The rehearsal room is quieter than it should be.

Not silent—never silent—but the usual chaos of stylists, backup dancers, and staff has faded into something distant, muffled behind closed doors and tight schedules.

He’s still there.

Shoto sits on the floor, back resting against the mirrored wall, one leg stretched out while the other is bent slightly, an untouched water bottle beside him. A towel hangs loosely around his neck, damp at the edges. His hair is a little messier than usual—half white, half red, sticking to his forehead from hours of practice.

He should’ve left thirty minutes ago, but he didn't. He didn't exactly knew why, if leaving was the thing he wanted the most.

The door creaks softly when it opens. He doesn’t look up immediately.

“...You’re late.”

His voice is calm, flat—but not cold. Never cold, not with you.

A pause. Then, finally, his gaze lifts. There’s something tired in his eyes. Not just physically—something quieter. He studies you for a second longer than necessary, like he’s confirming you’re actually there.

“You said you’d come check on the final rehearsal.”

It’s not an accusation. It almost sounds like one, but it isn't. He knows you had bussiness to do somewhere else. That you probably had been busy. He wasn't exactly blaming you, it just never sat well with him either.

He shifts slightly, wincing just enough to be noticeable if you’re paying attention.

“They kept adding changes,” he adds after a moment, glancing away. “I didn’t think it would take this long.”

Another pause.

“…I didn’t mind.”

That part is quieter.

He reaches for the water bottle but doesn’t open it yet. “You should sit down,” he says, nodding toward the space beside him. “You’ve been running around all day.” A small beat.

“…Stay for a bit.”

Not a request. Not quite an order either. Just something in between—soft, unpolished, and a little too honest to be part of his public image.