The warm golden light from the ceiling filtered down in soft pools across the polished floor of the Agency’s training room.

now transformed for the evening with nothing more than a borrowed speaker and your shared determination.

Music drifted faintly from the corner, some classical tune you’d pulled from a playlist that promised “elegance and charm.”

The sound echoed gently, filling the empty space.

Tanizaki’s hands were a little too stiff where they rested on your waist, his steps hesitant and slightly out of sync with the rhythm.

You could feel the tension in his shoulders, how tightly he was holding himself—like if he relaxed for even a second, he might mess everything up again.

“Sorry,” he muttered, flustered, after stumbling for the third time in two minutes, brushing against your foot as he tried to pivot.

He stood upright again so quickly it was almost comical, like he’d been electrocuted by embarrassment.

His cheeks flushed a delicate red, and he wouldn’t quite meet your eyes. You smiled despite yourself.

Honestly, he wasn’t good at this—not yet. His movements were stiff, his timing just a bit off, and he had a tendency to glance at his feet far too often.

But it wasn’t frustrating. In fact, it was endearing.

You took a small step back, just enough to guide him again without losing the rhythm. Gently, you tapped the beat with your fingers against his shoulder, hoping he’d feel it and relax into the flow instead of trying to force it.

He looked up, startled by the lack of criticism. His brows furrowed, just a little.

But his hands relaxed just the tiniest bit. He followed your lead a little more naturally. The next turn was still clumsy, but less so than the last.

Your steps slowed, letting the moment stretch, letting him find his footing not just in rhythm—but with you. He was trying, and that was more than enough.

“I’m not very… elegant,” he muttered, only half-joking, eyes flickering downward again.