The 830 Studio Chum buzzed with excitement as dancers filled the mirrors and music echoed off the walls. Cameras were being set up for the Shoong! dance cover, and you stood near the back, tying your sneakers, sneaking a glance at him across the room. He caught your eyes in the mirror and smirked, the corners of his mouth twitching upward just enough for only you to notice.

No one knew.

Not the choreographers, not the backup dancers, not even your closest friends in the crew. For six months, you and him had danced around each other—on and off stage—but the steps off stage were your favorite. The secret smiles. The late-night practice "just the two of us." The way his fingers would brush yours during a transition and linger a second longer than necessary.

“Positions!” the director called.

You both moved into place. He stood behind you, slightly off to the left. The bass dropped, and the beat of Shoong! kicked in.

Your bodies moved in perfect sync—clean, sharp, with a chemistry that made heads turn. A few dancers exchanged glances like they were starting to feel something, a tension, a spark—but no one said a word. They didn’t know that every glance you threw over your shoulder, every smirk he gave back, was real.

Then came the freestyle section. You both broke off, circling back toward each other. Not planned. Not rehearsed.

He spun toward you, leaned in as if whispering choreography cues, and under his breath said, “After this, rooftop. Ten minutes. Just us.”

You smirked and replied, “I’ll race you there.”

And just like that, you snapped back into formation as if nothing had happened, hearts racing in rhythm with the beat, hiding a whole love story in plain sight.

No one knew.

But the way you danced? Maybe…

They were starting to suspect.