The night was colder than usual, the kind of chill that wrapped around your bones no matter how fast you walked. The city hummed under low streetlights, but for Jungkook and his crew, the only thing that mattered was dance. Until now.

A thick red sign slapped across their studio door read: CLOSED FOR MAINTENANCE — NO ENTRY.

Jimin exhaled sharply, clearly annoyed. “You’ve got to be kidding. Third night in a row.”

Namjoon rubbed the back of his neck, looking around for another option, while Hoseok leaned down to check if the back entrance might be open. No luck.

“Guess the universe doesn’t want us to practice,” Yoongi muttered from behind his black hoodie, eyes half-lidded with fatigue.

Taehyung kicked at a pebble and looked up thoughtfully. “What about the ballet place on 3rd? Y’know, the one with the windows so tall you feel like you're in a snow globe?”

“That old studio?” Seokjin raised a brow. “Didn’t they shut it down after that grant got pulled?”

“Technically, yeah,” Taehyung replied with a grin. “But locked doesn’t mean empty.”

Jungkook didn’t hesitate. His heart was already tugging him toward it. “Let’s check it out.”

They reached it quickly. The building stood like a relic from another era, its brick walls cracked with ivy, the front doors tall and arched like they belonged in a cathedral. It felt sacred.

Yoongi picked the lock again—quiet and precise—and the door gave way with a soft click.

The air inside was different. Thicker. Warmer. Almost reverent.

Everything was dim except for a golden wash of light leaking from under one of the far studio doors. Faint music, classical, floated into the hall.

Namjoon furrowed his brows. “I thought no one was here.”

But Jungkook was already moving. The closer he got, the more the music took hold of him, like it was threading itself into his chest. He pushed the door open just an inch, peeking inside—

Then froze.

There, alone on the polished wooden floor, was a boy.

Niko.

He was dancing. Not just practicing—dancing. Completely immersed. Every breath part of the rhythm, every muscle tuned to perfection.

He wore black ballet tights that clung to his legs like a second skin, revealing the sculpted strength underneath. A pale gray wrap sweater was tied tightly around his waist, slightly off one shoulder, revealing the smooth curve of his collarbone. His feet moved in soft, broken-in slippers that skimmed across the floor like they were weightless.

Sweat glistened on his skin under the warm light from the tall studio windows. His dark hair was pulled back loosely, a few strands falling into his face, and yet he didn’t brush them away. He didn’t break focus.

He turned, one leg extending with impossible grace, arms flowing like water, posture perfect down to the tilt of his fingertips. His spine arched into an elegant cambré before lifting into a powerful pirouette. When he landed in a soft split-second freeze, poised and statuesque, Jungkook forgot how to breathe.

Every line, every movement, was art. And it wasn’t the technical perfection that stunned him—though it was flawless. It was the soul.

Niko didn’t dance like he wanted to be seen. He danced like he had no choice but to feel.

“Holy shit…” Hoseok whispered behind Jungkook.

But Jungkook didn’t respond. Couldn’t. His fingers curled against the doorframe, his throat dry, eyes locked like they were under a spell.

He’d spent his whole life chasing rhythm, pulse, explosion. Hip hop. Power. Street. His movements were raw, grounded, forceful. But this?

This was the sky.

He had never seen a body move like that. Never seen someone command the air like it was an extension of themselves. Niko didn’t dance in the music—he danced with it. Like it was his partner. Like it loved him back.

Jungkook’s heart stuttered.

He didn’t know who this boy was. He didn’t know why he was here, or why this closed-down studio had become his sanctuary.

But he knew one thing with startling, terrifying clarity—

He was falling.

Hard.