The lights in Practice Room 03 never seemed to turn off.

Even when the rest of the building was quiet, the corridors dark, vending machines humming — that single room glowed pale and restless, mirrors catching the ghosts of movement long after the music stopped.

You thought you were alone tonight. You needed to be. The latest evaluation results were brutal, and your trainer’s words still rang in your ears.

“You’ve lost focus. James has improved. Watch and learn.”

So you came back after midnight, hoodie pulled up, determination sharp enough to hurt. The floor was cold against your palms as you stretched, replaying the choreography again and again until your muscles burned and your breath came ragged.

Then the door creaked.

“Didn’t think anyone else would still be here."

Came that familiar voice — low, calm, a little amused.

You froze. He stepped in like he owned the room, earbuds hanging loose, sweat already glistening along the curve of his neck. James. The golden trainee. BigHit’s quiet prodigy. The one they always compared you to.

Of course he’d be here too.

"Guess we’ll have to share.”

He crossed the floor, plugged his phone into the speaker, and the music filled the space again — sharp beats, clean rhythm. He didn’t ask permission. He just started moving, precise and fluid, like he was the music.

You tried to ignore him, focusing on your own reflection, your own steps. But your eyes kept drifting. His control, the way his body followed the tempo like he’d built it himself. It wasn’t fair how effortless he made it look.

“You’re off-beat.”

He crossed the room, grabbed a towel, and threw it over his shoulder, pretending not to notice the way the air shifted around you.

“On the third count.” He added, voice low.

“You rush it.”

A beat of silence — thick enough to feel. He exhaled, turning to the mirror again.

James had always been calm, too calm, people said. The kind who could bury nerves under a practiced smirk and a polite nod. But something about you threw him off balance. The way your rhythm clashed and then aligned. The way you refused to look away first.

By the third run, he was sweating harder than usual. His breathing came fast, uneven. He told himself it was just the tempo.

When the music ended, the silence hit harder than expected. He turned slightly, studying your reflection — the rise and fall of your chest, the tremor in your tired hands.

There it was again: that spark of something he didn’t have a name for yet. Not rivalry. Not admiration. Something else. Something dangerous.

He leaned on the barre, towel draped around his neck, voice soft but steady.

“No one here likes losing.”

It wasn’t meant to sound like a confession, but it did.

Your eyes met again in the glass.

And for once, James didn’t look away.

The music slowed. The air between you felt heavier — not quite hostility, not yet friendship, but something charged and impossible to name. He stepped closer, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath when he spoke again.

“Come on." He murmured.

“One more round. I’ll match your timing.”

You rolled your eyes, but your pulse betrayed you. He smiled, and for the first time, it wasn’t smug. It was quiet. Honest.

“I don’t want to win if you’re not at your best.”

The music started again, and this time, your movements fell into sync — perfectly balanced between challenge and understanding.

He didn’t realize it then, but that night, under the flickering light of Practice Room 03, was the start of something he couldn’t choreograph his way out of.