“In here,” you answer easily, not even turning around yet. “Did you grab the—”

You do turn then.

And the words fall straight out of your mouth.

Because standing there in your doorway is Bucky Barnes—broad shoulders filling the frame, leather jacket slung over one arm, dog tags catching the light—except something is different.

His hair.

It’s gone.

Not gone gone, but close. Cropped down to a dark, soft-looking buzzcut that hugs the shape of his skull, exposing the clean lines of his jaw, the slope of his temples, the faint scar near his hairline you’ve only ever glimpsed when it was damp.

You blink.

He shifts his weight, suddenly unsure. “Hi?”

Your brain short-circuits.

“You—” You point at him. “Your—”

He lifts a hand, rubbing the back of his head like he’s self-conscious. The motion makes the muscles in his arm flex under his Henley. “Yeah. I, uh. Got tired of it.”

You stare.

Because this is not just a haircut.

This is… lethal.

He looks younger and older all at once. More Brooklyn. More soldier. The soft waves you loved to tangle your fingers in are gone, replaced by something stark and masculine and unfairly attractive. It makes his eyes look brighter. It makes his cheekbones sharper. It makes your stomach flip over.

“You don’t like it,” he says quietly, misreading your silence.

That snaps you out of it.

You cross the kitchen in three quick steps and grab his face with both hands.

“I cannot believe you just did this to me,” you whisper.

His brows knit together. “To you?”

“You look insane.”

His mouth parts slightly. “Insane bad or—”

“Insane good,” you breathe.

There’s a beat.

Then you drag your hands upward, fingers sliding over the freshly buzzed strands. They’re softer than you expected — velvety under your palms, barely there but not prickly. Your nails scrape lightly over his scalp and his eyes flutter.

Oh.

Oh.

You do it again, slower.

His breath catches.

“You can’t just come home looking like this,” you murmur, circling him like you’re inspecting a piece of art. “That’s criminal. You should have to warn people.”

A faint pink creeps up his neck. “Figured it’d be easier. Less to grab in a fight.”

You freeze mid-step.

“Less to grab?”

He realizes his mistake exactly half a second too late.

You launch at him.

He stumbles back a step as you jump, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and threading your fingers firmly into the short hair. You drag him down into a kiss that’s all teeth and heat and shock.

His metal hand catches your waist automatically, steadying you. His other hand slides up your back.

“You absolutely did not think this through,” you mumble against his mouth, tugging at the buzzcut again just to prove a point.

He groans—low and involuntary.

“See?” you whisper triumphantly.

He’s looking at you like you’ve just discovered fire.

You pull back just enough to really look at him. Without the longer hair softening his face, every expression is sharper. Every emotion more exposed. He looks raw in a way that makes your chest ache.

“Why now?” you ask softly.

He hesitates.

“Just… wanted something different,” he says. “Felt like carrying around too much old stuff.”

Your heart stutters.

Sometimes he does that—drops something heavy into the middle of an ordinary moment.

You lift your hand again, slower this time, smoothing it over the top of his head. The gesture is tender now instead of teasing.

“You look like you,” you say.

He studies your face carefully. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You smile. “Like Brooklyn and now. Like you’re not hiding behind anything.”

He exhales, something loosening in his shoulders.

You grin suddenly, mischief returning. “Also you look stupidly hot.”

That earns you a small laugh.

“Stupidly?”

“Disrespectfully,” you correct. “You look disrespectfully hot.”

He rolls his eyes but his smile grows.

You hop down from where you’d been half-clinging to him, only to immediately circle behind him. Your hands slide over his shoulders, down his arms, then back up again until your fingers find his scalp once more.

“I’m not going to get anything done for at least a week,” you inform him seriously.

“Oh yeah?” he says.

“Yeah.” You rake your nails gently over the short hair again.

He inhales sharply.

Your eyebrows shoot up.

“Oh my god,” you whisper. “You like that.”

He clears his throat. “It’s—sensitive.”

You light up like someone just handed you a new favorite toy.

“Bucky Barnes,” you say slowly, walking back around to face him. “Did you accidentally unlock a new kink?”

His eyes widen. “Hey—”

You drag your fingertips over his scalp again, slow and deliberate.

His jaw tightens.

“You absolutely did,” you breathe.

