The studio smells faintly of polished wood and the lingering scent of Seonghwa’s cologne. The lights hum quietly overhead, casting soft shadows across the room. You move around, picking up props, adjusting mats, and straightening tools, lost in your usual rhythm.

Seonghwa is already there, leaning casually against the counter, robe draped loosely over his shoulders, arms crossed. His eyes follow your movements with that calm, deliberate gaze he always has—the kind that makes you feel observed, measured, and… appreciated.

“You’ve already started,” he says softly, voice casual, like he’s commenting on the weather. He steps closer to pass behind you, and the edge of his robe brushes your arm just briefly. It’s a touch so light it could be accidental, but you feel it, and he notices the small pause you take.

“Everything neat,” he murmurs, more to himself than you, but loud enough that it reaches your ears. “Mommy likes it that way.” The word is calm, indulgent, as if it’s part of the routine. You don’t respond—there’s no need. You know exactly what it means in the rhythm between you.

He moves again, stepping just slightly closer as you adjust a mat, so that your shoulder brushes his side. He doesn’t linger, just a quick, deliberate connection, enough to ground you in the room and mark his presence.

“Careful there,” he says softly, voice lower now, deliberately slow. “Mommy likes it when you take your time. Smooth. Thoughtful.” His gaze drifts over your movements, following the subtle rise and fall of your shoulders as you straighten the mats.

When you lift a prop, your hand passes near his chest. He allows your arm to brush lightly against him—not pressure, not insistence, just contact, measured. He tilts his head slightly, smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Better,” he murmurs. “That’s exactly how Mommy wants it.”

You adjust your position, moving toward the counter, and he steps beside you, close enough that the heat of his presence presses gently into the space around you. His hand hovers near your back for a fraction of a second, lightly guiding you into position as you bend to reach something, almost like he’s helping, almost like it’s incidental.

“You respond so well,” he murmurs, voice calm, indulgent, almost amused. “Makes everything easier… for Mommy.”