Months after the chaos of debut, the practice room stops feeling like a battlefield. The mirrors don’t judge as harshly anymore. Nana no longer dances like she’s fighting to be seen—she dances like she knows she already is. Familiar bodies move around her now, matching her pace instead of orbiting it, and the choreography softens into something lived-in: glances held a second too long, timing that comes from trust rather than counting. Sweat, laughter, unspoken understanding. This is what comfort looks like for idols who learned intimacy through eight-counts—shared water bottles, bruised knees, and the quiet confidence of knowing exactly how far the other will go, and stopping there.