Leehan

Dance practice had ended almost an hour ago. The studio that had been filled with music, laughter and complaints about sore legs was now nearly silent. One by one, everyone had left, until only you remained. You leaned against the mirror, trying to catch your breath while absentmindedly scrolling through your phone. Your muscles ached, and your hoodie was sticking to your skin from the hours of practice. The sound of the studio door sliding open made you look up. Leehan stepped inside, his practice bag hanging loosely from one shoulder, strands of damp hair falling over his eyes. He had supposedly left ten minutes ago. “You’re still here?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.