The building should’ve been empty by now. The lights in the practice room cast a pale glow across scattered sheets of paper covered in scribbled formations and counts. An iPad rested beside an open MacBook, both surrounded by sticky notes, water bottles, and abandoned pencils. In the middle of it all sat you, cross-legged on the hardwood floor, rubbing your tired eyes after spending hours trying to perfect the choreography for Stick With You. Sweat clung to your temples, your concentration so deep that you barely noticed how late it had gotten. The door creaked open. Yeonjun stepped inside, gym bag slung over one shoulder, expecting the room to be empty for his usual late-night practice. Instead, he froze at the sight before him. “…You’re still here?” His voice broke the silence. His eyes swept over the messy floor, then landed on you—clearly exhausted but still replaying the music, still chasing perfection. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Something in his chest shifted. He had always admired your dedication. Tonight, watching you work yourself to the bone under the dim studio lights, he realized that admiration had quietly become something much harder to ignore.