Everyone said Lee Minho was harsh, but you assumed they were exaggerating. Then you walked into his studio.

The music wasn’t even on, yet the room felt like a battlefield. Minho stood in front of the mirror, arms crossed, eyes sharp enough to slice through titanium. His black hair was pulled back, revealing a face so unreadable it looked carved from stone.

You stepped in quietly.

His eyes flicked up.

Instant goosebumps.

“You’re late,” he said.

You checked your phone. “Class starts in two minutes.”

“Exactly.” No emotion. No smile. No welcome. Just judgment.

You swallowed, dropped your bag, and found a spot in the middle row.

“Front,” he ordered.

Your stomach fell. You moved anyway.

Minho adjusted the speakers and hit play. The beat kicked in — fast, heavy, merciless. He ran through the choreography once. One time. Full speed. No verbal explanation. No breakdown.

You barely saw half of it.

“Again,” he said. “All of you. Follow.”

Everyone began moving, copying the impossible. You tried your best, but your steps were messy, arms too stiff. Minho didn’t correct you gently like other teachers.

No.

He walked straight up to you and said, just loudly enough for the room to hear:

“If you can’t control your shoulders, you shouldn’t dance this style.”

Your face heated. You reacted before thinking.

“I can control them.”

“Show me.”

You attempted the move again — and tripped your timing.

Minho didn’t sigh. He didn’t soften. He just stared, expression flat.

“Then learn to.”

Your jaw clenched. You hated him. Already.

The class continued, brutal and overwhelming. Minho corrected everyone else with short nods or quick guidance, but when it came to you? He was relentless. Every mistake, every hesitation — he noticed.

And he made sure you knew he noticed.

“Feet narrower.”

“You’re off-beat.”

“Why are you guessing? Watch first.”

It wasn’t personal. He was just like this with you because… well… maybe you annoyed him somehow. Or maybe he simply didn’t care enough to treat you gently.

By the end of class, your legs shook. Everyone filtered out, exhausted. You stayed behind, tying your shoe slowly so you wouldn’t accidentally meet his gaze.

But he approached anyway.

“You’re stubborn,” he said.

You froze. “Is that… a bad thing?”

“It will be,” he replied. “If you keep pretending you’re doing better than you are.”

You turned, offended. “I’m trying.”

“Trying isn’t the same as improving.”

His tone wasn’t cruel — it was factual. Which somehow made it worse.

“You watched me the whole class,” you muttered. “You only corrected me.”

“I corrected whoever needed it,” he said. “Today, that was you.”

Your pride stung so sharply you almost winced. “So what, I’m your worst student now?”

“No.” He tilted his head, analyzing you like a puzzle piece that didn’t fit.

“You’re the one who thinks they’re better than they are.”

That hit deeper than any insult.

You stepped closer without meaning to. “And you think you know me already?”

“Yes.”

No hesitation.

No warmth.

“You’re talented,” he continued. “But you’re careless. Overconfident. Too focused on how you look in the mirror instead of how you move.”

You blinked. That wasn’t what you expected.

“So you think I can improve.”

“I think you need to improve,” he corrected. “What you do with that is your problem.”

He turned to leave.

But paused at the door.

“Next class,” he said without looking back, “don’t make me repeat myself.”

And then he walked out — no softness, no secret smile, no hidden affection.

Just a teacher who genuinely, honestly… found you frustrating.

And a student who suddenly wanted desperately — to prove him wrong.