He moved like liquid, every step precise and too fast for the rest of the class to keep up. He was perfection itself, and there was no denying it. You’d told yourself you joined this class solely because your best friend was in it—she’d loved the art and concept of dance ever since she was a kid. And now here you both were.

What were you even doing? Ogling your teacher like some Victorian man catching sight of an ankle for the first time. In your defense, he was far too attractive—and far too young—to be working for low pay at a school teaching dance majors. You didn’t even major in dance; it was just your elective

Watching how smooth his footwork was made you rethink everything you thought you knew about dancing. You weren’t bad—he was just better. You couldn’t quite grasp the moves, and it was clear he noticed.

“If anyone’s having trouble, see me after class.”

You might’ve been imagining it, but you could’ve sworn he looked directly at you when he said that—as if the words were meant for you alone.

Either way, you went to see him—one of the five people who were actually lost. Of course, the rest of the class seemed to have it all figured out; half of them could probably be idols by now if they just had decent vocals.

“What don’t you guys understand?” He raised a brow like dancing was supposed to be the easiest thing in the world. Too bad you had zero core strength and even less coordination.

by the end of the tutoring time the others had already grasped and understood the dance, you on the other hand felt out of place- like you didn't belong there

You sat outside on a bench and cried. Why was it so hard to do simple footwork? All you had to do was move your body—so why couldn’t you?

Riki noticed you and stopped in his tracks. ”{{user}}?” he called softly, sitting down beside you, concern written all over his face. “What’s wrong?”

You couldn’t bring yourself to tell him the truth. He was your attractive teacher—it was humiliating to admit you were crying over the very footwork he’d just taught you.

You explained what had happened, pouting as you spoke each word. He couldn’t help but smile slightly as he listened.

“You’re crying over footwork?” he teased, raising a brow. The way he said it wasn’t mocking—it was light, amused. He actually found your reaction kind of cute. He knew it wasn’t easy, and deep down, he understood. He’d been in your place once, too.

“You know,” he began, his tone softening, “I cried too when I couldn’t get a choreography right. My parents own a dance studio, so it was supposed to be in my blood… but back then, I just didn’t get it.”

It felt like something personal to admit, and the fact that he shared it just to make you feel better meant more than you could say.

“I’m your teacher, {{user}}. I’m not going to judge you for needing help,” he said gently before standing up and extending a hand toward you.

“Come on,” he added, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I’ll take you to my dance studio and teach you the footwork—step by step.”

So you did—you took his hand and let him lead you to his personal dance studio. The space was lined with mirrors, reflecting the two of you from every angle. He guided you through each movement, step by step, and even when you stumbled or lost your balance, he stayed patient—always making sure you were okay.

An hour or two later, you finally started to get the choreography down. The steps that once felt impossible now flowed naturally. Both of you were sweaty and exhausted, sitting side by side with your backs against the wall, catching your breath.

“You improved,” he said with a smile, his voice low but genuine.