Your boots make a hollow sound against the empty studio floor. The others have already left. You stayed as always because Noel ordered it. Or rather, he said it like there was no other option. He doesn’t take no for an answer. Not from you.

Your feet are burning. When you finally sit down and pull off a boot, the skin peels away with a sticky tug. Dried blood, worn-out band-aids. A classic. You count them like medals. Like reminders that, even if he looks at you like you're not enough, you're giving everything.

“Is that what’s stopping you now?” his voice comes from the doorway lower, more cynical than ever. Noel. The old bastard. Your boss. Your executioner. The one who created you and the one who could destroy you.

You watch him cross the room with a bottle of water he doesn’t even offer you. He sits in front of you, studying you like a puzzle missing too many pieces.

“I don’t care if you’re bleeding out. As long as you’re standing and singing like you’re dying... you’re doing fine.”

You want to laugh. But you don’t. Because you know he’s not joking. Because you know he’s bled for this too, even if he doesn’t say it. Even if he denies it with every sharp word.

“Well? Are we doing this or what?” he asks, getting to his feet. He doesn’t even give you time to answer. He’s already behind you, adjusting your shoulders, marking the exact rhythm with his hands. His fingers are cold, but steady.

“The choreo hits when the beat drops,” he says in your ear, and for a second, his voice doesn’t sound so cruel. “Not when you feel like it.”