Kiss Me, It’s for Dance - Soonyoung
pairing: soonyoung x reader synopsis: Dance major Hoshi ropes you into being his partner for a psychology thesis on nonverbal intimacy and mirror neurons. The problem? You're both a little too good at dancing like you're in love. wc: 6.3k genre: Romance, Fluff, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Friends to Lovers, Collage AU warnings: Public Confession, Second-hand Embarrassment, Miscommunication (kinda) a/n: happy birthday soonyoung!! This is apart of the Kiss Me, It’s for Academia Series!! All other parts of the series will come out on each respective members birthdays!!
The first time Kwon Soonyoung speaks to you directly, he does not introduce himself.
This is largely because he assumes you already know who he is.
Unfortunately for him, the feeling is mutual.
You know exactly who Kwon Soonyoung is.
Not personally, of course.
Nobody in the dance department can claim they do, because every version of Soonyoung seems to contradict the last. To some professors, he is one of the most promising performers in the program. To others, he is a headache disguised as a student. To the underclassmen, he is a legend. To his friends, judging by the volume of complaints that constantly echo through the building, he is apparently impossible to manage.
To you, he is simply annoying.
Exceptionally talented. Infuriatingly charismatic.
And always, somehow, one place above you.
Every assessment. Every showcase. Every audition. Every ranking posted outside the faculty office.
There is your name.
And directly above it—
Kwon Soonyoung.
You have spent nearly two years pretending this does not bother you. You are doing a decent job of it. Until he sits beside you on a Monday morning and ruins everything.
The psychology lecture hall is crowded with students from multiple faculties, an arrangement that already feels suspicious. Dance students rarely interact with psychology students unless somebody is dating across departments, and even then it usually ends with one person psychoanalysing the other during finals week.
You are halfway through answering emails when somebody drops into the seat beside you with enough force to shake the entire row.
A water bottle rolls across the desk. A notebook falls open. Someone behind you groans. You do not need to look up.
There is only one person on campus capable of making sitting down feel like a dramatic entrance.
"Good morning."
You continue typing.
"Morning."
"You didn't look at me."
You sigh. Then slowly raise your head. Soonyoung beams. Immediately. Like he has been waiting for this exact moment.
"Hi."
"Hi."
For several seconds he simply stares. You stare back. Neither of you blink.
"What?"
His grin widens.
"You know who I am."
"No."
"You're lying."
You return your attention to your laptop.
"You have tiger stickers on your water bottle."
"So?"
"You wore tiger-print socks to Contemporary Technique last week."
"So?"
"You introduced yourself to a guest lecturer by saying, and I quote, 'I'm Soonyoung but spiritually I'm a tiger.'"
The student in front of you snorts. Soonyoung looks delighted.
"See? You do know me."
"I know of you."
"That's basically friendship."
"It really isn't."
Before he can respond, the lecturer enters the room. The conversation dies immediately. Unfortunately, your peace dies with it.
The professor begins setting up a presentation at the front of the room while students settle into their seats.
"Dance and psychology students," she says. "Thank you for attending. Today's briefing concerns an interdisciplinary research project that will run throughout the semester."
A collective groan spreads through the room. Nobody likes hearing the word project. Nobody likes hearing the word interdisciplinary even more. The PowerPoint clicks to the next slide.
NONVERBAL INTIMACY AND MIRROR NEURON ACTIVATION IN PARTNERED MOVEMENT
Silence. Then—
"What does that mean?"
The professor smiles.
"It means we're studying how people subconsciously mirror one another's movements and emotions."
More slides appear. Brain scans. Research papers. Movement diagrams. Psychological studies. You try to pay attention. You genuinely do. Unfortunately, the person beside you keeps vibrating with excitement.
"You okay?" you whisper.
"So cool."
"It literally involves brain activity."
"Exactly."
"You dance."
"And now I get to dance and do science."
"That's not how either of those things work."
The professor continues speaking.
"Students will be paired across participating disciplines. Throughout the semester, partners will complete movement exercises designed to measure synchronization, trust-building behaviours, emotional recognition, and nonverbal communication."
A psychology student near the front raises her hand.
"So we need a partner?"
"Correct."
The next slide appears.
PARTNER REGISTRATION TODAY.
A wave of panic immediately spreads through the room. Students begin turning toward friends. Names are exchanged. Groups start forming.
The entire lecture hall descends into chaos. You are still reading the registration requirements when somebody abruptly places a form in front of you. You stare at it. Then at the hand holding it. Then at Soonyoung.
"No."
"What?"
"No."
"I haven't said anything."
