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The mirrors in the practice room throw back a dozen versions of Pahn, and every single one of them is half a beat behind.
Her limbs know the moves now, but her body still hesitates in the transitions—a split-second lag that feels like wading through honey. She isn’t bad. She just isn’t Fond.
In front of her, Fond moves through the same steps with the quiet economy of someone who has been doing this since she was sixteen, loose hair swinging, shoulders relaxed. Not a single bead of sweat on her temple. In the mirror, her expression is focused but serene, like she's solving a calm puzzle.
The choreographer claps. "Take five, everyone."
Pahn drops her arms, lungs burning, and crumples onto the bench. She grabs her water bottle and presses the cold plastic to her forehead.
Milk drops down beside her, passing her a towel which Pahn accepts. “You’re doing great, Pahn. That choreo is no joke, but you’re keeping up really well.”
Pahn unscrews the cap and takes a long drink. The cold bites her throat. Across the room, Fond is still marking the moves, one hand tracing a slow arc through the air while the other holds her water bottle. She makes it look effortless. Untouchable.
“She’s not even tired,” Pahn mutters, more to herself than to Milk.
Milk follows her gaze. “Fond? She never looks tired. It’s kind of annoying.” She says it without malice, a lopsided smile on her face. “But she’s a pro. Old idol habits.”
Pahn hums. “Yeah.” She pauses, then, quieter: “Sometimes I feel like I’m dragging her down. She’s always so… composed. I’m over here struggling, and she’s just—” She gestures vaguely at the mirror, where Fond’s reflection flows through a hand movement like water.
Milk bumps her shoulder. “Fond doesn’t think that. You know how she is. She’s nice. She’d never see it that way.” A beat. “Besides, you’re not dragging her down. I’ve watched her watch you. She looks at you like you’re doing just fine.”
As if sensing the attention, Fond glances over her shoulder. Their eyes meet. Fond's thumb comes up—a small, easy thumbs-up—and her face breaks into a quick, encouraging smile. Then she turns back to the mirror, still marking.
Pahn's heart gives a single, hard beat. She lifts her own thumb in return, the gesture automatic. In that brief glance, she notices the faint sheen of sweat gleaming along Fond’s collarbone, the way her tank top has slipped just a little, riding up at the hem before Fond tugs it down with an absent, graceful motion.
She still looks good. Composed. Effortless. The thought settles somewhere behind Pahn's ribs. She doesn't let it reach her face.
"See?" Milk says, bumping Pahn's knee. "She thinks you're doing fine."
The second half of practice clicks.
Pahn finds the rhythm in her bones, her body finally syncing with the count. The choreographer's voice turns encouraging, and Fond glances back more often, offering small, approving nods. They run the full sequence again, and this time Pahn hits every transition clean, the moves smooth and controlled. Fond's smile widens.
They reach the final section—the one where Pahn catches Fond's wrist and pulls her in, drawing her close, chest to chest. The choreographer had demoed it a dozen times: a measured pull, a controlled landing.
This time, Pahn pulls too hard.
Fond's eyes go wide, her footing gone. She stumbles forward, and Pahn's arms lock around her waist on pure instinct. Fond's hands land flat against Pahn's shoulders, her body pressed close enough that Pahn can feel the sharp inhale through her shirt.
Everything stops.
The music plays to no one. Fond's face is inches away. Pahn can see the ring of softer brown around her pupils, the slight sheen on her lips. She smells like floral shampoo and the mint of her water. The world shrinks to breath and heat and the frantic, trapped-bird flutter against Pahn's ribs.
Then Milk's voice cuts through, low and theatrical: "Wooo."
The room erupts. Jan cackles. View's voice follows, sing-song: "Oooh, PahnFond~"
The choreographer claps once, but her voice is pure mirth. "Chemistry is good, girls, but let's not actually knock each other over."
Laughter bounces off the mirrors. Pahn's face ignites. She releases Fond's waist and steps back, muttering a strangled, "Sorry, Phi. Pulled too hard."
Fond retreats too, patting down the front of her tank top with a breathy laugh. "It's fine. My feet forgot how to stand." Her tone is light, unbothered. Classic Fond.