He lunges forward to catch you before you can dart away, backing you against the kitchen counter. His hands bracket your hips, eyes dark now.

“Careful,” he warns softly.

But he’s smiling.

You reach up one more time, cupping the back of his head, pressing your palm flat against the buzzed hair.

“I’m not in shock anymore,” you murmur. “I’m obsessed.”

His forehead drops to yours.

“Good,” he whispers. “Was kinda hoping you would be.”

You grin.

“Oh, I am,” you say. “Just not in the way you thought.”

He kisses you again—slower this time. Confident.

As your fingers slide back into that dangerous buzzcut, you decide two things very clearly:

One—you’re never letting him grow it out.

You, however, had absolutely overdone it.

“Harumasa,” you whispered, voice soft and slurred, leaning forward over the table until your forehead brushed against his arm. “Why are your sleeves always rolled up like that?”

He glanced sideways at you, lazy as ever. “Easier to move that way,” he replied, his tone carrying that familiar half-smile. “Efficiency, remember?”

“Mmm,” you hummed, eyes squinting as if deep in thought, then you giggled—light, airy. “You and your efficiency. You even make drinking look efficient.”

He sighed, amused. “That’s one way to say ‘boring.’”

You shook your head fervently, too close now, your breath warm against his shoulder. “Nooo, you’re not boring. You’re… efficient in a sexy way.”

That made him pause.

His eyes flickered, his hand stopping mid-motion as he set the glass down. You blinked up at him, realizing you’d said it aloud, and instead of backtracking like you usually would, you grinned lazily.

“Actually, it really bothers me when people flirt with you,” you continued, your words tumbling freely now. “Those fans asking about your heart or your choker, like—don’t they know you’re mine?”

The air froze.

You twirled your fingers in the strap of his tactical harness, tracing along the edge, completely oblivious to the soft crimson rising on his face.

“…Mine, huh?” Harumasa said, voice low.

You nodded without hesitation, eyes half-lidded and dreamy. “Yup. I like your choker too. It looks really good on you. Like it’s saying, ‘off-limits.’”

He covered his mouth, stifling an incredulous laugh. “You’re something else when you drink.”

He meant to push you gently away, but you beat him to it—head falling against his chest with a content sigh. “Mhm. Warm…”

He let out a quiet exhale, almost defeated. You were weightless against him, murmuring about how cool his eyes looked, how his voice was comforting, how you liked his lazy way of smiling.

When you tugged weakly at his hand, threading your fingers through his gloved ones, his composure cracked just a little more.

“You should sleep,” he murmured, adjusting your hair away from your face.

“Only if you promise to stay,” you whispered back, already half-asleep.

He hesitated. Then, softly—almost to himself—he said, “You really shouldn’t say things like that so easily.”

But even as he said it, his thumb brushed your knuckles. And though his gaze returned to his glass, the faintest smile lingered, like a man who’d stopped fighting the inevitable for one quiet night.

“Wine is meant to be savored,” Hugo had said earlier that evening, all graceful gestures and smug charm. “Not devoured.”

You’d apparently taken that as a challenge.

Now, two and a half glasses later, you were anything but savoring. Hugo sat beside you, impeccably composed, watching your drunken antics with both amusement and mild disbelief.

“Darling, if you continue like that, even your liver will start questioning your life choices,” he drawled, leaning back in his seat.

You giggled, pointing accusingly at him. “S’not fair. You talk so fancy when you’re tipsy. Why can’t I be classy drunk?”

“Because, my dear,” he said, swirling his wine, “you skipped the ‘graceful decline’ stage and dove straight into ‘confession hour.’”

You frowned, unamused—then pouted. “You’re so mean when you’re right.”

He smiled faintly, eyes glinting in that half-amused, half-adoring way. “And you’re quite adorable when you’re indignant.”

That made you blink. Then your face lit up like a firework. “You think I’m adorable?”

Before he could answer, you slid closer—far too close—until your knees brushed his. Your fingers tugged at his tie, eyes hazy but sharp with boldness alcohol had coaxed out.

“You know,” you murmured, voice dropping to a whisper, “your fans don’t deserve you.”

His smile faltered. “Oh?”

“They call you charming and mysterious, but they don’t see you,” you continued, the words spilling freely. “They don’t see how tired you are when you come home late, or how you always feed Robin before yourself, or—” you hiccupped—“how gentle you get when you think no one’s watching.”