"You don't need to."
His smile becomes suspiciously innocent.
"I just thought—"
"No."
"—that since we're both dancers—"
"No."
"—and we're around the same performance level—"
"Absolutely not."
"—and the study specifically involves movement synchronization—"
"No."
"So that's a maybe."
"It isn't."
He looks genuinely offended.
"Why not?"
You gesture vaguely toward him.
"You're you."
"What does that mean?"
"You know exactly what it means."
"I really don't."
"You have too much energy."
"So your problem is that I'm fun."
"My problem is that you treat every situation like a game show."
"So your problem is that I'm entertaining."
"My problem is that partnering with you sounds exhausting."
He considers this. Then nods.
"That's fair."
You blink. The agreement catches you off guard.
"So you'll find somebody else?"
"No."
The agreement was a trap.
"I'll simply prove that I'm not exhausting."
"You are exhausting right now."
"I haven't even started."
"That's somehow worse."
Around the room, registration forms continue disappearing as students finalize partnerships. One by one. Until very few names remain unclaimed. You return your attention to the paperwork. Unfortunately, Soonyoung does the same. Unfortunately, he does it faster.
By the time you realise what he's doing, he has already written something down. Your stomach drops.
"Did you—"
"No."
"You absolutely did."
"No."
You snatch the paper. There, under partner registration, are two names. Kwon Soonyoung. And yours.
You stare. Slowly. Dangerously.
"Why is my name there?"
"Efficiency."
"That's not efficiency."
"It saved time."
"That is forgery."
The psychology student collecting forms reaches your row. Before you can react, Soonyoung hands her the paper. She takes it. Smiles. And walks away. Your soul leaves your body.
"Did you just submit that?"
"Looks like it."
"Are you insane?"
"A little."
You drop your head onto the desk. Somewhere above you, Soonyoung laughs. The sound is irritatingly warm.
You hate it. A lot.
—
The first research session takes place three days later. You arrive determined to maintain professionalism. The psychology students are already setting up cameras around the rehearsal studio. Clipboards appear. Laptops appear. There are far too many clipboards.
Nobody should ever trust a room containing that many clipboards. You spot Soonyoung immediately. He is stretching in the corner. Or attempting to. Most of his effort appears focused on talking. His friends occupy the surrounding floor space. One of them notices you first.
"Oh."
Another follows his gaze. Then another. Then another. The entire group collectively turns. You immediately regret arriving. Soonyoung spots you next. His face lights up.
"Partner!"
You close your eyes. Deep breath. Very deep breath. When you open them again, he is somehow already standing beside you.
"Good morning."
"It is eight a.m."
"Exactly."
"Nobody should be this awake."
He grins.
"You ready?"
"No."
"Perfect."
A psychology student claps her hands.
"Okay, everyone. First exercise."
The participants gather. Clipboards ready. Researchers waiting. You are already suspicious. Then she explains the activity. Mirroring. One person moves. The other follows.
Simple. Straightforward. Entirely harmless. Unfortunately, Soonyoung treats it like a competition. The moment the exercise begins, he narrows his eyes. You narrow yours back.
"Oh, we're doing this?"
"We're doing what?"
"The thing."
"There is no thing."
"There is absolutely a thing."
Then he moves. You follow immediately. His arm rises. Yours matches it. A step forward. A turn. A shift in weight. You mirror everything effortlessly. The exercise grows faster. Then more complex. Then absurdly complex. Neither of you notice.
You are too focused. Too determined. Too unwilling to lose whatever invisible argument has developed between you. The room gradually falls silent.
Researchers stop writing. Other participants stop moving. Somewhere in the background, somebody whispers,
"What the hell?"
You and Soonyoung continue. Perfectly synchronized. Without hesitation. Without discussion. Without needing to think. Eventually the exercise ends. Neither of you realise until the instructor calls time. The room remains strangely quiet. You look around.
Every researcher is staring. Every participant is staring. The lead psychology student slowly lowers her clipboard.
"...well."
You frown.
"What?"
She exchanges a look with another researcher. Then glances down at her notes. Then back at you.
"You two have never partnered before?"
"No."
"Nope," Soonyoung says.
Another pause. The researcher looks even more confused.
"Are you sure?"
Beside you, Soonyoung starts smiling. Slowly. Dangerously. You immediately know you're going to regret whatever comes next. The researcher clears her throat.
"Your synchronization score is currently the highest we've recorded."
Silence. Then Soonyoung turns toward you. Looking unbearably pleased.
"See?"
You groan.
"Don't."
"We're scientifically compatible."
"We are not scientifically compatible."