They move back to position, facing the mirror. Pahn is still trying to cool her cheeks when she notices something in the glass.
Fond stands beside her, shoulders squared, jaw set—locked in. But her face is red. A deep, blooming red that starts at her cheekbones and melts down her throat. Her lips are pressed into a tight, controlled line, but the color betrays everything.
Has Fond's face always been this red?
Pahn turns her head. Fond immediately angles her face away, a quick, discreet shift of her chin, hair swinging forward to curtain her cheek. But it's too late. The mirror doesn't lie.
The choreographer notices. "Fond, you okay? You look really flushed. Take some water."
"I'm fine," Fond says, but her voice is higher than usual. She turns, body language already moving to walk away, to reset, to find composure in a corner.
Pahn doesn't think. She moves.
Her hand closes around Fond's shoulder, gentle but firm. Fond tenses, tries to twist further, but Pahn applies a gentle pressure, coaxing her to face her. Fond immediately brings both hands up to cover her face, fingers splayed over her cheeks, eyes hidden.
"P'Fond," Pahn says. She reaches up, wraps her fingers around Fond's wrists, and gently pulls them down. Fond resists for half a second, then lets her hands be drawn away.
And Pahn sees it.
Flustered. Entirely, devastatingly flustered. Fond's cheeks are stained a blotchy, furious pink that creeps past her ears. Her hair is slightly mussed from the stumble, a few strands clinging to her temple. Her eyes, usually so steady, are wide and bright with mortification, blinking too fast. She looks nothing like the composed professional who was marking moves effortlessly. She looks like a girl who's just been yanked into the arms of someone she wasn't supposed to be blushing over.
The words fall out of Pahn's mouth before she can stop them. "Phi. You're really red."
A beat of silence. Then Fond makes a strangled, indignant noise.
Her fists unload on Pahn—light, rapid strikes against her shoulders and upper arms. It doesn't hurt. It feels like being pelted by embarrassment itself.
“You—! You pulled too hard, Pahn! And then you point out that I’m red?” Fond’s voice pitches into a whine, all her usual calm evaporating. “I’m red because of you! It’s your fault!”
Pahn stands there, absorbing the flurry, and something warm and helpless unfolds in her chest. Fond's eyes meet hers, and Pahn sees it—the thing she's been too careful to name, mirrored back at her, blazing and obvious and absurdly cute.
The room erupts again, a mix of coos and cackles at the rare sight of a flustered Fond. Pahn finds herself laughing too, a surprised, delighted sound. She catches Fond's wrists mid-flail, holding them gently to still her. “Okay, okay,” Pahn teases, still grinning. “I get it, I’m sorry.”
Fond squirms, face still flaming, but there it is—the faintest, most stubborn hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her lips.
The choreographer shakes her head, smiling. “You two. Rehearse the dance, not the drama. From the top after a minute. And Fond, get some air.”
Pahn releases Fond’s wrists, and Fond’s hands drop to her sides. She gives Pahn’s shoulder a light, half-hearted shove, pouting. Pahn is still grinning, unrepentant.
Before Fond turns away, a real smile slips free—quick and private—and Pahn catches it, tucking it away like a secret.
They finish practice. The final run is clean, and this time the pull is exactly right.
The choreographer's final clap echoes through the studio. "Good work today. Go rest. Same time tomorrow."
The room dissolves into the soft chaos of packing up—water bottles clinking, bags zipping, sneakers squeaking toward the door. Milk waves lazily over her shoulder. View calls out something about getting food that Pahn doesn't quite catch. She is too busy watching Fond stretch her arms overhead in the mirror, the hem of her shirt lifting just slightly before dropping back down.
When Fond’s eyes flick to the mirror and meet hers, Pahn quickly looks away, busying herself with her bag. The door clicks shut, and it's just the two of them.
Pahn kneels by the bench, winding the cord of her wired earphones around her fingers as she stuffs things into her bag. The music is still playing—a song she's had on repeat all week—just loud enough to seal her off from the silence. She hums under her breath, an absent, tuneless sound.
