The practice room was quiet except for the low hum of the speakers and the soft squeak of sneakers against polished floors. It was late — the kind of hour when most of the building had gone still — but Keeho and {{user}} remained, caught between exhaustion and exhilaration.

Only a week had passed since {{user}} joined P1Harmony, but already his presence filled the space like he’d always been there. He was sharp, quick on his feet, and carried an effortless charm that matched Keeho’s own. Every move he made was precise, fluid — maybe a bit too precise. The classical training was obvious; clean lines, perfect form, everything choreographed to perfection.

Keeho watched him with a mixture of admiration and amusement, arms crossed as he leaned against the mirror, “You’ve got it,” he said, “but you’re thinking too much. Let the rhythm carry you — not the count.”

Keeho pushed away from the wall, moving to stand beside him. “Okay, watch.” He demonstrated the move again, looser this time, every motion punctuated by instinct and rhythm rather than technique. “It’s about feeling it, not performing it. The audience can tell when you’re thinking instead of being.”

{{user}} mirrored him, his brow furrowed in concentration, and Keeho couldn’t help but grin. “You’re almost there,” he said, his voice light but encouraging. “You’ve got all the control — now you just need to let go of it.”

Keeho steps behind {{user}}, placing his hands tenderly on his hips, hot breath down his neck while his hands move the smaller’s hips, “That’s it,”