"The data disagrees."
The psychology students begin discussing results among themselves. Clipboards fill with notes. Numbers. Observations. Excitement. You watch all of it with growing dread.
Because if this is what happened during the first session, the rest of the semester is going to be a disaster. Beside you, Soonyoung is still smiling.
Like somebody who has just won something. Maybe he has.
And for the first time, you have the uncomfortable feeling that partnering with Kwon Soonyoung might end up changing far more than a research project.
—
[CASE FILE 001]
SUBJECTS
Y/N
Me
OBSERVATION
Y/N says I'm exhausting.
This is hurtful.
Possibly true.
Further observation:
Y/N mirrored every movement perfectly today.
Not ninety percent.
Not ninety-five percent.
Perfectly.
Psychology students looked like they had discovered a new species.
I looked normal about it.
(Seungkwan says this is a lie.)
WORKING THEORY
Y/N is secretly competitive.
Evidence:
The death stare.
The death stare.
The other death stare.
IMPORTANT SCIENTIFIC NOTE
When Y/N concentrates, they bite the inside of their cheek.
I noticed this after approximately thirty seconds.
This information probably means nothing.
Probably.
K.S
—
The problem with spending three hours a week attached to another person is that eventually you start learning things about them.
Not important things. Not the kind of things that would matter. Just small things. Completely insignificant things.
Things that absolutely do not explain why you find yourself looking for Kwon Soonyoung whenever you enter a room.
The first thing you learn is that he talks constantly. The second thing you learn is that he somehow talks even more when he's nervous. The third thing you learn is that he becomes nervous far more often than anyone realizes. This revelation arrives during the second research session.
The psychology students have transformed Studio B into something that resembles a social experiment designed by people who enjoy causing emotional damage.
Several cameras line the walls. Observation tables sit in one corner. Clipboards have multiplied. You are beginning to suspect clipboards reproduce when left unsupervised.
"So," one researcher says brightly, "today we'll be focusing on trust-building exercises."
The room collectively groans. The researcher ignores everyone.
"The first activity involves blindfolded guidance."
The groaning becomes louder. Your stomach sinks. Across the room, Soonyoung raises his hand.
"Question."
"Yes?"
"Have any of these exercises been approved by people who actually have to do them?"
"No."
"Okay. Just checking."
The researcher smiles.
"You'll take turns leading your partner through movement sequences while they're unable to see."
You already hate this. You hate it even more when a black blindfold lands in your hands.
"Absolutely not."
"It's just walking."
"It's never just walking."
"You sound like you're about to enter a haunted house."
"Because this feels like a haunted house."
Soonyoung laughs. Unfortunately, the sound makes you laugh too. The researchers immediately notice. Pens begin moving. You narrow your eyes. The pens continue moving. You are starting to dislike psychology students. A lot.
—
You lose the coin toss. Which means you're blindfolded first. Wonderful. Just wonderful. The fabric settles over your eyes, plunging the studio into darkness. Immediately, every sound becomes louder.
Footsteps. Conversations. The faint hum of the air conditioning. And somewhere very close—
"Ready?"
Soonyoung's voice. Much closer than expected. You nearly jump.
"No."
"Good answer."
"I hate you."
"No, you don't."
Your heart does something strange. Something deeply annoying. You choose to ignore it.
"Can we start?"
"Sure."
A hand brushes your elbow. Gentle. Careful. Steady. The contact catches you off guard. Because Soonyoung is rarely careful.
Most of the time he barrels through life with the enthusiasm of somebody who believes consequences are optional.
Yet now his movements are deliberate. Measured. Like he's genuinely worried about making a mistake.
"Step forward."
You obey.
"Good."
"You sound surprised."
"I was mentally preparing for you to walk into a wall."
"I wasn't going to walk into a wall."
"You absolutely were."
His laughter echoes through the studio. Then his hand shifts slightly. Still resting against your arm. Still guiding. For several minutes he leads you through a series of movements. Turns. Weight shifts. Simple dance combinations. Nothing particularly difficult. And yet the strange awareness from last week returns. You know where he is. Even without seeing him. You know when he steps closer. When he moves away. When he's watching you.
The realization is unsettling.
By the time the blindfold comes off, you're relieved. Then you look up. And find three psychology students staring. One slowly lowers her clipboard.
"Oh, come on."
She blinks.
"What?"
"You wrote something."
"We're supposed to write things."
"Whatever it was, I don't like it."
The researcher exchanges a look with another student. Neither of them answer. That is somehow worse.
—
The next exercise is worse. Much worse. Catastrophically worse. Weight-sharing. A concept that sounds innocent until someone explains it.
