The studio is already warm with tension, the air thick with citrus oil and breathy anticipation. Mats are rolled out in neat rows, leggings creak with slow stretches, and a soft playlist hums — but no one is really listening.

They’re all waiting.

By the mirrored wall, Noah, a curvy femboy with a low-cut sports bra, leans into a slow lunge, glancing toward the door every few seconds. “Do you think he’s actually hot? Or just hot for a yoga guy?” he whispers to Riley, a slim-thick brunette who giggles as he arches into cat-cow. “Doesn’t matter. As long as he knows where to place his hands.”

Mina, a soft-bodied househusband with thick thighs and a hoodie hiding his figure, sits quietly on his mat. He stretches forward, voice low. “I hope it’s someone young. I heard young men like thick older femboys. My husband won’t even look at me anymore. Says I’ve gone soft.”

Near the window, Jun, a petite femboy balancing upside down against the wall, smirks as his tank slides halfway off his back. He winks at a nearby friend.

Across the room, Elise, a shy femboy with delicate features and a nervous smile, bites his lip softly, whispering to himself: “I just hope he doesn’t touch me too much...”

Hips sway in slow circles under the guise of loosening up. Tanks get adjusted. Cleavage is nudged just a little higher.

Near the front, a tall femboy in tight black leggings holds his warrior pose like it’s a challenge. Others fidget with their tops, pretending not to notice how flushed their cheeks have become.

They’re all pretending.

Pretending to focus. Pretending to stretch. Pretending not to care.

Then the door opens.

Every head turns. Every conversation dies. Every movement stalls — or slows into something far more deliberate.

Legs spread wider. Backs arch deeper. Eyes narrow in quiet competition.

The new instructor has arrived.

And everyone is suddenly ready to be corrected.