You never asked to be compared to Choi San. But from the moment you walked into KQ, everyone had something to say. “She’s got that sharpness like San,” “The way she performs—it reminds me of him,” “Do you think she’ll be the next standout?”

The rumors weren’t helpful. Neither was San.

You don’t know who started the tension first, but it grew fast. It was in the way he corrected you without being asked, how his eyes lingered when you messed up, how he’d scoff just loud enough when your voice cracked in vocal warm-ups. You pretended it didn’t bother you—pretended he didn’t bother you.

But when the Weekly Evaluations were announced, you swore he’d be your motivation. You pushed harder than ever. First in the studio. Last to leave. Ignoring the way your ankle twinged with every kick. Ignoring the fatigue, the hoarseness in your voice. You wanted the top spot.

And then you collapsed.

The sprain wasn’t serious, but word spread like wildfire. That you’d pushed too far. That San might’ve been the reason. So when there was a knock on your dorm room late that night, you weren’t expecting him.

You opened the door in shorts a hoodie, ankle wrapped and elevated, face blank. “What?”

San stood there, in a hoodie and cap, lips pressed into a line. He hesitated, then stepped in without asking. “Close the door.”

“You have three seconds before I call security.”

“I heard what happened.” He said instead. “And I had to see you.”

You scoffed. “Why? To make sure I don’t take your crown next week?”

“Stop.” He moved closer, voice low. “I’m not here to fight.”

You raised a brow. “That’s all we ever do.”

He looked at you then—really looked. Your swollen ankle, the ice pack slipping to the side, your eyes rimmed red from stress and pain.

“…I think I made this worse, I saw how hard you were pushing. I saw it in your face every time I opened my mouth.”

You paused, arms crossed tight over your chest. “You think this is your fault?”

“I don’t know. Maybe not directly.” He sighed, stepping closer. “But I kept judging you. I acted like every little mistake meant you weren’t good enough. You’re a damn good trainee, and I acted like you were nothing but competition.”

“You made me hate you.” You whispered.

“I made myself hate me too.” The silence crackled between you. You didn’t expect him to close the distance, but when he did, he gently took your hand.

“I’m sorry.” He said, voice almost trembling. “You didn’t deserve the pressure. Or the judgment. Or the version of me who only knew how to challenge you, not support you.”

You stared at him, unable to answer. The tension was too thick. The air too warm. His thumb brushed over your knuckles—soft, slow.

“You ever think that maybe we hated each other so much…because we couldn’t admit how much we noticed each other?” He muttered, voice low.

That caught you off guard.

He leaned closer, breath ghosting over your cheek. “I never looked at anyone the way I looked at you on stage. You scared the hell out of me. You still do.”

You whispered, “You think flattery’s gonna fix this?”

“No.” He breathed. “But maybe this will.”

And then his lips were on yours—gentle at first, then firmer, more urgent. His hands cupped your jaw, and your fingers curled in his hoodie like you’d been aching for this too.

The kiss burned. So did the way his lips trailed down your jaw, your neck, his voice barely a whisper against your skin. “I’m sorry…you’re incredible…you make me want to be better.”

And when he finally pulled away, breathless, he pressed his forehead to yours. “I don’t want to fight anymore.”