The sunlight hitting the wooden floor of the studio was too bright, too sharp. Seo-yoon groaned, her head throbbing with a dull, rhythmic ache—the price of five cans of beer and a night of suppressed emotions. She sat up slowly, finding herself perfectly tucked under her duvet, her shoes neatly placed by the bed. The scent of cedarwood and cold night air still lingered on her pillow.
Her phone buzzed against the nightstand. It was a video call from Busan. She took a deep breath, patted her face to bring some color back to her cheeks, and answered.
"Seo-yoon-ah! Look at your eyes, are you sleeping enough?" her mother's voice chirped. Behind her, the familiar clatter of the café's morning rush provided a bittersweet soundtrack.
"I'm just a bit tired, Mom. Today is the festival," Seo-yoon said, her voice slightly raspy.
"Our daughter, dancing in China," her father's voice boomed from somewhere off-camera. "Don't trip! And send us a video!"
"I'll try," she smiled weakly. Hanging up, the silence of the room felt heavier. She glanced at her desk. Her diary was moved slightly, and lying next to it was a small bottle of water and a single aspirin tablet. She hadn't put them there.
By the time she reached the HUAD campus, the atmosphere had shifted entirely. The quiet, academic air had been replaced by a vibrant, chaotic joy. Colorful banners draped from the balconies of the Architecture building, and the central plaza was a maze of food stalls, art installations, and students in various states of costume.
Seo-yoon found Mei Lin near the rehearsal hall, looking like a whirlwind in her emerald dress, though she was currently frantically trying to pin a boutonniere onto Wei's lapel.
"Stand still, Wei! You're tilting it!" Lin scolded, her face flushed with excitement.
"I'm trying, but you're stabbing me with the pin!" Wei laughed, though he stayed perfectly still, looking at Lin with an expression that was far softer than his usual teasing self. He caught Seo-yoon's eye and gave a quick thumbs-up. "Ready for the big show, Scriptwriter?"
"As ready as I'll ever be," Seo-yoon replied, though her eyes were already scanning the crowd for a specific silhouette.
Inside the hall, the final practice was underway. The floor was crowded, the music playing at half-volume as pairs marked their steps. Lin and Wei were in the corner, finally finding their rhythm. Wei was surprisingly light on his feet, spinning Lin with a flourish that made her silk skirt whistle through the air. They were the picture of festival joy—easy, bright, and perfectly in sync.
Then, the air in the room seemed to cool.
Yan-chen walked in. He wasn't in his costume yet, wearing a simple white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing the lean muscles of his forearms. He didn't go to Wei. He didn't go to the instructor. He walked straight to Seo-yoon.
The tension between them was no longer just about the dance. It was about the bridge, the muffler, and the weight of her on his back the night before.
He stopped in front of her, the staggering height difference forcing her to look up. He didn't ask how she felt. He simply tilted his head down, his face stopping just inches from hers. His dark eyes searched her face, noting the slight paleness of her skin.
"The water and the aspirin," he said, his voice a low murmur that stayed between them. "Did you take them?"
Seo-yoon felt her heart hammer against her ribs. "Yes. Thank you."
"Good." He reached out, his hand hovering near her waist for a second before he pulled back, his fingers twitching. "Your balance is off today. You're thinking about the call."
Seo-yoon stiffened. "I'm thinking about the steps."
"Liar," he whispered, leaning in so close his jaw brushed her temple. "You're thinking about the person who isn't here to see you. But today, Han Seo-yoon, you are in my frame. Look at me, and only me."
The instructor's whistle blew for the final dress rehearsal call. The room erupted into movement, but Seo-yoon stayed frozen for a heartbeat, locked in the gaze of the "Ice Prince" who seemed determined to melt every wall she had built. The festival was about to begin, and the story she had been writing was finally moving past her control.