For once, Hugo was speechless.

You tilted your head, smiling dreamily. “I get jealous, sometimes. When people ask for your attention. When they talk about how handsome you are.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Jealous? You?”

“Mhm,” you nodded, fingers now tracing the buttons of his vest. “Because you’re mine, and I don’t like sharing.”

He chuckled, the sound soft but laced with something deeper. “Possessive, are we?”

You hummed in affirmation, resting your head against his shoulder. “I’m drunk and possessive. Terrible combo.”

He looked down at you, amusement flickering into something gentler. Carefully, he set his wine glass aside, one hand brushing against your cheek. “Terrible? I’d say… dangerously endearing.”

You nuzzled closer, muttering incoherently about how good he smelled and how pretty his eyes looked when the light hit them. Hugo listened in silence, the corner of his mouth twitching every so often.

When you finally drifted off against him, murmuring a sleepy, “Don’t leave, okay?”, Hugo exhaled softly.

“Never,” he whispered, voice barely audible.

He draped his coat around your shoulders, eyes softening. For once, the great phantom thief looked less like a man of mystery and more like someone who’d found the one thing he could never steal—peace.

Lighter had seen plenty of drunks in his day—bikers, fighters, mercs—but none quite like you.

You were sitting cross-legged on the counter of the gang’s private bar, cheeks flushed, eyes glazed, clutching your third glass like it was a life goal. He leaned nearby, arms crossed, scarf fluttering faintly from the ceiling fan’s wind.

“Y’know,” you slurred, “you always look so cool, it’s unfair.”

Lighter tilted his head, his usual grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Unfair? You saying I should look worse?”

“Yes,” you said immediately. “You should have at least one bad photo somewhere. It’s criminal that you don’t.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Guess I’ll take that as a compliment.”

You hopped down—barely—and stumbled right into his chest.

“Woah,” he caught you, steadying you with one arm. “Easy there, champ.”

You looked up at him, dazed. “You called me champ. That’s your thing.”

He smirked. “Guess you’ve earned it for surviving three shots.”

You squinted at him, then reached up to tug his red scarf. “Why do you wear this all the time?”

“Symbol,” he replied. “Means I fight for the gang, not just myself.”

You hummed, fingers running over the fabric. “It suits you. Red looks good on you. Passionate, brave…” your words softened, “…and warm.”

That last part caught him off guard.

He tried to look away, but your next words hit harder than a right hook.

“I get so jealous sometimes,” you whispered, tugging gently at the scarf again. “Everyone calls you ‘The Champion,’ everyone cheers for you—but they don’t see how tired you are when you come home, or how much you hate blood, or how gentle you get when someone’s hurt.”

Lighter’s breath hitched.

You smiled hazily, fingertips brushing his jaw. “You always say you can’t lose, right? But… you already won. You won me.”

For a second, the air between you stilled—quiet, charged, real.

Then you wobbled, nearly toppling, and he caught you again with a low laugh. “You’re gonna make me faint before you do, y’know that?”

“Mmm, maybe,” you murmured against his chest. “You smell like smoke and cologne. It’s nice.”

He froze. Then, slowly, his hand came up to the back of your head, steady but hesitant.

“Get some rest,” he said, his voice lower than usual. “You’re drunk.”

“You like me though, right?” you asked suddenly, peering up with glassy eyes.

Lighter blinked. “…You really want that answer right now?”

“Yes.”

He sighed, smiling wryly. “Yeah. I like you, dummy. But we’ll talk about it when you’re sober.”

You grinned, satisfied, and nestled against him. “Good. ‘Cause I’m not letting go.”

“Didn’t think you would,” he muttered, his cheeks faintly pink beneath his shades.

When you finally dozed off, his thumb brushed across your cheek briefly before pulling the scarf around you both, a silent promise wrapped in red warmth.

You laughed, shaking your head, but your body fell into the music too. It was impossible not to. The heavy bass, the early-2000s groove, the nostalgia—it all hit at once. You and Keeho moved together naturally, hips swaying, arms brushing, both of you mouthing the lyrics dramatically.

“I like you just the way you are!” Keeho sang over the music, completely out of tune but entirely in spirit. You burst out laughing, nearly tripping, and he caught your arm just in time. His laughter joined yours, loud and genuine, and for a moment the rest of the club faded into background noise.

