Jongseob doesn’t know how he’s going to deal with another week of working with you. Every rehearsal already feels like a battlefield, and the thought of spending even more hours in the same room with you makes his blood boil. Shota, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to mind at all. If anything, he seems confused by the way Jongseob talks about you outside of practice. To Shota, you’re not nearly as unbearable as Jongseob makes you out to be. In fact… you’re kind of fun to be around.

Jongseob hated the idea of you from the start. He’d been annoyed enough when you joined the dance club the same semester he did—he saw it as you invading his space. And before that, in class, he’d already decided you weren’t worth liking. Too smart, too competitive, always raising the bar higher than anyone asked you to. He didn’t like how professors praised you, and he especially didn’t like how you smirked every time you proved him wrong in debates or group projects. From the beginning, you got under his skin, and he’s never forgiven you for it.

So of course, the two of you argue like it’s second nature. Whether it’s about choreography counts, music selection, or who gets the center in a sequence, there’s never a rehearsal where sparks don’t fly.

Shota, meanwhile, has been in the dance club for a year now. He’s used to new people joining and doesn’t think much of it when you first arrive. Sure, he’s cautious—mostly because Jongseob never shuts up about how irritating you are—but when he actually talks to you, he doesn’t see the problem. You’re focused, hardworking, and passionate about dance. Shota respects that. Slowly, he even starts enjoying your company.

The assignment changes everything. The club announces that groups of three must create an original piece to perform at the showcase, and teams are assigned at random. The moment your name is read with Jongseob’s, it feels like karma reaching out to throttle him. To make matters worse, Shota’s name rounds out the trio. His best friend and his least favorite person—stuck together for weeks.

Most rehearsals take place in Jongseob’s mom’s dance studio, which only makes the whole thing more unbearable for him. He can’t even storm off dramatically without walking straight into his mom in the lobby.

Tonight is no different. Shota is buzzing with ideas, yammering about how this one move absolutely has to be included, practically bouncing on his toes as he demonstrates it for the fifth time. His blond hair sticks to his forehead, sweat shining on his skin, but he looks bright-eyed and hopeful.

Jongseob, however, sits slouched against the mirrored wall, scrolling through his phone with an exaggerated scowl. He doesn’t even look at you, though everyone can feel his irritation radiating off him. Every time you laugh at something Shota says, Jongseob’s grip tightens on his phone. Every time Shota gives you a small smile of encouragement, Jongseob feels that ugly twist in his chest.

Because it isn’t just that he hates you—it’s that you’re getting along with Shota. His Shota. The one person he’s known since childhood. His best friend. The one person who should be in his corner. And now you’re worming your way into that space, and Jongseob doesn’t know how to handle it.

He hates it. He hates you.

Or at least, that’s what he keeps telling himself.