"You'll be supporting your partner's balance."
You already know where this is going. You dislike where this is going. The researcher continues.
"Trust your partner completely."
You glance at Soonyoung. He glances back. Neither of you look convinced.
"Trusting him completely feels irresponsible."
"Hey."
"It's true."
"It kind of is," another dance student admits.
"Traitor."
The exercise begins. For the first ten minutes, everything goes fine. Then somebody introduces lifts. You immediately regret attending university.
"Okay," Soonyoung says.
"We're not doing that."
"We have to."
"We could fake our deaths."
"That's not a solution."
"It's a pretty good solution."
Unfortunately, the researchers insist. Which is how you find yourself standing in front of him while he stretches his shoulders.
"This is a terrible idea."
"You say that about everything."
"Because everything involving you becomes a terrible idea."
"So dramatic."
You cross your arms.
"So if I fall—"
"I'll catch you."
"You don't sound confident."
"I am confident."
"You hesitated."
"I didn't."
"You absolutely did."
"I was breathing."
The lift itself lasts less than five seconds. One moment your feet are on the floor. The next they're not. Your stomach drops.
Instinctively, your hands find his shoulders. His grip tightens. Steady. Secure.
You are suddenly aware of several things at once. The strength in his arms. The way his concentration replaces his usual grin. The fact that he's looking directly at you. The fact that you are looking directly at him. The fact that neither of you seem capable of looking away.
The room disappears. Just for a second. Then—
"Okay!"
A psychology student practically shouts.
"Great data!"
You nearly fall out of the lift. The moment shatters instantly. Soonyoung sets you down. Too quickly. Both of you step back. Immediately. Like the extra space might somehow undo whatever just happened.
"See?" he says.
Voice slightly higher than usual.
"Told you I'd catch you."
You clear your throat.
"Good for you."
Very smooth. Exceptionally normal response. Nobody suspects anything. Especially not the psychology students furiously writing notes.
—
The semester progresses. The project continues. And despite your best efforts, spending so much time together becomes routine.
You rehearse between classes. Grab coffee before sessions. Complain about assignments. Argue over choreography. Argue over music. Argue over whether cereal counts as soup.
The answer is obviously no. Soonyoung remains wrong. You discover he leaves encouraging sticky notes inside borrowed textbooks. You discover he stays late helping first-year students practice.
You discover he pretends not to care about grades despite checking assessment results within minutes of release.
Meanwhile, he learns things too. Like how you always arrive fifteen minutes early. How you rehearse difficult sequences long after everyone else leaves. How you keep old performance programs folded inside your notebook. Neither of you mention these observations.
Doing so would require admitting you've been paying attention.
Far too much attention.
—
The trouble starts during the fifth research session. Everything is going normally. Or as normally as possible when a room full of psychology students is analysing your body language.
You and Soonyoung finish another improvisation exercise. Applause breaks out from somewhere in the room. The researchers look thrilled.
Again. A familiar feeling of dread settles over you. One of the graduate students approaches.
"Can I ask something?"
"No," you say immediately.
"Please?"
You sigh.
"What?"
The student checks her notes. Then looks between you and Soonyoung. Then back to her notes. Then back to both of you. You already know this conversation will end badly.
"How long have you been together?"
Silence. The entire room freezes. Your brain stops functioning. Beside you, Soonyoung chokes on his water. Violently. Someone starts laughing. Then another person. Then another. The graduate student looks horrified.
"Oh my god."
"We're not together," you manage.
"We're not?" Soonyoung blurts.
You stare at him. He stares at you. The room explodes.
"Oh, you're unbelievable."
"I meant—"
"You are unbelievable."
"I was joking."
"You were not."
"I was mostly joking."
"SOONYOUNG."
The psychology student is frantically apologising now.
"I'm so sorry. It's just that your synchronization scores are extremely high and—"
"And?" you ask.
She immediately regrets speaking.
"And you kind of dance like you're in love."
Silence. Again. Somehow worse this time.
Nobody moves. Nobody breathes. Nobody speaks.
Then Seungkwan, who has apparently materialized from nowhere, says exactly what everyone is thinking.
"Thank god somebody finally said it."
The room erupts. You want the floor to open beneath you. Preferably immediately.
—
Later that night, long after rehearsals end and everyone goes home, Soonyoung sits alone in an empty practice room. The notebook appears again. The same notebook that now contains far too many observations.
Far too many thoughts. Far too many things that should probably stay inside his head. Instead, he uncaps a pen.
And starts writing.
