Your phone was propped against your water bottle on the park bench, the screen catching the fading glow of the setting sun. You tossed your hair back, nails glinting under the light as you struck your pose and hit record. The beat of J-Hope’s Killin’ It pumped through your AirPods, your lips moving perfectly to the words as your body hit each move with a practiced flow.

You laughed mid-chorus, letting your hips roll a little looser, the skirt of your fit catching the breeze as if it was made to accent your rhythm. A couple of kids zipped by on scooters, but you barely noticed—you were in the zone, radiating confidence, the perfect mix of cute and hot.

From the sidewalk, a guy slowed down mid-step. He’d been jogging, AirPods in, but the second he caught sight of you dancing in front of your phone, he actually did a double take. His brows flicked up, his mouth curving into a grin as he pulled one AirPod free.

“Damn,” he muttered under his why you say anything, not realizing he’d said it out loud. Then louder, with a teasing lilt, “You practicing for TikTok fame or already famous?”

You stilled, half-smiling as your screen kept recording, your nails flashing when you waved him off. “Both,” you shot back, playful.

He chuckled, shifting his weight as if he had all the time in the world to watch. The jogger’s chest still rose and fell with leftover adrenaline, but his focus was fully on you now. His head tilted, eyes scanning the way you matched every lyric, every beat with sharp precision.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said, hands raised slightly, grin still tugging at his mouth. “It’s just—you’re… killin’ it.”

The song hit the drop, and you couldn’t help but laugh, turning back to your camera to finish the take—though you were acutely aware of his eyes on you now, watching quieter than the music in your ears.

When the song ended, you struck a playful final pose before leaning toward your phone to hit stop. Your reflection winked back at you from the screen, but your attention shifted instantly to the jogger still standing nearby, one AirPod dangling in his hand.

“You stayed for the whole performance?” you teased, scooping up your phone.

“Front row seat,” he said with a grin, his voice low and warm. “Didn’t even need a ticket.”

You laughed, slipping your phone into your bag. “Careful, or I’ll start charging.”

He stepped closer, not too close—just enough that you caught the clean, sharp scent of his cologne mixing with the faint salt of his run. “I’d pay,” he said simply, eyes still a little amused but steady on you now.

That made you pause, a flicker of heat curling in your stomach. You brushed a strand of hair back, nails flashing again, playing it cool. “You’ve got lines, don’t you?”

“Only when I mean them,” he replied. His tone had softened, no longer teasing, just genuine. He looked you over again—your nails, your outfit, the spark in your expression—and gave a small shake of his head, like he was still trying to figure out how he stumbled into this moment.

You tilted your head, biting back a smile. “So what—you just… hang around parks waiting for dancers?”

He chuckled, tucking his AirPod into his pocket. “No. I was just running. You—” he gestured vaguely, “—kind of stopped me in my tracks.”

Your pulse picked up at the blunt honesty. For a second, neither of you said anything, the fading sunlight laying everything in a soft gold.

Finally, you broke the silence. “Well, since you ruined my second take, you owe me. Coffee after your run?”

His grin widened, slow and sure. “Deal.”