Minchae stayed late that night. Again.
The others had left after vocal evaluations, but she couldn't bring herself to stop. There was something comforting about the silence of the building after hours. The halls were quieter. The pressure was softer. And sometimes… sometimes, he would still be there.
Her water bottle was nearly empty, and her back was sore from floorwork drills, but she decided to take a breather. Wandering down the hallway, she heard low bass coming from Studio A—a place normally off-limits for trainees like her.
But the door was cracked open.
And curiosity, that reckless, thrilling thing, tugged her forward.
Inside, the lights were dim except for a warm amber glow reflecting off the mirrors. The music wasn't something she recognized. A raw beat. Lo-fi rhythm. There were no vocals yet. Just a pulsing instrumental with soul in every note.
And in the center of the room—
J-Hope.
He was moving like the music was a part of him. Sharp pops, smooth transitions, footwork that blurred with speed. His body flowed with precision, then snapped like lightning. He was dancing like he wasn't performing—for once, it wasn't for the cameras, the stage, or even the fans.
It was just for him.
Minchae stood in the doorway, breath caught in her throat. She had seen him dance a hundred times—on music shows, fancams, dance practices—but this was different.
This was real.
He spun, paused, and his smile broke through the mirror's reflection. That smile—playful, sincere, contagious—lit up the room more than the lights ever could.
She leaned slightly closer. Just a little longer. Just a few more seconds of watching a person do what he was born to do.
But then—
He stopped.
His gaze shifted in the mirror, catching a glimpse of her reflection near the door.
Minchae froze like a deer in headlights.
He turned around slowly, towel around his neck, slightly out of breath but smiling. "Hey," he said casually, like this wasn't the most embarrassing moment of her life. "Didn't notice I had an audience."
"I—I wasn't—I mean—" Her voice failed her. Her feet wanted to run, but her heart stayed locked in place.
He chuckled softly. "You're Minchae, right?"
She nodded, cheeks burning.
"Did you like it?"
There was no teasing in his voice. No arrogance. Just genuine curiosity, like it mattered to him.
She swallowed hard. "It was… beautiful," she said honestly. "I didn't even know music could look like that."
For a moment, he just stared at her—like he wasn't expecting that answer.
Then he smiled again. Slower this time. Softer.
"Thanks," he said. "It's called Hope on the Street. Still working on it."
"I hope everyone gets to see it," she whispered.
He gave a small bow. "Well, I guess you're the first."
And just like that, he went back to his routine. But this time, when he danced—he glanced toward the mirror once.
Where her reflection still lingered.