The clock on the practice room wall blinked 2:14 a.m. The building was quiet, most of the lights off except for the one harsh fluorescent bulb above the mirror.
Kael leaned against the wall, catching his breath as the last notes of their track faded from the speaker. Sweat clung to his skin, making his black shirt stick to his chest. His amber eyes flicked toward the figure still moving on the floor.
Klan.
The omega hadn't stopped. His ash-brown hair clung to his damp forehead as he repeated the same dance move over and over, each step sharp, precise, almost desperate. His gray-blue eyes burned with determination—but also something Kael recognized too well. Fear.
Kael pushed off the wall and crossed the floor, his heavy steps echoing in the empty room.
"Klan," he called out, his voice low.
The younger boy froze mid-spin, panting hard. He looked at Kael in the mirror, then turned away, reaching for the remote to replay the song.
"Don't," Kael said, stepping forward and snatching the remote from his hand.
Klan blinked up at him, wide-eyed. "I wasn't done."
"You've been at it for three hours." Kael's tone was sharp, but his gaze softened when he saw the tremor in Klan's fingers. "You're exhausted."
"I can't stop," Klan whispered. His voice cracked, and he stared at the floor like it was the only thing holding him together. "If I stop, I'll fall behind. If I fall behind, everyone will—"
"Everyone will what?" Kael's voice dropped, rough with something Klan couldn't name. "Think you're weak? Think you don't belong?"
Klan flinched.
Kael stepped closer, closing the space between them. His scent—warm, dominant, unmistakably Alpha—wrapped around Klan like a cage and a comfort all at once.
"Look at me," Kael said.
Klan didn't move. Not until Kael's hand slid under his chin, tilting his face upward. Gray-blue eyes met molten amber, and the world narrowed to that single point of contact.
"You're not weak," Kael said, his voice steady, every word like steel. "You hear me? You're not."
Klan's breath hitched. He didn't know if it was the exhaustion, the heat of Kael's hand, or the way those words sank deep into his bones—but suddenly his eyes burned.
"I'm trying," he whispered, barely audible. "I'm trying so hard."
Kael's grip softened, his thumb brushing lightly against Klan's jaw—an unintentional, intimate touch that made the omega shiver.
"I know," Kael murmured. "That's why you'll make it. That's why we'll make it."
For a moment, neither moved. The music was gone, the world outside silent. It was just them—Kael towering over him, Klan trembling but unable to look away.
Then Kael stepped back, breaking the spell. He grabbed two water bottles from the corner and tossed one to Klan.
"Drink," Kael ordered, his voice back to its usual firm tone.
Klan caught it clumsily, unscrewing the cap with shaky fingers. He drank, the cold water grounding him, but his heart was still racing for a completely different reason.
As Kael turned away, wiping sweat from his neck with the edge of his shirt, Klan found himself staring. The leader's shoulders were broad, his movements fluid and powerful even in stillness. And his words—those words—echoed louder than any music.
You're not weak.
We'll make it.
For the first time since debut, Klan believed it.
Not because of the stage.
Because Kael believed in him.
And that was dangerous. Because Kael wasn't just his leader anymore.
He was something more.