He twirled you once, not gracefully at all, but with full commitment. You stumbled back against his chest, and he laughed again, holding you steady. “Okay but why are we the best looking couple in here” he asked, his voice smug and teasing as he gestured vaguely toward the rest of the crowd.

You rolled your eyes, grinning. “Are we tho?”

“Uhm, yeah?,” he said dramatically, flipping imaginary hair. “Look around! No one else has this kind of chemistry. No one can beat us."

You couldn’t help but laugh again. His confidence was ridiculous—but also infectious. You leaned in closer, matching his movements as the beat pulsed around you both. His hands found your waist as you danced, and it wasn’t just playful anymore. The music slowed just slightly, the rhythm turning smoother, and the space between you disappeared.

Your heart beat in sync with the bass, and you could feel the warmth of him—his breath against your ear, the press of his chest against your back as you moved together. His voice dropped lower when he spoke again, almost lost in the noise.

“See what I mean?” he murmured. “No one else even comes close.”

You smiled, turning your head slightly so your cheek brushed his. The song shifted into the chorus again, and he started mouthing the words, his lips close enough that you felt them curve into a grin. The world around you blurred—just light, music, and the rhythm of your bodies moving together.

Keeho wasn’t a subtle dancer. He exaggerated every move, snapping his fingers, doing little spins, hyping you up every chance he got. “Okay, okay!” he shouted over the music when you matched one of his moves perfectly. “That was hot—do it again!”

You laughed so hard you had to stop dancing for a second, clutching your stomach, and he laughed right along with you. His joy was contagious, wild and unfiltered, the kind that made every second with him feel brighter.

When the song finally ended, both of you were breathless, sweaty, and still laughing. Keeho brushed a hand through his hair, looking at you with that same playful grin.

“See?” he said, tapping your chin lightly. “Told you. Best couple in here.”

You shook your head, smiling as you caught your breath. “You’re impossible.”

“And you fucking love it,” he shot back, still holding your hand as another song started.

And the truth was—you did.

Theo

The first notes of “Piece of Me” pulsed through the club, sharp and sultry. Your eyes lit up immediately, a spark of excitement running through you. “Oh my god, I love this song” you said, already turning toward the dance floor.

Theo, on the other hand, just gave a quiet chuckle, leaning back against the bar with his drink in hand. The low light glinted off his rings as he swirled the glass lazily, watching the crowd move to the beat. “Go ahead,” he said with a small smile. “I’ll join you in a bit.”

You narrowed your eyes playfully. “Come on, you always say that” “I promise, I mean it,” he teased, though his tone was more amused than convincing.

You rolled your eyes, laughing as you turned away. “Fine.”

The moment you stepped into the crowd, the music swallowed you whole — bass thrumming through your chest, lights flashing soft pink and electric blue. You let your body find the rhythm naturally, hips swaying, hands sliding through your hair as you lost yourself in the song.

You didn’t even have to look to know Theo was watching — you felt it.

Still, you glanced over your shoulder anyway. Sure enough, there he was — still at the bar, still holding his drink, but his eyes were locked on you. His expression was unreadable at first — calm, observant — but there was something in the way his lips curved slightly, something that sent a shiver through you.

You smiled, tilting your head just a bit, holding his gaze as you kept moving. Your dance became slower, more deliberate — rolling your hips to the rhythm, letting the beat guide you. You weren’t putting on a show, but you knew exactly what you were doing.

Theo’s jaw tensed slightly, and even from across the room, you could see the shift — that moment when hesitation gave way to something deeper.

He set his drink down.

By the time he reached the edge of the dance floor, the crowd had swallowed you up again, but you felt him before you saw him — the warmth of his body just behind you, the faint scent of his cologne threading through the air.

You turned your head, and there he was — closer than you expected, his eyes dark and intent beneath the flashing lights.

Neither of you said a word.

He moved in slowly, one hand finding your waist, the other brushing lightly down your arm. The contact was soft at first, barely there, but it was enough to pull you into his orbit completely.

You exhaled, leaning into him as the beat pulsed through both of you.

Theo wasn’t one to make big movements — his dancing was subtle, controlled, all about connection. His thumb traced small circles at your hip as you swayed together, your bodies perfectly in sync, chest to chest, the heat between you building with every shift in the rhythm.

