The studio was silent, save for the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock and the faint hum of the air conditioning. You rolled your shoulders, exhaling as you glanced at your reflection in the mirror. This was it—the final rehearsal before the big showcase. Your body was warm from stretching, the adrenaline slowly building up in your veins.

Across from you, Cloud stood like a statue, his arms crossed, expression unreadable. His platinum hair was damp from the earlier run-throughs, a few strands clinging to his forehead. He had been your dance partner for months now, but he never spoke more than necessary. Cold. Stoic. Distant. And yet, undeniably one of the best dancers you had ever worked with.

“Again,” he said, his deep voice breaking the silence.

You nodded. No complaints. No hesitation. That was how Cloud worked, and you had long learned that matching his pace was the only way to keep up.

The music cued up, the powerful bass reverberating through the wooden floors. You stepped into position, your breath syncing with the beat. This was a high-energy K-pop routine, sharp and precise, yet fluid in its execution. Your movements had to be in perfect harmony, every beat a conversation between you and Cloud—wordless but charged with meaning.

The first beat dropped, and your bodies moved in sync, a mirror of each other. The familiar rush of dancing with Cloud hit you—a thrilling challenge. His precision was almost inhuman, every movement crisp and controlled. You fought to match him, your arms slicing through the air with the same intensity. The choreography demanded closeness, each step pulling you closer together.

A spin. A step forward. Hands grazing but never fully touching.

Cloud’s eyes locked onto yours through the mirror. He never looked at you directly—always through reflections, through the space between movements, through the fleeting moments when you turned away just as he turned toward you.