Two left feet

"Okay, let’s try again. Five, six, seven, eight—"

You tripped over your own foot. 

Again.

Haerin stopped the music with a soft tap on her phone and turned to look at you. She wasn't laughing really — she loves you too much for that — but there was this tiny, noticeable twitch at the corner of her mouth that meant she’s holding herself not to.

"I'm not doing that again," you announced, flopping onto the practice room floor with all your limbs spread out. "I quit. I retire. I'm going home."

"You've said that four times."

"I mean it this time."

She padded over and sat cross legged next to you, playing with your hair. Her ponytail slid over one shoulder. "You're not that bad."

You gave her a look.

"…You're not terrible at everything," she said carefully.

"Baby."

"You have good arm movements sometimes."

"Haerin."

She pressed her lips together. "Okay. You're a little bad."

"Thank you for your honesty." 

"Why did you even want to learn?" she asked, laying down on top of you. Your hands instinctively holding her waist steady. 

"Because you dance," you said, like it was obvious.

She was quiet for a second. 

"That’s it?"

"What’s it?"

"The reason you wanted to learn?"

"Yeah."

She was quiet again.

"That's kind of sweet," she said after a while, very softly.

"Don't tell anyone."

She giggled, hiding her face in your chest.

You lay there a little longer, the music still off, the room quiet except for the hum of the lights. Then, without really thinking about it, you started singing. Just something low — their song — unserious at first, then finding your stride. Your voice fills the silence of the room.

Stay in the middle, like you were little, don’t want no riddle.

You heard Haerin sit up.

You kept singing, eyes still on the ceiling.

말해줘 say it back, oh, say it ditto, 아침은 너무 멀어 so say it ditto 

When you finally trailed off and looked over, Haerin was dancing.

Slow, unhurried, arms tracing something through the air that matched the shape of the tune of your voice. Her eyes were half-closed. She wasn't doing the actual choreography. She was just… following it. Following you.

Your breath caught, you continued.

She moved through the last few bars of what you'd been singing, and when the room went quiet again, she stopped, face tipped slightly upward — and then she dropped it and looked at you with those calm, dark feline eyes.

"That," she said quietly, "is what it feels like."

You sat up slowly. "What?"

"When I dance." She walked back over and sat down beside you, close enough that your shoulders touched. "It feels like that. Like someone's voice is pulling me somewhere and I just… go."

You didn't say anything for a moment.

"So I'm a terrible dancer," you said.

"Yes."

"But you'll dance to me singing."

She leaned her head against your shoulder. "Every time."

You looked down at the top of her head — the neat part, the dark hair, the person who had spent two hours patiently watching you stumble — and you thought that maybe you didn't need to learn how to dance after all.

You already knew how to move her.