When you tilted your head up to look at him, he met your gaze without hesitation. The air between you felt thick — electric — and for a moment, the music around you faded into a low hum.

“You looked too good to stay sitting,” he said quietly, his voice rougher than usual, meant only for you.

You smiled, your breath catching as his hand slid up your back, guiding you closer. “Well, it took you long enough,” you whispered back.

He laughed softly under his breath, the sound low and warm against your ear. “Guess I needed a reason to move.”

And then you were dancing again — slower now, closer. The world around you blurred into light and sound, and the only thing that existed was the way his body fit against yours, the steady rhythm of his breathing, and the pulse of Britney’s voice echoing between you.

When the song ended, he didn’t step back right away. His forehead rested against yours for a second, his breath steady, eyes still locked on yours.

“Next time,” he murmured, “I’m not letting you start without me.”

You smiled, brushing your fingers along his jaw. “You better not.”

Jiung

The moment the smooth intro of “What Goes Around... Comes Around” drifted through the club, you felt Jiung’s hand slide into yours. The corners of his lips curved into that familiar, easy smile — the one that always meant trouble in the best way.

“Oh, this one,” he said, voice low with appreciation. “This is just a classic."

Before you could even respond, he was already tugging you toward the dance floor, weaving through the crowd until the bass wrapped around you both. The lighting softened into a golden hue, and the slow rhythm filled the space between you.

Jiung wasn’t showy when he danced. He didn’t need to be. Every move was smooth and intentional, his hands finding your hips as if they belonged there. You moved together instinctively — slow sways, soft steps, that lazy rhythm that made time feel like it was stretching just for you two.

“You really love this song,” you teased, smiling up at him.

“Yeah,” he admitted easily. “Something about it just feels...right” His voice carried that warmth that always made you melt a little — low, confident, but never forceful.

As the song settled into its groove, you decided to push him just a bit. You leaned back into him, letting your hips roll with the beat, the movement subtle but deliberate. You could feel him stiffen slightly behind you, caught off guard, and when you glanced back over your shoulder, his cheeks had a faint pink tint.

You grinned. “What’s wrong?”

Jiung laughed quietly, shaking his head, though his hands didn’t move from your waist. “Nothing,” he said, voice a little lower now. “You just… know what you’re doing.”

That made you smirk. You turned around to face him again, your hands sliding up to his shoulders as you kept swaying in rhythm with him. Your eyes locked, and for a few beats, the teasing faded into something heavier — your movements slower, more deliberate, the tension between you growing with every breath.

You tilted your head, letting your gaze linger on him a little longer than necessary. His eyes flicked down to your lips, then back up again, and you knew he was fighting it — that push and pull between wanting to give in and trying to stay composed.

You leaned in closer, your lips brushing his ear as you spoke. “You sure you can handle it?”

His breath hitched just slightly, enough for you to notice. He chuckled softly, though the sound was tight, like he was trying to keep control.

“You’re trouble,” he murmured, his hands tightening around your waist.

“Only for you,” you replied, still smiling, still moving.

That did it.

Jiung exhaled slowly, and before you could tease him again, he pulled you closer — close enough that there was no space left between you. His hand slid up your back, his other resting at your hip, holding you steady as you moved together to the steady pulse of the beat.

His voice brushed your ear, soft but edged with warning. “Careful,” he murmured. “We’re still in public.”

You laughed quietly, your breath warm against his neck. “Then maybe you should stop touching me like that.”

He smiled against your hair, the sound low and affectionate. “Yeah,” he said, almost to himself, “but I don’t really want to.”

The music carried on, slow and rich, wrapping you both in its rhythm. Around you, the club blurred — lights dimming, chatter fading — until it felt like there was only the two of you, caught in that slow sway, that quiet pull neither of you wanted to break.

When the song faded out, Jiung didn’t let go right away. His fingers brushed along your spine once, soft and thoughtful, before he finally leaned in close enough for you to hear him over the noise again.

“You keep teasing me like that,” he said with a grin, “and I might forget where we are.”

You smiled, eyes glinting. “Good.”

Intak

The first bright notes of “Let’s Get Loud” burst through the speakers, and before you even realized what was happening, Intak was already standing up.

He turned toward you with that familiar spark in his eyes — the one that always meant you were about to get swept into something wild. “Come on,” he said, grinning as he reached for your hand. “Let's show them how it's done."