—
[CASE FILE 002]
Today's research findings:
Apparently Y/N and I dance like we're in love.
This conclusion was reached by:
Psychology students
Dance students
Seungkwan
A random professor
One janitor
Current scientific consensus seems concerning.
COUNTER-ARGUMENT
Maybe we're just really good dancers.
COUNTER-COUNTER-ARGUMENT
Nobody believed this.
Not even me.
Additional observation:
Y/N laughed today when I accidentally called a pirouette "spinny spin."
This was the best part of my week.
This information is irrelevant.
Probably.
PERSONAL NOTE
Need to stop noticing things.
Need to stop noticing Y/N.
Need to stop thinking about how safe they looked when they trusted me to catch them.
Research integrity is suffering.
Severely.
K.S
—
By the middle of the semester, the entire project has become a problem. Not because the research is difficult. Not because the rehearsals are exhausting. Not even because every psychology student in the study has apparently developed a personal investment in your relationship status.
The problem is that you have stopped being able to remember what life looked like before Kwon Soonyoung became part of it.
At some point between the blindfold exercises and the synchronization assessments, he had quietly inserted himself into the spaces between your classes, your rehearsals, your study sessions, and your weekends, until looking up and finding him there felt less surprising than looking up and not finding him there at all.
You dislike thinking about this. You dislike it even more when Seungkwan points it out.
"You know he's waiting outside."
You don't look up from your laptop.
"I know."
"You looked through the window before I even finished speaking."
"I did not."
"You absolutely did."
You finally glance toward the café window. Unfortunately, Seungkwan is right. Soonyoung is outside. Waiting.
A takeaway coffee balanced in one hand. His dance bag slung over his shoulder. The bright afternoon sun catches his grin the moment he spots you looking.
He immediately waves. You immediately look away. Across the table, Seungkwan sighs heavily.
"Hopeless."
"We're not dating."
"I didn't say you were."
"You implied it."
"I implied nothing."
"You always imply things."
"Because they're usually true."
Before you can formulate a response, the café door swings open. The source of all your current problems enters.
"Hi."
"Why are you here?"
"I came to get my dance partner."
"So dramatic."
"I learned from the best."
You stare. He grins. Seungkwan looks like he wants to throw himself into traffic.
"Please leave," Seungkwan says.
"No."
"You've become unbearable."
"No."
"You've gotten worse."
"Thank you."
"That wasn't a compliment."
"I choose to accept it as one."
The fact that you laugh is unfortunate. The fact that Soonyoung immediately notices is even worse.
—
The final phase of the project begins two weeks later. Every participating pair is assigned one last task.
A performance. An original duet. The culmination of the entire semester. Months of data collection. Months of observation. Months of increasingly invasive psychological analysis. The presentation slide appears at the front of the room.
FINAL ASSESSMENT: NONVERBAL EMOTIONAL COMMUNICATION THROUGH PARTNERED MOVEMENT
You already hate it. The researcher continues.
"The performance should communicate a clear emotional narrative without spoken dialogue."
Your stomach drops. Beside you, Soonyoung sits up straighter.
"Any emotional narrative?"
"Within reason."
"Define reason."
The researcher immediately ignores him.
"The purpose of this assessment is to evaluate emotional expression, synchronization, and nonverbal communication."
Several students begin writing notes. Several others begin panicking. You fall into the second category. Because emotional communication is one thing. Emotional communication with Soonyoung is another.
The psychology students hand out project guidelines. You scan the document. Then freeze.
PARTNERS MUST CREATE CHOREOGRAPHY COLLABORATIVELY.
Wonderful. Just wonderful. As if spending hours together every week wasn't already becoming dangerous. Now you're expected to build an entire performance together.
—
The first rehearsal goes badly. Not because you disagree. That would actually be easier.
The problem is that you agree too much. Every movement one of you suggests immediately makes sense to the other. Every transition works. Every adjustment improves the piece.
The choreography develops faster than either of you expect. Which means you quickly run out of technical discussions. And begin having personal ones instead.
You hate personal discussions. Unfortunately, Soonyoung likes them.
"What emotion are we starting with?"
You pause. The music continues playing softly through the studio speakers.
"Curiosity."
"Okay."
"So the opening should feel uncertain."
"Like meeting someone."
You glance at him. He doesn't seem to realize what he just said. Or maybe he does. The distinction is becoming increasingly difficult to identify.
"What about the middle section?"
You think for a moment.
"Comfort."
"Comfort?"
"People don't fall in love immediately."
