Chapter 3: The Rehearsal Room
The studio was a tomb of polished wood and glass. Midnight had come and gone, the only light a pale blue emergency exit sign over the door and the city’s distant glow bleeding through high, fogged windows. Hyukjae’s text had been a live wire in the dull exhaustion of her day: Come.
He was a shadow against the far mirror when she pushed the heavy door open, its groan echoing in the vast silence. He didn’t turn. He was just sitting on the practice mats, knees drawn up, a silhouette of sharp angles and coiled tension. The air smelled of sweat, floor wax, and the faint, clean scent of his cologne.
“You found it,” he said. His voice was flat, stripped of its usual playful cadence.
“Your manager told me where you’d be when I called the agency line,” Gaby whispered, the sound too loud. “Said you stayed behind to work on formations. Hyukjae, it’s two in the morning.”
“I know what time it is.” He finally turned his head. The city light cut across his face, highlighting the dark hollows under his eyes, the severe line of his jaw. He looked older. Hard. “Lock the door.”
A shiver, cold and hot at once, went through her. She slid the deadbolt with a definitive thunk. The sound sealed them in.
“You came to Seoul,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
“You booked the flight.”
“You didn’t have to get on the plane.”
She hugged her jacket around herself. “No. I didn’t.”
He stood then, unfolding his lanky frame with a dancer’s effortless grace. He was in loose black sweatpants and a tight gray tank, his arms lean and corded. He walked toward her, not with the explosive energy of the hotel, but with a predatory stillness that made her breath catch. He stopped a foot away, his dark eyes scanning her face, her body, as if checking for damage.
“I’ve been thinking about one thing,” he said, his voice low. “All day. Through six hours of rehearsal, through a meeting with the producers, through dinner where the others joked and I just fucking sat there. One thing.”
“What?” The word was a breath.
Instead of answering, his hands came up, framing her face. His thumbs brushed her cheekbones, a touch so tender it hurt. Then his mouth was on hers, not gentle, but deep and consuming, a kiss that tasted of desperation and black coffee. She kissed him back, opening for him, her hands fisting in the fabric of his tank. It was an anchor in the silent, spinning room.
He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged. “You. Under me. Here.” His gaze flicked to the mirrors, countless reflections watching their clandestine meeting. “Where I work. Where I’m not supposed to want anything for myself.”
He sank to his knees.
His hands went to the waistband of her leggings, yanking them and her underwear down in one rough motion. The cold air of the studio kissed her skin, raising goosebumps. He didn’t give her time to feel exposed. He hooked her left leg over his shoulder, pulling her forward, his face burying between her thighs.
There was no slow build, no teasing licks. His tongue speared into her, a deep, claiming thrust. He groaned against her, the vibration shuddering through her core. He ate at her with a frantic, focused hunger, his tongue fucking her in rough, wet strokes, his nose grinding against her clit. It was obscene, brutal, and breathtakingly intimate. The wet, filthy sounds echoed off the high ceiling.
“Oh, god… Hyukjae…” She swayed, her fingers scrambling in his sweat-damp hair, holding on.
“Tasted you all day,” he muttered, his words hot and slurred against her slick flesh. “In my head. Right here.” He lapped at her, broad and flat, then circled her tight hole with a blunt, pressing fingertip. “Is this what you wanted when you got on that plane, noona? You wanted me to fuck you in some dark room?”
“Yes,” she gasped, her hips jerking. “Yes, you bastard.”
He added the finger, pushing it into her ass slowly as his tongue continued to ravage her pussy. The dual invasion, so sudden and commanding, made her cry out, her back arching. The mirrors watched, multiplying the image of the revered idol on his knees, his face glistening with her.
He was relentless. He worked her with his mouth and hand until her thighs trembled and her pleas were a broken mantra. Just as she was teetering on the edge, he pulled away.
He laid her down on the hard, vinyl-covered mats. They smelled of dust and effort. He flipped her onto her stomach with an impatient hand on her hip. He shoved her jacket down her arms, trapping them, then pushed her sweater up her back. The cold floor against her breasts, the heat of him looming behind her—the contrast was dizzying.
He knelt between her spread legs. She heard the rustle of his sweats being shoved down, then the slick, wet sound of him stroking himself. The broad, hot head of his cock nudged against her entrance, already soaked from his mouth.
“Look,” he commanded, his voice a guttural rasp.
She lifted her head. The mirror in front of her showed it all: her body prone and offered, her face flushed and desperate, his poised above her, all tense muscle and dark intent, his cock positioned to bury itself in her.
He pushed in. Not slow, not careful. One deep, brutal, perfect stroke that filled her completely, stole her air, made her see stars. He was so big, the stretch a burning ache of fullness.
“Fuck,” he hissed, his body going rigid above her. “Every time… feels like the first time.”
He didn’t wait for her to adjust. He set a pace that was punishing, a dancer’s rhythm translated into raw carnality. Each thrust was precise, deep, the slap of his hips against her ass a sharp, rhythmic counterpoint to their ragged breathing. He gripped her hips, his fingers digging in, holding her still for his relentless drive.
