The practice room was quiet when you arrived, an almost eerie silence after a day of relentless noise. It was late, too late for anyone to still be here but you’d stayed behind for extra practice. The air smelled faintly of sweat and disinfectant, the mirrored walls reflecting your every tired movement as you set down your bag.
Your company was strict, even by K-pop industry standards. Every second of your life was accounted for: training schedules, meal plans, curfews. Especially curfews. Which meant you had exactly forty-five minutes before a manager came to sweep through the building and check for stragglers.
You had planned to be alone.
So when the door creaked open behind you, you froze.
“…Oh.”
A male voice, surprised, almost amused.
“Didn’t think anyone else would be here.”
You turned sharply, ready to apologize or defend yourself, and stopped dead in your tracks.
He wasn’t just anyone. You knew his face instantly.
Martin.
Even if you’d never met him, his reputation preceded him. The prodigy from another company. The company your management warned you about constantly, like they were some kind of enemy army. A rival group in the making. The “competition.”
His hair was damp, clinging to his forehead from what must’ve been hours of practice. He had a hoodie thrown over his stage clothes, sleeves pushed up to reveal lean forearms, and a towel slung casually around his neck. His presence filled the small room, confident, magnetic, the kind of boy who looked like he was already meant for the spotlight.
And right now, he was looking at you like you were a puzzle he wanted to solve.
“You’re… not from here."
He said after a beat, a statement more than a question. His Korean was smooth, but there was a hint of another accent beneath it — faint, almost unnoticeable, but there.
“You’re from…” His eyes narrowed as recognition sparked.
“Ah. Them.”
The way he said it was sharp, laced with just enough rivalry to make your chest tighten.
You should’ve walked past him and ignored this whole encounter, exactly the way both your companies would’ve ordered you to. Trainees from competing labels didn’t chat, didn’t linger, didn’t so much as acknowledge each other outside of formal events.
But you didn’t move. And neither did he.
Instead, Martin leaned against the mirrored wall, watching you with a lazy, almost cocky smile.
“Relax. I’m not going to run back and snitch on you.”
A pause, then, softer:
“What are you even doing here this late?”
You didn’t answer and he seemed to take that as a challenge.
“Extra practice."
He guessed, his gaze flicking over you like he could read the exhaustion written in your posture.
“Yeah. Same here.” His laugh was low, breathless, like he was as worn out as you.
“Guess that makes us competition?"
The rivalry was real, but in this moment, it felt like it was just the two of you, two kids chasing the same impossible dream under suffocating rules.
The sound of footsteps in the hallway made you both go still. Martin’s eyes widened, his cocky demeanor cracking just slightly. Without thinking, he grabbed your wrist and tugged you behind a stack of folded mats in the corner, the two of you pressed close together as a manager passed by, the door swinging open and closed again.
You were hyper-aware of everything: his breath against your ear, the pounding of your own heartbeat, the smell of sweat and clean laundry clinging to his hoodie.
When the coast was clear, he didn’t let go right away. Instead, he leaned in, voice barely above a whisper.
“Looks like we just shared a secret.”
A sly grin curved his lips.
“Now you owe me and I always collect."
You didn’t know it then, but that stolen moment would become the first of many late-night practices, hidden conversations, a connection that would grow quietly behind closed doors while the rest of the world saw nothing but rivalry.
Because out there, you were competitors.
But in here…you were just two people trying to survive.