Across the room, Po moved with his camera again, catching angles, fragments. Thame hovered close, their shoulders brushing more than coincidence allowed. Dylan felt the familiar twist in his chest — not for them, but for Jun, watching without watching.

Jun followed Dylan’s gaze despite himself. His mouth tightened. Dylan saw it.

“Does it bother you?” Dylan asked before he could stop himself.

Jun frowned. “What?”

Dylan regretted the question immediately. He shrugged. “Nothing.”

Jun studied him for a moment — really looked, like he was trying to decide whether Dylan was safe. Dylan had always hated that look. It implied distance. Choice.

Before Jun could answer, Nano burst between them, loud as ever. “Studio time! Let’s go before they lock us in another meeting.”

The moment broke. Jun nodded, already retreating behind motion, behind duty.

In the studio, the mirrors were unforgiving. Dylan watched Jun through reflections instead of directly. It felt less intrusive that way. Safer. Jun moved beautifully — controlled, expressive, like he was always holding something just out of reach. Dylan danced beside him, close enough to feel heat, far enough to pretend it didn’t matter.

Every time Jun turned away, Dylan followed.

Every time Jun hesitated, Dylan adjusted.

It was instinct now. Love disguised as synchronization.

When the music stopped, Jun was breathing hard, eyes unfocused. Dylan reached out without thinking — fingers hovering near Jun’s wrist. Not touching. Never touching.

Jun noticed anyway.

Their eyes met again.

For a second, the world narrowed to that space — sweat, breath, unspoken things pressing in from all sides. Dylan felt it then, sharp and undeniable: this wasn’t going to stay quiet much longer. He couldn’t keep watching Jun love someone else. He couldn’t keep being the one who noticed everything and said nothing.

Jun opened his mouth.

And at that exact moment, Po’s camera clicked on.

The red recording light reflected in the mirror between them.

Jun stepped back.

Dylan dropped his hand.

And whatever Dylan had been about to confess folded itself away — not gone, just waiting — sharper than before, and far more dangerous.