The room filled with the sounds of them: skin on skin, his choked grunts, her muffled cries against her arm, the wet, sucking noise of him fucking into her over and over. The mirrors reflected a thousand versions of their sin, the elegant athlete reduced to primal need, the professional undone.
“You feel that?” he growled, leaning over her, his chest plastered to her back. His lips were at her ear. “You feel how deep I am? This is mine. This tight, wet cunt is mine when we’re here. Outside, it’s nothing. In here, it’s mine.”
His words, filthy and possessive, combined with the unyielding angle of his thrusts, shoved her higher, faster. She was fracturing, the coil in her belly pulled taut to breaking.
“Hyukjae… I’m gonna…”
“Come.” It was an order. “Come on my cock. Now.”
She shattered. The climax ripped through her, violent and blinding, a silent scream tearing from her throat as her body clenched around him in rhythmic pulses. He fucked her through it, his strokes becoming erratic, desperate.
“Gaby…” His voice broke. He gave three more savage thrusts, then buried himself to the hilt with a strangled groan. She felt the hot, pulsing rush of his release flooding her insides, the twitch of his cock as he emptied himself. He collapsed on top of her, his full weight pressing her into the mat, his face buried in the back of her neck. They were a single, heaving, sweat-slicked entity.
For long minutes, there was only the sound of their labored breaths fogging the cold floor.
Slowly, his weight shifted. He pulled out of her, the sudden emptiness a cold shock. He rolled onto his back beside her, an arm thrown over his eyes. She pushed herself up, her arms weak, and pulled her sweater down. The evidence of him was already leaking out, a warm trickle down her inner thigh. The reality of it, here, in this clinical space, was overwhelming.
She found her leggings and pulled them on with trembling hands. The silence was no longer charged. It was heavy, full of things unsaid.
“They’re talking about a dating ban,” he said to the ceiling, his voice hollow. “A full three-year clause in the new contracts. For everyone. Management sat us down today. No rumors, no speculation, no ‘close friendships’ that could be misconstrued. They called it ‘investment protection.’”
Gaby’s blood turned to ice. She stared at his profile. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” he said, finally dropping his arm and turning his head to look at her. His eyes were bleak. “It means if they find out about this, about you, they will ruin you to protect me. Not fire you. Ruin you. Make sure you never work in this city, in this country, again. And they’ll make me stand there and watch them do it, or I’m in breach too.”
The cold of the floor seeped into her bones. The passion of minutes ago felt like a fever dream, now replaced by a chilling, sober dread. This wasn’t just secret fun. This was a landmine.
“Why did you bring me here, then?” she asked, her voice small. “Why text me? If you knew that today?”
A tear escaped from the corner of his eye, tracing a clean path through the sweat on his temple. “Because I’m fucking selfish. And I’m scared. And after they told us, all I could think was that I needed to be inside you or I’d disappear.” He swallowed hard. “I used you. Again.”
She reached out then, her hand finding his on the mat. She laced her fingers through his. They were long, elegant, calloused from practice. “We used each other,” she corrected softly. “Stupid together, remember?”
He gripped her hand like a lifeline.
“What do we do?” she whispered.
Before he could answer, a sudden, harsh vibration buzzed across the floor. His phone, lit up, skittering near his discarded sweats. The screen showed a caller ID: Manager Kim.
Hyukjae’s eyes widened in pure, unadulterated panic. They both froze, staring at the buzzing device as if it were a live serpent. The call went to voicemail. A second later, a text banner flashed.
Where are you? The security log shows you never left the building. Are you in the studio? I’m coming down. We need to talk about today.
Hyukjae was on his feet in an instant, a flash of motion. “You have to go. Now. The back freight elevator, it goes to the underground garage. It won’t be on the log.”
He was pulling on his sweats, grabbing their things, shoving her jacket at her. The tenderness was gone, replaced by a frantic, operational fear.
“Hyukjae—”
“Go!” he hissed, pushing her toward a small, barely visible door beside the mirrors. “Don’t use your phone. Don’t call a cab from here. Walk two blocks over. Please.”
She looked at him—beautiful, terrified, already closing himself off, slipping back into the idol. Her idol. The distance between them stretched, vast and hopeless.
She turned and ran, the heavy door swinging shut behind her with a sound like a final gasp. She didn’t look back.
Alone in the studio, Hyukjae stood amid the ghosts of their heat. He quickly wiped the mats with his discarded tank, erased the visible proof. He pulled his hoodie on, hiding his rumpled hair. His phone buzzed again.
He looked at the mirror, at the lone figure reflected there. He saw the boy who wanted to be a man. He saw the man who was still, and maybe always would be, a prisoner.
He picked up the phone. “I’m here, hyung,” he said, his voice smooth, clear, and perfectly empty. “Just finishing up. I’ll meet you upstairs.”
He walked to the main door, turned off the light, and stepped back into the world that owned him, the scent of her still clinging to his skin like a secret, and a crime.