mark chuckled into his drink. “Yeah, Daniel’s got that whole ‘pretty boy who could get anyone in the room’ energy. Half the sponsors have been asking if he’s single.”
Sarah rolled her eyes. “They ask every event planner that. Daniel just knows how to work it.”
Nick’s grip on his glass tightened. Charlie noticed, sliding his hand onto Nick’s thigh under the table—grounding, possessive. Nick exhaled slowly, covered Charlie’s hand with his own.
On stage, the MC tapped the mic. “Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention—our head coach, Nick Nelson, will be joining one of our generous sponsors for a quick chat and photo op. Nick? Could you make your way to the front?”
Applause rippled. Nick stood, smoothing his tux jacket. Charlie gave his hand a quick squeeze. “Go be charming.”
Nick kissed the top of Charlie’s head—quick, public claim—then headed toward the stage stairs.
Daniel was already there, waiting at the bottom step like he’d orchestrated the moment (because he had). He clapped Nick on the shoulder as he passed—fingers lingering, sliding down his bicep for half a second. “Knock ’em dead,” he murmured, close enough that his breath brushed Nick’s ear.
Nick’s skin prickled. He climbed the steps, shook hands with the sponsor—a tall man in his 50s with a Rolex and a rugby-mad grin—who immediately launched into questions about academy youth programs. Nick answered easily, all charm and sincerity, the crowd eating it up. Cameras flashed. Daniel stood off to the side, arms crossed, watching with that slow, satisfied smile—like a cat who’d already caught the mouse and was just enjoying the squirm.
Charlie stayed at their table, sipping his gin and tonic, eyes on the stage. He watched Nick laugh at something the sponsor said, watched the way the lights caught the breadth of his shoulders, the easy confidence. Pride swelled—then twisted when he saw Daniel move.
Daniel stepped up onto the stage edge—casual, like he was just adjusting a microphone stand—but positioned himself so he was in Nick’s peripheral vision. When Nick glanced over (and he did), Daniel gave him a small, private nod—lips curving, eyes dark. The sponsor noticed, chuckled. “Your event planner’s quite the character, isn’t he?”
Nick laughed it off. “Yeah. Keeps things interesting.”
Daniel hopped down, but not before brushing past Nick again—hip grazing Nick’s thigh, deliberate. Nick’s jaw flexed.
Charlie watched the whole thing from thirty feet away. His stomach knotted. Not jealousy exactly—more like dread. The slow realization that Daniel wasn’t just flirting anymore; he was hunting. And Nick… Nick wasn’t running.
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
Charlie pulled it out, expecting Nick or one of the group chat.
Unknown number—but the area code was London. Work.
He answered quietly, stepping toward the quieter hallway near the bathrooms. “Hello?”
“Charlie? It’s Priya from the press. Sorry to call so late—I know you’re at that gala thing—but we’ve got a crisis.”
Charlie’s heart sank. Priya was his supervisor at the small publishing house—kind, but stressed. “What’s up?”
“The manuscript for the spring YA list—\*Echoes of Ash\*—the author just pulled out of the deal. Full meltdown. Says the editor’s notes ‘ruined her vision.’ We’re supposed to send the final proofs to the printer Monday, and now we’ve got a 72,000-word hole. I need someone to step in and do an emergency rewrite—basically salvage what we can and patch the plot holes. You’ve read the whole thing twice already, you know the voice better than anyone.”
Charlie pinched the bridge of his nose. “Priya, I’m at an event—”
“I know, I know. But you’re the only one who’s not already drowning in their own deadlines. I’m begging. If you can come in tomorrow—Saturday—first thing, we might still make the slot. Otherwise we lose the slot, the advance money, and probably the author’s next book. I’ll owe you forever. Triple overtime, extra comp days, whatever.”
Charlie glanced back toward the hall. Nick was stepping off the stage now, shaking more hands, Daniel hovering nearby like a shadow—laughing at something Nick said, hand brushing Nick’s lower back again as he steered him toward another donor group.
Charlie’s throat tightened. “I… I’ll think about it. Text me the details?”
“You’re a lifesaver. Thank you, Charlie. Really.”
The call ended. Charlie stood in the dim hallway, phone clutched too tight, staring at the screen.
He could say no. He could stay here, glued to Nick’s side, watching Daniel orbit like a shark. Or he could take the out—bury himself in work tomorrow, give himself distance, let the knot in his chest loosen.
But the thought of leaving Nick alone here—with Daniel—made his skin crawl.
He took a deep breath, smoothed his jacket, and walked back into the main room.
Nick spotted him immediately, waved him over. Daniel was still there, drink in hand, posture loose and inviting.
Charlie slid up beside Nick, slipped his hand into the crook of his elbow—firm, visible. “Everything okay up there?”
“Yeah,” Nick said, turning to kiss Charlie’s temple. “Just donor stuff. Boring but good for the academy.”
Daniel raised his glass in a mock toast. “You were brilliant, as always.” His eyes flicked to Charlie—warm, polite, but the smile didn’t quite reach them. “Charlie, you must be proud.”
“I am,” Charlie said evenly. He leaned into Nick’s side, voice soft but clear. “Very.”
The three of them stood there a moment—tension humming under the surface like a live wire.
Daniel’s gaze lingered on Nick a beat too long. Then he excused himself gracefully—“Duty calls, more sponsors to woo”—and melted back into the crowd.
Nick exhaled, arm sliding around Charlie’s waist. “You alright? You looked tense on that call.”
Charlie hesitated. “Work thing. Might have to go in tomorrow. Emergency rewrite.”
Nick frowned. “On a Saturday? That’s rough.”
“Yeah.” Charlie looked up at him—searching those familiar hazel eyes. “You’ll be okay here if I have to leave early?”
Nick’s arm tightened. “I’ll be fine. But I’d rather you stay.”
Charlie smiled—small, real. “Me too.”
But as they turned back to the room, Charlie caught Daniel across the space—already watching them, glass raised again in that slow, knowing salute.
The night stretched on. The slow burn didn’t cool.
It only got hotter.
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