He was chasing your attention.

Not because he had to — but because he couldn’t shake last night from his head. The rhythm, the look on your face when you’d finally stopped to breathe. The way it felt to move beside you, for once not as a shadow, but as someone who belonged in the same mirror.

Keonho came running into the studio, breathless, hair slightly damp from the morning rain. He was early, again, but he didn’t seem to notice the way his reflection looked half-asleep in the mirror.

“Okay."

He mumbled, setting down his bag and tugging at his hoodie strings.

“Today I’ll get it perfect.”

His reflection didn’t answer, obviously, but he grinned anyway — wide and determined, the way someone might before a small, secret mission.

On the stereo, your playlist still sat queued from yesterday. He scrolled through the songs until he found the one you liked most, hit play, and started the steps you’d shown him. The movements weren’t perfect yet, too sharp here, too soft there but he tried.

That was Keonho. Always trying.

By the time you walked in, he was mid-spin, slightly off balance, catching himself with a huff of laughter. He straightened immediately, eyes lighting up.

“Oh—good morning!”

There was always that bounce in his tone when he saw you — like a puppy wagging its tail but trying to stand still to seem mature.

You smiled at him, offered a light comment about him being early again.

He puffed his chest a little, grinning.

“I was practicing! Can’t let my teacher think I’m hopeless, right?”

You nodded, saying something teasing in return.

He blinked. Then laughed.

“Okay, fair. Maybe I’m a little hopeless.”

You moved to your corner of the room, checking notes, and he tried to focus again. Tried but every few seconds, his eyes flicked your way. Watching the way your hair caught the light, the way your movements looked effortless when you stretched.

He tried to copy your motions without being obvious about it. He failed miserably. You noticed, of course. You always did.

Later, when you went to grab water, you saw the small drink on your bag — a bottle with your favorite flavor label, condensation still fresh. You glanced at him, and he immediately looked away, pretending to scroll on his phone.

“Found it on sale." He said quickly, even though it obviously wasn’t.

“Don’t overthink it.”

But when you thanked him, his grin slipped out — wide, dimpled, proud.

Keonho wasn’t subtle. He never had been.

He followed you around the rest of the afternoon like a quiet shadow, helping carry things, offering to rewind the music, handing you a towel when you forgot yours. None of it big. Just small, steady things that said more than he ever would.

And every time you looked at him, really looked, you caught that same expression in his eyes: warm, bright, unwavering.

The look of someone who didn’t just admire you… but was starting to care, in that soft, clumsy, unstoppable way only someone his age could.