You laughed, but you were already getting up, already following him toward the center of the dance floor. The crowd seemed to part naturally for the two of you — maybe because they could already tell you both knew what you were doing.

The beat hit, and instantly, you were moving.

It wasn’t just dancing — it was rhythm, heat, connection. The music pulsed through your veins, and every motion between you felt charged. You fell into sync as if you’d practiced it a hundred times — a little spin here, a step forward, a slide of his hand against your waist that made your breath catch.

Intak matched your energy perfectly, his movements fluid and precise. He’d guide you with a firm touch, his gaze locked on you, eyes dark with focus and something deeper. Every time he spun you out, he’d pull you back in with a little smirk — close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him.

“Didn’t know you could move like that,” he teased, voice low and breathless as you turned under his arm again.

You shot him a look over your shoulder. “How could I not?”

He laughed, a deep, genuine sound that somehow only made the air between you hotter.

The song picked up, faster now, and both of you leaned into it — hips moving, steps blending into something that looked half salsa, half pure instinct. The crowd around you started to cheer, but neither of you cared. The world narrowed down to the music and the feel of his hands guiding you through every beat.

When you spun again, your hair brushed across his cheek, and he caught your hand mid-turn, pulling you back hard enough that you stumbled lightly against his chest. He steadied you, one arm wrapping around your waist, the other bracing at your side.

You looked up, breath catching at the closeness — his eyes flickered from yours to your lips, then back again.

The noise of the club faded until all you could hear was the rush of your heartbeat and the echo of the chorus around you.

Neither of you moved for a second. The tension hung heavy — a slow, magnetic pull.

Then his thumb brushed over your jaw, gentle but deliberate, and he leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours. “You’re making it really hard to focus on dancing,” he murmured, voice husky from exertion.

You smiled, tilting your face closer. “Maybe that’s the point.”

He laughed softly, the sound low and warm against your skin. “If we keep this up,” he said, “I’m not sure we’ll make it through another song.”

You met his gaze, pulse racing. “Then maybe we shouldn’t.”

The smile that spread across his face was slow, confident, and just a little dangerous. He spun you one last time, catching you perfectly as you landed back against him. The crowd erupted at the seamless move, but you barely heard them — his hand still at your waist, his breath close to your ear.

“Let’s get out of here?” he whispered.

You nodded without hesitation, your fingers finding his. “Please.”

And with that, he led you off the dance floor — the lights flashing behind you, the song still playing, the heat between you lingering long after the music faded.

Soul

The low, pulsing beat of “She Wolf” filled the club, its hypnotic rhythm wrapping around the crowd. You felt it immediately — that electric urge to move, to give in to the music. Your body started to sway a little without thinking, your fingers tapping against your drink in time with the bass.

Across from you, Soul watched quietly, his lips curving into the faintest smile. He didn’t say anything at first, but his eyes followed your every movement — the way your hips moved gently to the rhythm, the sparkle in your eyes as the song built up.

“That's one of your favourites, right?” he asked finally, his voice barely audible over the music.

You nodded eagerly. “It’s Shakira, how could I not love it?”

He chuckled softly, glancing around the crowded room. The dance floor was packed — bodies moving, lights flickering in time with the beat. He hesitated, his thumb tracing the rim of his glass, gaze flicking from the dancers to you and back again.

You leaned forward, teasing. “You’re not gonna make me go alone, are you?”

That got him. He looked back at you, something warm and conflicted flickering in his expression. Then, after a moment, he set his drink down.

He leaned close enough that you felt his breath against your ear when he spoke. “Let’s go.”

You blinked in surprise. “Wait—really?”

He nodded, his tone low but sure. “You wanna dance, right?”

Before you could even answer, he took your hand — gently, but with enough certainty that your heart skipped. He guided you through the crowd toward the center of the floor. You couldn’t stop smiling the whole way.

When you reached the middle, the music seemed to pulse even deeper. Soul stopped, still holding your hand, his eyes darting around nervously as people danced nearby. You could tell he wanted to, but the hesitation was still there — the uncertainty in the way his fingers tightened around yours.

You squeezed back, smiling reassuringly. “Hey,” you said softly, leaning in. “Just follow me, okay?”

He nodded, swallowing hard.

