First Rehearsal

The roar of the crowd was deafening, even from behind the stage. The floor vibrated under Jae-min’s feet as he adjusted the mic in his hand, peeking through the narrow gap in the curtain. Out there, thousands of fans screamed for the headliners, holding glowing lightsticks like stars in a galaxy.

He swallowed hard. Tonight wasn’t his stage—yet—but the rehearsal would decide whether he belonged in the spotlight or not. His manager’s words echoed in his head:

> “You’ve been paired with Hyun-woo. Don’t mess this up.”

Hyun-woo.

The name alone carried weight. The leader of Eclipse, one of the biggest K-pop groups in the industry. Known for his flawless performances, sharp tongue, and even sharper jawline, Hyun-woo was both admired and feared. Rumor said he didn’t like working with rookies—especially ones like Jae-min, who were still finding their footing.

The curtain swished open behind him.

“Move,” a low voice said.

Jae-min turned—and froze. Hyun-woo stood there, dressed in a fitted black suit, mic headset in place, the faintest trace of sweat on his neck from the earlier dance set. His gaze was cool, unreadable, and it pinned Jae-min in place like a spotlight.

“You’re blocking the way,” Hyun-woo added, brushing past without so much as a glance back.

Jae-min’s jaw tightened. So much for a warm welcome.

They stood side by side on the empty stage as the tech crew adjusted the lighting. The bright crimson background glowed, casting shadows that stretched behind them. Jae-min gripped his mic a little too tightly, rehearsing the choreography in his mind.

“Don’t overthink your moves,” Hyun-woo said suddenly, his voice low but sharp. “If you’re nervous, the audience will smell it.”

“I’m not nervous,” Jae-min shot back before he could stop himself.

Hyun-woo’s lips curled—not into a smile, but something close. “We’ll see.”

The music started. Heavy bass. Quick beats. Jae-min stepped forward into the choreography, matching the rhythm. Hyun-woo moved with precision, every gesture calculated yet effortless. It was like dancing with a shadow—he was always there, perfectly in sync, yet somehow untouchable.

Halfway through, the routine called for them to face each other, only inches apart. Under the glare of the red lights, Hyun-woo’s eyes locked onto Jae-min’s. There was no trace of warmth—just intensity, the kind that made it impossible to look away.

Jae-min’s heartbeat stumbled, but he forced his body to keep moving.

When the music ended, silence filled the stage except for their breathing.

The director clapped once. “Good chemistry. But Jae-min—less hesitation in the bridge. Hyun-woo, help him with that part after break.”

Jae-min turned to thank him—only to find Hyun-woo already walking off stage.

Later, in the practice room, they stood facing the mirrored wall. Hyun-woo adjusted his mic pack and said, “Bridge section. Watch me.” He moved through the steps slowly, deliberate and precise.

Jae-min followed, matching his pace. The third time through, Hyun-woo stopped behind him, placing a hand lightly on his shoulder to correct his posture. The contact was brief, but it sent a flicker of heat down Jae-min’s spine.

“You’re stiff,” Hyun-woo murmured near his ear. “Relax—or the audience won’t believe you.”

Jae-min caught their reflection in the mirror: Hyun-woo standing so close, their eyes almost meeting in the glass.

For a moment, the world outside the practice room didn’t exist.

Then Hyun-woo stepped back. “Again,” he said, his voice unreadable.

Jae-min exhaled slowly. He had a feeling this partnership would be anything but simple.

TO BE CONTINUED

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