A shadow falls over her.
She looks up. Fond stands there, bag over one shoulder. The fluorescent light catches the faintest remnants of pink still clinging to the tips of her ears.
Pahn tugs one earbud out. "Phi?"
"You did well today." Fond's voice is soft but certain. "The moves are clean now. You caught up fast."
Pahn looks back down at her bag, fiddling with a stubborn zipper. "Still pulled too hard."
"The pull was fine. You're doing fine. I mean it." Fond doesn't move, doesn't let her brush it off. "You always think you're behind, but you're not."
Pahn's fingers still on the zipper.
She remembers the stumble—not the stumble, but the moment after. Fond in her arms, weightless and warm. Fond's wide eyes, her parted lips. And then later, in the mirror, that bright, mortified red. The way Fond had kept glancing at her through the rest of practice, quick little looks she probably thought were invisible.
The heat creeps up Pahn's neck. She looks away, focusing hard on the earphone cord. "Thanks, Phi." A pause. "And sorry. For pulling you so hard earlier. I really didn't mean to make you fall."
Fond lowers herself onto the couch against the wall. Pahn sneaks a glance. Fond is leaning back on her palms, head tilted, her loose hair spilling over her shoulders in soft strands. Her eyes are half-lidded—whether from exertion or something else, Pahn can't tell—but they are fixed directly on her.
"Were you really sorry?" Fond asks. There's a new edge to her voice, lazy and curious.
Pahn's hand freezes on the cord. "What?"
"You pulled me like you meant it." Fond's lips curve, just barely. "Almost like you wanted me in your arms."
The heat in Pahn's face detonates. "I—no, Phi, that's—"
Fond leans forward. Her fingers brush Pahn's cheek, light as a breath, and then hook gently around the loose earbud dangling against Pahn's collarbone. She lifts it, fitting it into her own ear.
Pahn still has hers in. For a moment, they're both listening to the same song—the same low beat, the same murmured lyrics threading through the quiet. Pahn can't breathe. Can't look away from Fond's face, which is so close now. The music plays, and Fond’s lips curve into a lazy grin as the song plays on.
You're not the one to judge
Yeah, you're noble and you're fun
And your heart's too big to grudge
And I don't have time to bluff
She takes the earbud out. Reaches over, tucks it deliberately back into Pahn's ear with a gentleness that feels like the opposite of gentle. Then her finger traces a slow line along Pahn's jaw—from ear to chin—before tilting Pahn's face up.
"You pulled me like a gentlewoman," Fond murmurs. "Almost like you were being careful with me."
Pahn's throat tightens. "I was. I didn't want you to fall."
Fond's eyes glint. "I know." She leans closer, her voice dropping into something warm and private.
"You're noble. And I'm your Fond."
The words land like a soft punch to the chest. Pahn's brain short-circuits. She opens her mouth. Closes it. A flush crawls up from her collar, hot and uninvited, spreading across her cheeks before she can do a single thing about it.
"That's—Phi, that's not—" She fumbles the earphone cord, tangling it around her fingers. "The lyrics aren't—"
Fond pulls back, laughter finally spilling out of her—warm, unguarded, filling the empty room. "You're so red, Pahn. You should see yourself."
Pahn can't form a single defense. She just kneels there, hands frozen on her bag, watching Fond stand and stroll toward the door. At the threshold, Fond pauses and looks back.
"Dinner," she says lightly. "Your treat."
Pahn's voice comes back in a croak. "Phi. Shouldn't you be the one treating? You're the senior."
Fond tilts her head, smile turning sly. "You pulled me into your arms in front of everyone.” A beat. “I think you owe me."
And then she's gone, the door swinging shut behind her.
The song in Pahn's ears shifts. The bridge comes in, clear and cruel:
I'm latching onto you forever
I can't do this on my own
Pahn squeezes her eyes shut. She can hear her own heartbeat too loudly, each thump amplified by the earphones plugging her ears. With a defeated exhale, she tugs them out and lets the cord fall around her neck. The silence rushes in, but her pulse still hammers.
She stands up, grabs her bag, and goes after Fond.
