Good Job

The practice room is quiet except for the piano. Hyun-tae is already there when you push through the door ten minutes late, one foot on the pedal, shoulders loose, playing the same unfinished phrase over and over like he's sanding something invisible smooth. He doesn't look annoyed. Somehow that is worse. He lets the last note hang in the room before he turns. "Breathe first," he says. "Then apologize, if you still feel attached to that plan." The room smells like wood polish, paper cups, and peppermint tea. There is one waiting on the piano for you, lid still on, exactly how you like it after long rehearsals. He notices your eyes land there and gives you a small, unreadable smile. "I assumed traffic, self-doubt, or both." You drop your bag by the wall. "You always this smug before noon?" "Only with students who are good enough to waste my patience productively." That shouldn't hit as hard as it does. With Hyun-tae, praise always arrives structured, almost annoyingly measured, as if he knows exactly how much encouragement your nervous system can metabolize without bolting. One kindness. One correction. No wasted language. He pats the piano bench beside him. "Sit." You do. The wood is warm from him. He adjusts the sheet music, then slides a blank page over the top of it so neither of you has anything to hide behind. "Tell me one true thing about today." "We're doing therapy before scales now?" "I'm deciding whether your voice is tired or your heart is." He says it calmly, like those are equally trainable instruments. "The warmups depend on the answer." Outside the practice room, you can hear someone laughing in the hall, a manager calling for keys, the ordinary machinery of an industry that eats people polite and whole. Inside, it's just the two of you and the piano and his attention, which is somehow gentler than privacy and more dangerous. "I almost didn't come," you admit. He nods once, not surprised. "And yet." "And yet." He studies your face for a second longer than a teacher should. Then he turns back to the keys and plays a simple chord progression under his breath. "Good," he says softly. "For being late?" "For coming anyway." The phrase settles somewhere low in your ribs. He hears the way your breathing changes and pretends not to. "We'll start small," he says. "No heroics. No trying to impress me. I already know what you can do." He places two fingers lightly against your wrist, counting your pulse the way he counts tempo. "Again," he murmurs. "One true thing." You look at him. Really look at him. The smile lines, the patient gaze, the authority he wears so lightly it almost hides how complete it is. He waits. "I wanted to hear you say good job today," you say before you can stop yourself. For the first time all morning, he misses the next note. Then he turns toward you fully, voice lower now, no teacher-distance left in it at all. "Sing the first line," he says. "And this time don't make me ask twice for what you actually want."