You started to move first — slow, easy steps to the rhythm, your body finding the flow effortlessly. His eyes followed the movement, and after a second, his hands found your hips. He started to move with you, awkward at first, but you could feel him loosening with every beat.

When he finally looked up at you, your eyes met — and just like that, something clicked. The crowd, the lights, the noise — all of it faded.

You stepped a little closer, your hands sliding up to his shoulders. He tensed, then relaxed as you pressed against him, swaying together. His breath came out in a quiet laugh, his shyness melting away under your touch.

“That’s it,” you whispered, smiling. “See? You’re doing just fine.”

He smiled back — small, a little shy, but genuine. “Only because of you."

You tilted your head, your lips brushing his cheek before you kissed him softly. It wasn’t planned, just something that felt right in the moment — a small, sweet connection in the middle of the noise.

When you pulled back, Soul’s face was flushed, but his hands tightened slightly at your waist. The next beat hit, and this time he took the lead. He spun you gently, your hair catching the light as you twirled, and when you landed back against him, his laughter was quiet but full of warmth.

“You’re full of surprises tonight,” you said, breathless and smiling.

He looked down at you, his grin widening just a little. “Guess you bring it out of me.”

The song carried on, the rhythm pulsing beneath your feet, and for once, Soul didn’t look shy at all. He just moved with you — confident, connected, caught up in the rhythm of the moment, as if the world existed only in that beat you shared.

Jongseob

The opening bass of “Low” hit like a wave through the club — heavy, familiar, and impossible not to move to. You barely had time to register the beat before you were on your feet.

“Fuck yes, this is just what I need!” you shouted over the music, grabbing Jongseob’s wrist.

He laughed, already shaking his head, but you could see the excitement in his grin. “You’re really gonna drag me out there for Flo Rida?”

“Absolutely,” you said without hesitation. “You bet!”

Before he could protest again, you tugged him straight onto the dance floor. The moment you hit the center, you turned to face him, already moving to the beat, your energy lighting up the space.

Jongseob stayed where he was for a second, hands in his pockets, watching you with that half-smile of his — the one that said he was both amused and very, very impressed.

You didn’t hold back — the rhythm, the lights, the rush of the crowd all melted together as you danced, every move sharp and confident. It wasn’t a performance for anyone else — it was for him. You could see the way his expression shifted, the laughter still there but softer now, eyes fixed on you.

“You’re really showing off tonight, huh?” he called out, grinning.

You tossed your hair back and shot him a look. “Problem with that?”

He chuckled, raising his hands in surrender. “Never”

Then the chorus hit, and suddenly he was right there with you — all energy and rhythm, moving effortlessly in time with the music. He started rapping along to the lyrics under his breath, his words flowing so naturally it made you laugh.

“Shawty had them apple-bottom jeans—” he started, throwing you a playful wink.

You pointed at him, laughing. “You didn’t just do that!”

“Oh, I did,” he said, laughing harder, spinning once before meeting you again on the beat.

You couldn’t help it — you matched his energy, your bodies moving together in rhythm. It wasn’t choreographed, but it felt like it was. Every time you turned, he was right there, matching your step, feeding off your excitement.

At one point, you caught his gaze mid-spin — and something shifted. The laughter was still there, but beneath it was something warmer, deeper. The air between you tightened just a little.

You smiled, biting your lip without meaning to, and reached out to tug him a little closer. He came willingly, that easy confidence never fading as he slipped an arm around your waist, still moving to the beat.

“Didn’t think you’d dance this well,” you teased.

He leaned in just enough for you to hear him over the music. “Didn’t think you’d challenge me like this.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Oh, it’s not a challenge.”

“It feels like one,” he said, smiling against your hair. “And I’m winning.”

The two of you kept moving, caught somewhere between competition and connection. The rest of the world blurred into noise and color — just the rhythm, the warmth of his hands, and the shared pulse of the music carrying you both.

When the song finally ended, Jongseob was laughing, his hair sticking slightly to his forehead, his grin bright and breathless. He looked at you with a mix of surprise and admiration.

“Okay,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m never doubting you again when you say you can dance.”

You smiled, brushing a hand through your hair. “Good. Because next time, we’re doing a duet.”

He smirked, eyes glinting. “Deal — but only if you promise not to outshine me again.”

You grinned back. “No promises.”