The words leave your mouth before you can stop them. Silence follows. Immediate. Dangerous silence. Your pulse jumps. Soonyoung doesn't speak. The music continues. A distant door closes somewhere down the hall. Finally, he clears his throat.
"No."
His voice sounds softer than usual.
"They don't."
Something shifts. Neither of you acknowledge it. Instead, you return to the choreography. Because pretending is easier.
—
The duet begins taking shape. Curiosity becomes familiarity. Familiarity becomes trust. Trust becomes something neither of you are willing to define. The movements grow increasingly intimate.
Not intentionally. At least, that's what you keep telling yourself. The problem is that dance rarely lies.
People do. Words do. Excuses do. Bodies don't.
Every rehearsal leaves you feeling exposed in ways you cannot explain. Especially during one particular section. A section involving eye contact. Prolonged eye contact. The worst kind.
"Five counts."
You immediately shake your head.
"No."
"It's five counts."
"No."
"You literally wrote it."
"I've changed my mind."
"You can't change your mind."
"I absolutely can."
The choreography says otherwise. Unfortunately. You take your positions. The music starts. The sequence unfolds.
Step. Turn. Reach. Closer. Closer. Then—
Eye contact. Five counts.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Something tightens painfully in your chest. Because Soonyoung is looking at you the way he always does lately. Like you're the only thing he's paying attention to. Like he forgot the rest of the room exists.
The music ends. Neither of you move. For a moment. Then Soonyoung steps back. Too quickly. The spell breaks. Again.
The problem is that these moments keep happening. And every time they do, they become harder to ignore.
—
By the week before the presentation, everyone notices. Everyone. Your classmates. The psychology students.
Your professors. Even strangers.
One afternoon, while rehearsing in an open studio, a first-year student walks past. Stops.
Watches for thirty seconds. Then turns to her friend.
"They're definitely dating."
You nearly trip over your own foot. The first-year immediately flees. Coward.
—
The disaster arrives three days later. Because of course it does. You should have expected it. Life has become far too peaceful. The universe was bound to correct itself eventually. The psychology department schedules a preliminary review.
Each pair performs an unfinished version of their duet and explains the emotional narrative behind it.
Simple. Professional. Entirely manageable. At least until it's your turn. You and Soonyoung finish performing.
The room applauds. The researchers look thrilled. Again. One of the faculty supervisors smiles.
"Beautiful work."
"Thank you."
"The emotional progression feels very genuine."
Your stomach twists. The supervisor turns toward Soonyoung.
"How did you approach developing the narrative?"
You watch him think. A mistake. A terrible mistake. Because Soonyoung always tells the truth when he's thinking out loud. Always. Even when he shouldn't.
He scratches the back of his neck. Glances at the choreography notes. Then shrugs.
"I kind of imagined what it'd feel like to fall for your best friend."
The world stops. Immediately. The room goes silent. A researcher drops a pen. Someone coughs. A chair squeaks. You stare at him. He stares at the floor. Realization dawns across his face.
Slowly. Horribly. The supervisor blinks.
"Oh."
Across the room, Seungkwan makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a scream being strangled. You stand. Instantly. Your chair nearly topples over.
"Y/N—"
You leave before he can finish.
—
The hallway feels too small. Too warm. Too loud. Your pulse pounds against your ribs.
Fall for your best friend.
The words replay endlessly.
Again. Again. Again.
You know he could have meant anything.
The choreography. The narrative. The project. The performance. Any of those explanations would be reasonable.
Yet none of them feel convincing. Not after months of shared rehearsals. Not after every glance.
Every smile. Every late-night conversation. Every moment that felt suspiciously like something more. Footsteps echo behind you.
Fast. Familiar. You don't turn around.
"Y/N."
You keep walking.
"Y/N, wait."
You stop. Eventually. Not because you want to. Because your legs refuse to carry you any farther.
The silence stretches between you. Heavy. Awkward. Uncomfortable. When you finally turn around, Soonyoung looks as miserable as you feel. Neither of you speak immediately.
For once, he doesn't seem to know what to say. The realization frightens you more than anything else.
Because if Kwon Soonyoung has run out of words, something must have gone very, very wrong.
—
[CASE FILE 003]
Emergency update.
Huge problem.
Massive problem.
Catastrophic problem.
Potentially career-ending problem.
Emotionally devastating problem.
Today I accidentally told an entire room of psychology professors that I wrote our choreography based on falling in love with my best friend.
Technically speaking, this is true.
Unfortunately, the best friend in question is Y/N.
Further unfortunately, Y/N was present when I said this.
Additional unfortunately:
Y/N left.
Immediately.
I would like to report that my soul also left.
