You’ve hated Han Jisung since freshman year.

Not in the dramatic, fire-and-brimstone kind of way. It’s quieter than that. More personal. Like a papercut you keep reopening—annoying, persistent, and just painful enough to make you remember him.

It started during your first campus showcase. You performed a haunting acoustic ballad that left the room breathless. You stepped off stage with adrenaline pulsing in your fingertips… only to hear Jisung mutter to his friend, “That was good… if you like slow-motion heartbreak.”

He didn’t even know you. You never forgot.

Now, two years later, you’re stuck in the same advanced songwriting elective. And he’s still the same—loud, talented, annoyingly likable. People orbit him like he’s a human spotlight. You hate that he’s good. You hate that he knows it. And most of all, you hate that he always looks at you like he’s waiting for you to start something.

So, naturally, the professor pairs you with him for the semester-long collaborative project.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you mutter when your names are read.

Jisung just grins. “Don’t worry, I’ll go easy on you.”

You scoff, shoving your notebook into your bag a little too violently. “You wish.”

⸻

The first writing session is a disaster.

You come in with carefully drafted lyrics and a clear vision. Jisung shows up late with an iced coffee and a beat that sounds like heartbreak had a caffeine overdose.

“This doesn’t match the tone,” you say, tapping your pen against the page.

He tilts his head. “Maybe the tone’s wrong.”

You glare. “Maybe your tone’s wrong.”

He just smiles like this is fun for him.

And the worst part? It kind of is—for you too. The bickering, the constant one-upping, the musical tug-of-war. It lights a fire under your work in a way nothing else does.

You tell yourself it’s motivation. Nothing more.

⸻

Things start to shift one night in the practice room.

It’s late. You’re both exhausted, hunched over the keyboard, harmonizing the chorus you finally agreed on. Your voices melt together in a way they shouldn’t. It’s seamless. Intimate.

When the final note lingers, he exhales softly beside you.

“Okay,” he says, quieter than usual. “That was actually kind of perfect.”

You glance at him. He’s not smirking. He’s just… looking at you. Earnestly. Like he’s seeing something for the first time.

You swallow. “Told you I was good.”

“You’re better than good.”

The words slip out so casually, you almost miss the weight of them.

⸻

After that, the rivalry feels different. Still sharp, still competitive—but softer at the edges. He compliments your chord choices more. You let his chaotic ideas in without tearing them apart. Somehow, it works. Somehow, you work.

You start staying late after sessions, just talking. About music. Life. The weird way pressure can make everything feel like it’s life or death. He tells you he uses humor to keep people out. You tell him you use silence to keep people from disappointing you.

It’s the most honest conversation you’ve had with anyone in months.

And then one night, while you’re watching him layer vocals, he catches you staring.

“What?” he asks, voice low and his eyebrow raised