You hadn’t even finished unpacking your bag before Kim Gaeul made it clear she hated your guts. And not in a casual “I don’t like you” way. No, this was full-on, professional-grade hate. Like you were a walking scandal who’d just crashed her carefully curated drama kingdom.

The reason? Simple. Or, rather, simple in her mind: she thought you were some sleazy pig who only joined the club to hit on every girl in sight. No introductions, no “Hey, I’m new,” just a judgmental stare from her the second you walked in.

“Perv,” she spat at you once, during rehearsal, while the entire club froze and stared. You could’ve laughed, except that made it worse. So you just nodded and vowed to keep your distance.

But then came today.

You were in the club toilets—don’t ask why, the club meetings were long and confusing, and you just wanted to wash your hands and get out. You spotted a clogged toilet and decided, in your infinite wisdom, to fix the problem. Problem was, the “toilet brush” wasn’t exactly what you thought it was.

You scrubbed and scrubbed, blissfully unaware that the “brush” was actually Kim Gaeul’s prized fairy stick—a prop for her big play tomorrow. It glittered faintly, adorned with ribbons and what you assumed were bits of fairy dust. You, meanwhile, were fully committed to the scrubbing.

Then, from the shadows, came a shriek loud enough to wake the dead.

“What the hell are you doing?!” Gaeul exploded, eyes wide, face pale with shock and horror.

Caught mid-scrub, brush-in-hand, you tried to explain: “I—I thought it was the brush!”

“Thought? You’re cleaning my fairy stick?! With toilet water?!” She grabbed the stick away from you, inspecting it like it was a crime scene. “You absolute pig! Get out! Now!”

And so began the chase.

You bolted for the door, but fate wasn’t on your side. The door slammed shut just as you reached it—locked, deadbolt turned, key turned, click.

Dayoung, the club’s manager, had locked you in. And apparently didn’t notice the two of you screaming and scrambling on either side of the door.

“We’re stuck,” you muttered, peering at the single bed squeezed into the corner of the tiny room.

Gaeul glared at you like you’d single-handedly ruined her entire life. “Great. Just great. Now I have to spend the night locked in with you.”

You shrugged, moving to flop down on the bed with the grace of a sack of bricks. “Could be worse. We could be stuck in a room full of angry playwrights.”

She snorted—half amused, half annoyed. “You’re impossible.”

And that was the beginning of a long, uncomfortable night.

You tried to apologize. She shouted. You made jokes. She rolled her eyes. You attempted to share the fairy stick—now suspiciously clean—and she swatted it away like it was radioactive.

At one point, she declared she’d rather sleep standing up than next to you. You countered by suggesting you flip a coin to decide who got the bed and who got the floor.

She grabbed your arm, hard enough to make you wince, and said, “You’re not winning anything tonight.”

And yet, despite the tension and the shouting matches, something strange happened.

You started talking. Not about the club or the prop or the ridiculous situation, but about other stuff—hobbies, bad movies you secretly liked, how neither of you had any idea what you were doing with your lives.

She listened. You listened.

When you fell asleep, it was not with the usual irritation but a reluctant sort of companionship.

The morning came, and with it, Dayoung unlocking the door and looking utterly confused at the sight of the two of you—half asleep, tangled in fairy ribbons and disbelief.

Gaeul gave you a look that could kill. But then, a small, almost shy smile.

“Don’t think this means I like you,” she muttered.

“Got it. You just tolerate me,” you replied.

She smirked. “For now.”

And in that moment, locked in a tiny room with a broken toilet and one precious fairy stick, the war between you two had, for the first time, paused.

Enemies, yes. But… something else was brewing.