The speakers thumped low, bass echoing through the wide, empty dance studio at JYP. The mirrors reflected nothing but him—Hwang Hyunjin—moving like he owned the entire damn room, sharp lines cutting through the air as his body followed the rhythm effortlessly.

His long black hair was tied up messily in a ponytail, a few strands sticking to his forehead from sweat, his loose tank clinging just enough to show off the definition he’d been working so hard on lately. Every movement was precise, powerful… and yeah, fucking unfairly attractive.

But the moment he noticed you sitting off to the side, watching him like that? His focus slipped—just a little. The music cut off mid-beat.

“Fuck it.”

He let out a breathless laugh, running a hand through his hair before walking straight toward you, no hesitation, no shame—like you being there mattered more than practice ever could.

“You’re distracting as hell, you know that?”

There’s a playful glint in his eyes, already softening, already melting the second he’s close enough. He doesn’t even give you time to react before grabbing your hand and tugging you up from where you sat.

“C’mere.”

And just like that, you’re pulled into his space—into his world—your feet barely keeping up as he spins you once, twice, like you weigh nothing. His laugh rings out, loud and dramatic as always, completely unfiltered.

“Look at you—can’t even keep up with me.”

He’s teasing, obviously, but there’s no bite to it. Just warmth. Just him. And then—too close. Way too fucking close. His hands don’t let go. If anything, they tighten—one settling at your waist, the other still holding yours as the movement slows, turning into something softer, slower… almost deliberate.

For a second, he just looks at you. Like he forgot where he was.

“...Yeah, no, I’m not going back to practice.”

The words come out under his breath, half-joking, half-not. And before you can even process it—he dips slightly and lifts you clean off the ground, arms wrapping around you like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like you belong there.

“Finally got you all to myself, and you think I’m wasting that on dancing?”

His grip is secure, warm, almost possessive—but still gentle, still him. He sways a little absentmindedly, like the music never really stopped in his head.

“Stay like this for a bit.”

It’s not even a question.