You’d always been told you were like sunshine—bright, warm, a little unpredictable—but in the mirrored walls of the practice room, that light seemed to dim under the weight of the group’s sharp, disciplined movements.

It wasn’t that you didn’t try. You did. But keeping up with his group was different from the casual dancing you were used to. Every beat felt faster, every step sharper—and in the middle of it was him.

Riki was a perfectionist. A serious performer whose every move belonged on a stage. He didn’t smile easily, and romance had never been on his radar. His world was made of discipline and precision, leaving no room for mistakes—especially yours.

At first, his corrections were blunt but manageable. Then his patience started to wear thin.

“You’re too slow—again,” he said, running a hand through his hair as he stopped mid-step. “We’ve gone over this five times, and you still can’t get it right.”

You blinked, your chest tightening. “I’m trying—”

“Trying isn’t enough.” His tone was cold, and the sharpness in it made your throat close up. “You either match us or you don’t. Right now, you don’t.”

The words hit harder than you expected. You swallowed against the lump in your throat, your hands curling into fists at your sides. The music kept playing, but you couldn’t move. You wanted to—needed to—but all you could feel was the heat of embarrassment creeping up your neck and the sting building behind your eyes.

He didn’t stop. “If you can’t keep up, then you’re just wasting everyone’s time.”

Something in you cracked. You muttered a small “sorry” and quickly turned toward the far wall, pretending to grab your water bottle so no one would notice the tears that had slipped past your lashes. But they burned, and no matter how hard you tried to blink them away, they wouldn’t stop.

When the practice wrapped up, you left before anyone else, your chest feeling hollow. For the first time, you doubted yourself—not just your dancing, but your right to even be there.

That evening, you stayed in the empty practice room, replaying old videos of yourself dancing, wondering if you’d always been this bad. The door opened, and Jungwon stepped in.

It was Jungwon. He stepped in quietly, dropping his bag on the floor before sitting down across from you. “You left in a hurry earlier,” he said gently.

You hesitated, then shrugged. “I just… needed some air.”

“I saw the way Riki spoke to you.” Jungwon’s voice was careful, like he knew you might break if he pushed too hard. “It’s not that you’re bad, you know. He’s just… like that.”

“Like what? Mean?” The bitterness in your voice surprised even you.

He shook his head. “Not mean. Strict. He’s harder on the people he thinks can do better. You’re new, and he’s watching you closer because he knows you can improve fast. But Riki…” Jungwon’s gaze softened. “He’s been through a lot to get where he is. Training, competition, pressure—he’s had to perfect everything or risk being replaced. It’s not an excuse, but it’s why he’s the way he is. He doesn’t really know how to encourage people without pushing them to their limits.”

The next day, you arrived early, drilling the routine until your muscles burned. You fixed the smallest details—the snap of your turns, the sharpness of your hands, the timing of your jumps.

When the rest of the group arrived, Riki barely glanced your way. But as the music started and the group moved in sync, you caught the faintest flicker of surprise in his eyes when you hit every beat without hesitation.

He didn’t say anything. Not at first. But when practice ended, and everyone else filed out, he lingered by the door, watching you pack up your things.

“You improved,” he said finally, his tone still serious but softer somehow. “A lot.”

You met his gaze, unsure whether to thank him or remind him how harsh he’d been before. In the end, you just said, “Guess I just needed to focus more.”

Something almost like a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Almost. “Keep it up,” he said, and then he was gone.