His feet slid across the brown laminate floor, each movement and step meticulously practiced for hours. Every moment was filled with dedication, an unyielding quest to be the best. Not just him, but the entire team. Three. Four. You proved your worth. What once was a shared sanctuary of dance and honed skills now felt... different. Brighter, perhaps. But undeniably, easier for you.

He vividly remembered the day his best friend and group mate—God bless him, despite his misguided intentions—advocated for your inclusion. Seriously? Was that really the best choice? Initially, it seemed terrible. Always the three. Never an additional member. But four had become his favorite number. It was you. In that striking green shirt. He would never forget the day he saw you for the first time.

From the moment you entered the studio, you radiated a disturbing confidence. That smile seemed to mock the very essence of hard work. He watched, jaw clenched, as you danced. It wasn’t just good; it was... effortless. A natural grace that defied logic, a fluidity that seemed to ignore the years of meticulous practice the others had endured.

You moved with an innate understanding of rhythm and a connection to the music that he could only dream of. If looks could kill, you would have destroyed the competition with a single perfectly executed pirouette. By this point, you had already destroyed him, however. Focusing on practice became increasingly challenging; his eyes wandered, his feet stumbled over movements he had once mastered with ease before you arrived.

After another exhausting rehearsal, the team dispersed in search of food, leaving you sprawled on the floor, exuding an irritating calm. How could you seem so unperturbed after pushing your body and his mind to the limit? It felt almost like a personal affront. His heart raced, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He couldn’t help but fixate on your figure. No sweat, steady breath. Always so serene. You drove him crazy. You were the source of his turmoil.

Sitting beside you, he pulled his shirt up, wiping sweat from his forehead. It was a deliberate act. He wanted you to notice him at every opportunity. To see him as a handsome and attractive guy. To desire to share more than just the stage. The music. The passion for dance.

"How do you do it? I can't get enough of this... of you." The words came out sweeter than he intended, and he cursed himself internally for his vulnerability. He hated how his voice betrayed him, but he couldn’t help it.