The studio smells like sweat and cleaner, the air cool against your skin. The music starts, loud and familiar, vibrating through the floor. Your body moves on instinct—eight counts, spacing, angles you’ve done a thousand times before.

For the first run-through, everything’s fine.

Not good. Just fine.

Your chest feels a little hollow, like you’re moving from somewhere a step behind yourself. When the chorus hits, you’re half a beat late lifting your arm. Barely noticeable.

Yunho glances over. “Hey—your timing there,” he says easily, rewinding the track. “Just a little faster on the lift.”

You nod. “Yeah. Got it.”

You do get it. Your brain knows exactly what he means. You mark it once while the music’s paused, the movement clean and sharp.

The song starts again.

Somehow, you miss it anyway.

It’s the same mistake—arm too slow, weight shifted wrong. The mirror shows it clearly, even if no one says anything right away. Your stomach tightens, but your face stays neutral.

You tell yourself it’s fine. Everyone messes up sometimes.

“Okay, stop,” Hongjoong says, pressing pause. Not angry. Just tired. “Let’s run that part again. From the chorus.”