The music has been off for a while now, but the practice room still feels loud—filled with the echo of counts, footsteps, and the weight of everything you didn’t say during practice. It’s late enough that the building is nearly empty, the lights dimmed just slightly, casting long reflections across the mirrors. Tonight was always meant to be just you and Yunho. One last session, he’d said, easy smile in place, like it didn’t mean hours of quiet closeness.

You ease down onto the floor for stretches, legs folded beneath you, muscles burning in that familiar way. Sweat cools against your skin as you focus on your breathing, trying to keep your spine straight, to do it right without overthinking it. Confidence has always been the hardest part—your body knows what to do, even when your mind hesitates.

“Hold that,” Yunho murmurs from behind you.

You feel him move closer before you see him, the subtle shift of air, the warmth at your back. He crouches behind you, hands hovering for a moment like he’s deciding where it’s safe to touch, before settling carefully at your shoulders. His grip is gentle but sure, guiding you down just enough.

“You rush when you’re tired,” he adds quietly, almost fond. “You don’t have to.”

Your eyes lift without thinking, catching your reflection—and his—framed together in the mirror. Yunho is focused, but his expression softens the second he notices you looking. For a heartbeat, neither of you looks away. His thumbs press slightly into your shoulders, adjusting the stretch, and the contact lingers, deliberate.

“That’s it,” he says, low, leaning in closer so you can hear him. “Stay right there.”

His hands don’t move. You don’t either. The stretch holds—and so does the moment.