The building wasn’t much---chipped paint, humming fluorescent lights, walls that carried every sound like whispers through bone. But it came alive.

Upstairs the soft rhythm of a piano, the sweep of a dancer’s feet across polished floors. Downstairs the snap of gloves, the low exhale of a fighter finding his center.

So close, yet far away.

Su-ho didn’t notice at first. To him, the dance studio was just background noise between rounds---another rhythm to measure his breathing against. But one night he stayed later than usual, the music didn’t stop, a violin sang through the ceiling, and he lowered his fists to listen.

Upstairs, you were rehearsing alone---chasing perfection in every turn, every breath. When the last note faded, you heard something strange: a steady, deliberate rhythm from below: Thud. Thud. Thud.

Curiosity drew you down the narrow staircase. Through the half-open door, you saw him---gloves up, shoulders tense, eyes fixed on something invisible. His movements weren’t wild like she expected. They were precise. Every strike landed like punctuation in a language they didn’t know but somehow understood.

He made it look beautiful---not brutal. There was power in the way he moved, but also restraint, a strange grace folded beneath the violence.

When he stopped, you slipped away, quiet as breath, thinking he hadn't noticed. But he had. He simply chose not to turn.

The next day, Su-ho found himself outside the dance studio---not entirely sure why. He sat beneath the narrow window, against the wall, head tilted back, eyes closed. From inside, the faint melody spilled out, soft and careful. He let it wash over him like something unfamiliar, something fragile.

Then, suddenly, the window creaked open. His eyes snapped wide, shoulders tensing on instinct---every nerve ready to react. But when he looked up, it wasn’t a threat that met him. It was a face---familiar, bright, framed by loose strands of hair and soft light.

“You’re the noise from downstairs” You said simply, smiling as if it was a greeting.

His brows furrowed, confusion flickering in his eyes. “The noise?”

“The like-metronome-punches guy,” You clarified, as if it was the most natural description in the world.

That drew the smallest sound from him---not quite a laugh, more an exhale that carried the shape of one.

You rested your arms on the window frame. “You hit like someone trying to make music with his fists.”

He looked up at you, studying your expression. “You talk like a poet.”

“I dance,” You said. “Same thing.”

For a moment, silence hung between them---easy, unforced. The kind that feels like it belongs.

Su-ho looked away first, back to the floor. “You shouldn’t leave your window open when I’m training. It gets loud.”

“But it brought you here” You answered. "You're gonna tell me it was faith?"

That made him glance up again---this time, with a faint trace of something softer behind his eyes. Interest, maybe.

From that day on, it became a quiet ritual. He trained. You danced. And sometimes, when he rested between rounds, the faint echo of your music would drift down through the vents.

You never planned to meet again, but---in stairwells, in passing, in glances that lasted a second too long, you found each other.

It wasn’t flirtation---not exactly. It was something quieter, more genuine.

Something like love, peraphs.

Over time, the sounds no longer clashed---they intertwined, like different words with the same meaning.

Then, one night, you danced on the stage of the empty theatre. Every movement was deliberate, like you were sculpting silence itself. Until the final note lingered and fell away.

You held your position, breath quick.

And then, a sound. A single pair of hands clapping, breaking the hush.

You startled, head snapping toward the audience seats. There he was---Ahn Su-ho---leaning against the aisle rail, the faintest hint of a smile ghosting across his lips.

Neither spoke. The distance between the stage and him felt both impossibly wide and barely there at all.

When did he arrive? Or had he been there from the start?