Current status:
Regret
Panic
More panic
Seungkwan yelling at me
Additional panic
WORKING THEORY
Maybe if I throw myself into the ocean, this situation will resolve itself.
Seungkwan says this is not a solution.
Seungkwan has never appreciated innovation.
FINAL OBSERVATION
I think I've been in love with Y/N for a while.
Long enough that I stopped noticing when it happened.
Long enough that dancing with them stopped feeling like pretending.
Long enough that the choreography became honest without me realizing it.
This seems important.
Unfortunately, I am currently too busy ruining my own life to investigate further.
K.S
—
The problem with leaving dramatically is that eventually you have to stop leaving. Unfortunately, there are only so many places on campus where you can hide before reality catches up to you.
Reality, as it turns out, wears oversized practice clothes and has a tendency to follow you around until you listen.
Three days pass before you speak to Soonyoung properly. Three days of avoided messages. Three days of rehearsals cancelled under increasingly ridiculous excuses. Three days of pretending the final presentation is not rapidly approaching.
The psychology department is unimpressed. The dance department is unimpressed. Your friends are extremely unimpressed.
You are sitting in an empty practice room attempting to ignore seventeen unread messages when the door suddenly opens.
Seungkwan walks in. Looks at you. Looks at the phone in your hand. Then closes the door behind him.
"Oh good."
You immediately know this is going to be unpleasant.
"What?"
"I'm about to say something as your friend."
"No."
"And you're going to hate it."
"No."
"And then you're going to realize I'm right."
"No."
He pulls a chair around and sits backwards on it. The posture of a man preparing for violence. Verbal violence. The worst kind.
"You know he's miserable."
You stare at the floor.
"He'll survive."
"That's not the point."
"He said it in front of everyone."
"Because he's stupid."
You can't argue with that. Unfortunately. Seungkwan notices.
"Exactly."
The silence stretches. Neither of you move. Finally, he sighs.
"You know what the annoying thing is?"
"What?"
"He didn't even realize he'd confessed."
You blink.
"What?"
"He genuinely didn't."
The words settle heavily in your chest. Because that sounds exactly like something Soonyoung would do.
Not plan. Not prepare. Just accidentally tell the truth before realizing what he'd done. Seungkwan shakes his head.
"Nobody should be that emotionally constipated and emotionally honest at the same time."
"That isn't a thing."
"It is when it's him."
Against your better judgement, you laugh. Seungkwan points accusingly.
"There it is."
"What?"
"The reason this entire situation is ridiculous."
You narrow your eyes. He narrows his right back.
"You like him."
You immediately look away. Unfortunately, your silence answers for you. Seungkwan groans.
"Oh my god."
"Stop."
"You actually do."
"Stop."
"You're both unbelievable."
He throws his hands into the air.
"Do you know how annoying you've been?"
"I haven't done anything."
"You've spent months staring at each other."
"We have not."
"You literally choreographed a love story."
"It wasn't—"
"It absolutely was."
You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again. Nothing comes out. Seungkwan stands. Victorious. The worst kind of victorious.
"I hate being right."
"You love being right."
"That's true."
He heads for the door. Then pauses. For a moment, his expression softens.
"If it helps, he's just as scared as you are."
The door closes behind him. Leaving you alone. And with far too much to think about.
—
The next day, you find Soonyoung waiting outside the studio. Of course you do. For a brief moment, neither of you move. Neither of you speak.
Months ago, this silence would have been impossible. Now it feels strangely natural. The familiar shape of him. The familiar weight of his presence. The familiar nervous habit of rubbing the back of his neck.
You know all of them now. Far too well.
"Hi."
His voice is quieter than usual. You hate how relieved you feel hearing it.
"Hi."
The silence returns. Then—
"I'm sorry."
The words come immediately. Before you can speak. Before you can react. Like he's been carrying them around for days.
"I shouldn't have said that in front of everyone."
You swallow.
"So you didn't mean it?"
His head snaps up. The answer arrives so quickly it almost startles you.
"No."
The word hangs between you. Then—
"No, that's not what I mean."
His eyes close briefly.
"See? This is why talking is terrible."
Despite everything, a laugh escapes. Small. Unexpected. His shoulders relax slightly. Just slightly.
"I meant..." He exhales slowly. "I meant I shouldn't have said it like that."
Something shifts. The air feels different. Lighter. More fragile.
"I wasn't supposed to tell you like that."
Your pulse begins climbing. Dangerously.
"What way were you supposed to tell me?"
The question slips out before you can stop it. Soonyoung freezes. Immediately. You watch the realization hit him.
