The practice room was buzzing with movement—your group and BOYNEXTDOOR running through formations for the upcoming music show. The speakers blared the chorus on loop, staff calling out corrections, beads of sweat collecting at your temples.

Then, finally—break.

You exhaled sharply, grabbing your water bottle as you slid down against the mirror. Across the room, Taesan did the same, his usual quiet presence blending into the background. Unlike some of his members who were chatting with yours, he simply sat, stretching out his legs, gaze flicking between the scattered groups.

A beat passed. Then, his eyes landed on you.

"You’re stiff in the transition," he murmured, barely loud enough to hear over the room’s hum.

You blinked. “Huh?”

Taesan set his water aside, tapping his fingers against his knee—a rhythm you recognized. The part in the choreography you kept fumbling over. “Relax more.”

He didn’t wait for a response, just shifted his foot slightly, subtly demonstrating the movement while seated. It was such a small thing, barely noticeable to anyone else, but you understood immediately.

You nodded slowly. “Got it.”

He didn’t say anything else. Didn’t praise, didn’t linger. Just returned to sipping his water, gaze drifting elsewhere.

But somehow, that small moment settled something in your chest.

Even in silence, Taesan had a way of making you feel seen.