She was gone before I could respond, the elevator chiming softly as it carried her away, leaving me alone in the too-quiet living room with her words echoing in my head.
They rearranged their entire schedule within hours.
Cancelled a photoshoot. Pushed back recording sessions.
All before they even knew if you would agree to stay.
Seven to ten days.
Possibly less.
The bonds pulsed in my chest, all humming with anticipation and hope.
I closed my eyes and tried to breathe.
Chapter Twenty
KEIRA
The practice room smelled like him.
I noticed it the moment Hwan pushed open the heavy door, his hand warm at the small of my back as he guided me inside. Sunshine and vanilla, layered over the faint scent of exertion and polished wood floors. The room was massive — wall-to-wall mirrors reflecting the afternoon light streaming through high windows, a state-of-the-art sound system built into the walls, wooden barres lining one side like a ballet studio.
"This is where the magic happens." Hwan spread his arms wide with that characteristic brightness, his copper-brown hair catching the light and his dark eyes sparkling with something that looked like genuine excitement. "Well, this is where we sweat until our muscles scream and then do it all again. But 'magic' sounds better for promotional purposes."
I huffed out something close to a laugh, still hovering near the doorway. The space felt too big, too exposed. Mirrors everywhere meant I couldn't hide from my own reflection —from the uncertainty in my grey eyes, the way I kept touching my neck where Jae-won had scented me yesterday.
"It's huge." I took a few tentative steps inside, my sneakers squeaking against the polished floor. "I expected... I don't know. Something smaller."
"We're lucky." Hwan was already moving toward the sound system, his body loose and relaxed in a way that seemed effortless. He wore simple practice clothes — black joggers, a white t-shirt that clung to his shoulders — and even in something so basic, he looked like he belonged on a stage. "Most groups share practice spaces. But after our second album hit, the company gave us our own. Said it was an 'investment in our brand' or whatever corporate speak they used." He glanced back at me, a dimple appearing in his left cheek as he grinned. "Really it just means they can work us harder without scheduling conflicts."
I drifted closer, drawn by his warmth despite my nerves. The bond pulsed gently in my chest, responding to his proximity. It had been doing that since I'd woken up this morning — a soft, insistent hum that seemed to grow stronger whenever he was near.
"So what exactly are we doing here?" I hugged my arms around myself, trying to mask my anxiety with casual curiosity. "I should warn you, I can't dance. At all. My coordination is... questionable."
"Everyone says that. And everyone's wrong." Hwan's grin widened, something mischievous flickering in his expression as he pressed a button on the sound system. A familiar melody began to play — SIREN's latest pre-release track, the one I'd been working on lyrics for. "I'm not going to teach you choreography. I just want to show you something."
He moved to the center of the room, his posture shifting. One moment he was Hwan — bright, casual, almost boyish in hisenthusiasm. The next, he was someone else entirely. His spine straightened, his chin lifted, and his eyes found their focus in the mirror across the room. I watched the transformation happen like watching water freeze into ice — the same substance, completely different form.
Then he started to dance.
I'd seen SIREN perform. I'd watched countless videos while working on their lyrics, studying their movements for inspiration. But this was different. This was Hwan alone, no backup dancers, no carefully choreographed group formations. Just him and the music and his body moving like it was made of liquid gold.
Every movement was precise but fluid. His feet barely seemed to touch the ground. When the chorus hit, he executed a spin that should have been impossible, landing in perfect position with his arms extended and his chest heaving. The golden amber bond flared bright in my chest, and I felt something I hadn't expected.
Pride.
Not my emotion — his. Bleeding through the incomplete bond, raw and vulnerable. He was proud of this, proud of what he could do with his body, proud of the art he created through movement. And beneath the pride, there was something else. Something that tasted like fear and exhaustion and the desperate hope that someone would see him — reallyseehim — beyond the performance.
The music faded. Hwan stood in his final pose for a moment, then dropped his arms and turned to face me. His cheeks were flushed, his breathing slightly elevated, and his eyes were searching my face for something.
"That's the new comeback choreography." His voice came out a little rough, vulnerable in a way I hadn't heard from himbefore. "The full version. We've been working on it for three months."
"Hwan..." I stepped closer without deciding to, my feet carrying me toward him like he was magnetic north. "That was incredible. I've never seen anyone move like that."
"Most people say that. But they're talking about the idol. The performance. The brand." He tilted his head, studying me with an intensity that made my breath catch, his dark eyes suddenly serious beneath the playful surface. "You're not, are you?"
"I'm talking aboutyou." The words came out before I could second-guess them, fierce and certain in a way that surprised me. "The way you feel when you dance. I could... I felt it. Through the bond."