The understanding. The opportunity. The absolute panic.
His eyes widen.
"Oh."
For a moment he genuinely looks like he'd rather perform six consecutive dance showcases than continue this conversation.
Then he laughs softly. Disbelieving. At himself. At the situation. At both of you.
"Honestly?"
You wait.
"I had no plan."
That sounds right. Painfully right. A smile pulls at your mouth.
"So your strategy was to accidentally confess during an academic presentation?"
"Apparently."
"That's terrible."
"I know."
You stare at each other. The distance between you suddenly feels much smaller than before. The months of rehearsals. The study sessions. The coffee runs. The choreography. The trust exercises. Every moment begins stacking together.
One after another. Until neither of you can pretend anymore.
"Soonyoung."
His breath catches. Just slightly.
"Yeah?"
You look directly at him. And decide you're tired. Tired of avoiding. Tired of pretending. Tired of acting like the best part of your week isn't standing beside him.
"I think I started falling for you during the blindfold exercise."
The confession arrives quietly. Without drama. Without fanfare. Without choreography. Yet somehow it feels more terrifying than any performance you've ever given. For one horrifying second, Soonyoung simply stares. Then his entire face changes.
Like sunrise. Like someone switched on every light in the room.
"You did?"
You immediately regret saying anything.
"Don't make me repeat it."
His grin appears. Slowly. Wonderfully.
"You liked me during the blindfold exercise."
"I hate you."
"You trusted me."
"I regret everything."
"You totally trusted me."
You cover your face. Somewhere above you, Soonyoung laughs. The sound is warm. Familiar. Dangerously fond.
When your hands finally lower, he's still smiling. Still looking at you. Like he can't quite believe you're real.
Neither can you.
—
The final presentation arrives three days later. The auditorium is full. Far too full. Faculty members.
Students. Researchers. Friends.
People who absolutely have better things to do than attend a psychology presentation. Yet somehow everyone is here. Especially Seungkwan. Who looks entirely too excited.
The traitor.
Backstage, the nervous energy feels overwhelming. You adjust your costume. Check your shoes. Check them again. Beside you, Soonyoung bounces lightly on his feet.
Anxious. Excited. Both. The familiar sight settles something inside your chest. You reach out. Without thinking.
Your fingers find his.
Immediately. The movement surprises both of you. His eyes widen. Then soften. The smile he gives you is small. Private. Different from the bright ones he shares with everyone else. This one belongs only to you.
"You ready?"
You squeeze his hand.
"Yeah."
And for the first time all semester, you actually mean it.
—
When the music begins, everything else disappears.
The audience. The researchers. The expectations. The nerves.
Gone.
Only the dance remains. The story remains.
The two of you remain.
The choreography no longer feels like acting. Perhaps it never did. Because every moment now carries the truth beneath it.
The curiosity. The friendship. The trust. The affection. The love.
None of it needs translating anymore. You don't have to perform it. You simply have to let it exist. And somehow that makes the dance more beautiful than either of you imagined.
When the final note fades, the silence that follows feels endless. Then applause erupts.
Loud. Immediate. Overwhelming.
Beside you, Soonyoung is breathing hard. Smiling.
Looking happier than you've ever seen him. You realize you're smiling too. Neither of you stop.
—
Later, during the presentation of findings, one of the graduate researchers clears her throat.
"Our study found that strong nonverbal synchronization was often associated with emotional familiarity, trust, and interpersonal attachment."
The audience nods. Notes are taken. Slides advance. Then the researcher smiles. A dangerous smile. The kind that means trouble.
"In one particular partnership, the synchronization scores exceeded every prediction in our original model."
The room begins laughing. Because everyone knows exactly which partnership she's talking about. You bury your face in your hands.
Soonyoung looks delighted. The researcher continues.
"Although the study cannot scientifically prove romantic feelings..."
More laughter.
"...the data certainly suggested something."
The entire auditorium turns toward you. Immediately.
Traitors.
Every single one of them.
Beside you, Soonyoung groans. Then laughs. Then reaches for your hand beneath the table.
And doesn't let go.
—
[CASE FILE 004]
Status update:
Y/N likes me back.
This feels important.
Scientific conclusion:
Mirror neurons are real.
Synchronization is real.
Psychology students are terrifying.
Seungkwan is annoying.
Most important finding:
Apparently dancing like you're in love becomes significantly easier when you actually are.
Who knew?
(Everyone knew.)
Additional note:
Y/N laughed today.
Still my favourite thing.
Final conclusion:
Best research project ever.
Peer reviewed.
Statistically significant.
Tiger approved.
K.S
