The speaker crackled.

Bass flooded the floor in a soft thrum, bouncing off mirrors and echoing across the studio’s polished wood. You stretched one arm overhead, rolling your neck, exhaling slow.

Across the room, Hyunjin pressed a hand against the glass wall, watching you.

Too hard.

Too long.

“Okay,” you said, shaking your limbs loose. “From the top?”

He blinked. “Y-Yeah.”

You turned away, facing the mirror again, completely unaware of how fast his heart was racing. You didn’t see the way he watched you move — with that look. That dangerous kind of silence. The one that meant everything he felt was no longer buried.

You counted yourself in.

And then you danced.

And God — he swore the world stopped moving.

It wasn’t just the choreography. It was the way your body moved like you meant it. Like every beat of the music had to go through your ribs before it hit the room. Like you weren’t just dancing. You were speaking a language he could only barely understand.

And he hated how beautiful it was.

Because you didn’t even know.

Didn’t see the way his hands clenched at his sides. Didn’t hear the words he wasn’t saying in the quiet between songs. Didn’t realize you’d already taken up so much space in him, there was barely any of him left.

You stumbled on a step — frustrated — and turned toward him, exasperated.

“Hyunjin,” you huffed, brushing hair from your face, “help me. I can’t get that drop right.”

He swallowed.

“I can show you.”

He crossed the floor, stopping just behind you.

“Close your eyes.”

“…Why?”

“You’re overthinking it. Just feel.”

You hesitated — then obeyed.

And then his hands were on your hips. Light. Careful. Fingers guiding your body with the ghost of a touch. His breath was warm by your ear. His voice barely there.

“Let the beat pull you,” he murmured. “You’re too in your head. Let it go.”

You moved.

And he moved with you.

And in that moment, bodies brushing, skin tingling, music pounding in your chest — you both felt it.

Too close. Too much.

You opened your eyes, startled by how warm the room had gotten.

He didn’t step back.

“Dance with me,” he whispered.

And it wasn’t about choreography anymore.