The hallway is dim, the vending machine humming its fluorescent lullaby. Fond is waiting just before the exit, leaning against the wall like she knows Pahn will follow.
"Took you long enough," Fond says.
Pahn stops a step away. "You can't just say something like that and walk off."
Fond’s expression doesn’t flicker. The teasing bravado from earlier has bled away, leaving something rawer underneath. “Like what?”
Pahn’s heart is pounding—she can feel it in her throat, in her fingertips. She should have the upper hand here. Fond is the one who said she was Pahn’s and then vanished through the door.
But looking at her now, Pahn isn’t sure what she’s dealing with. This isn’t the composed professional from practice. It isn’t the flustered girl in the mirror, either. It’s something in between—unguarded, still, watching her with an intensity that makes the air feel thin.
“That.” Pahn’s voice comes out lower than she intends. “Say something like that again, and I might start thinking you actually want me to.”
She means it as a warning. A line drawn in the sand. But it lands like a question.
Fond’s composure cracks. It’s barely perceptible—her lips part, the corners of her mouth softening, the slight falter in her steady gaze. When she speaks, the teasing is gone entirely. No smile. No lazy drawl. Just a quiet, unsteady truth.
“And if I did?”
The words hang between them. Pahn’s brain short-circuits. She should say something clever. She should retreat, deflect, laugh it off. But she can’t move. Her heart is too loud, and Fond is looking at her like the answer actually matters, and Pahn realizes with startling clarity that she isn’t in control of this moment at all. She’s just as unmoored as Fond is.
Neither of them moves. The vending machine hums. The hallway stretches quiet and empty, the world reduced to the space between their bodies—barely a step apart now, though Pahn doesn’t remember closing the distance.
She reaches out, her fingers finding Fond’s wrist. She means it to be grounding—an anchor, the way it was earlier in the practice room. But Fond’s hand turns under hers, palm sliding against palm. They don’t lace their fingers. They just rest there, skin warm and still.
Fond’s eyes flicker down to Pahn’s lips. Just for a heartbeat. Just long enough.
Pahn leans in.
It isn’t a kiss. Not quite. Their foreheads touch first, a gentle bump, and Fond’s breath catches—a tiny, shaky inhale. Pahn can feel the warmth radiating from Fond’s skin, can count her eyelashes if she wants to. Their noses brush. The air between their mouths is electric, charged, waiting.
But Pahn pauses. Waits. Lets the choice hang there, in case Fond wants to pull away.
Fond doesn’t pull away.
But she doesn’t close the gap either. She just stands there, trembling slightly, her free hand finding the hem of Pahn’s sleeve and gripping it like a lifeline.
“Pahn…” Barely a whisper.
Pahn pulls back just enough to see her face. And there it is—the splash of red coating Fond’s cheeks, brighter than before. It blooms across her cheekbones, creeps down her throat, stains the tips of her ears. Her eyes are glassy, a little dazed, and she looks nothing like the unshakeable professional who marked choreography without breaking a sweat. She looks like someone who is falling and doesn’t know where the ground is.
The realization hits Pahn all at once. Maybe it’s not one-sided after all.
She doesn’t gloat. Doesn’t tease. Instead, she reaches up and brushes a strand of hair from Fond’s cheek with the back of her fingers, feather-light.
“Dinner,” Pahn says quietly, “can be my treat.”
Fond blinks, then laughs—a small, breathless sound that wobbles at the edges. “Okay.”
“But you’re buying dessert.”
The words pull another laugh from her, softer this time. “Deal.”
Pahn moves her face away then, because if she keeps looking at Fond—at the pink still spreading down her throat, at the way her lips are slightly parted, at those half-lidded eyes that won’t seem to leave her face—she might do something reckless. She might close the distance for real.
Fond stares. Her gaze traces the line of Pahn’s profile, lingering on her lips with a heavy, unguarded want. Then, slowly, she looks away. Her hand is still in Pahn’s, warm and solid.
They don’t speak. They just start walking, out through the exit and into the warm night, shoulders brushing with every step. Pahn’s earphones are still silent around her neck. There’s no music anymore.
Just this.