By the second rehearsal, the air had changed.
Not dramatically.
Not visibly.
But enough that everyone in the room felt it.
Jungkook arrived early.
He told himself it was professionalism. Habit. Discipline.
It had nothing to do with the fact that he'd replayed the leaked rehearsal clip until three in the morning.
Three seconds.
That was all it took for the internet to start building theories.
Three seconds of eye contact.
Three seconds of his hand firm against her waist.
Three seconds too long.
The practice room door slid open.
Winter stepped in quietly, bowing to the staff already setting up cameras.
Her hair was down today — silver strands falling over her shoulders. Minimal makeup. Sharp eyes.
Strong.
Always strong.
She saw him.
Paused.
Then gave a polite nod. "Good morning."
"Morning."
It was neutral.
Professional.
Safe.
But the silence that followed felt heavier than yesterday.
"Let's run the full track," the choreographer announced. "Camera rehearsal included."
Camera rehearsal.
That meant angles.
Close-ups.
Moments designed to look intimate.
The music began.
Verse one passed smoothly.
Winter's voice — even in rehearsal — carried warmth beneath precision.
Jungkook focused on his breathing. On counts. On footwork.
Until the chorus.
Until the partner section.
He stepped closer.
She didn't stiffen this time.
His hand found her waist.
Warmer than yesterday.
Or maybe he just noticed it more.
The camera rolled past them on a sliding track.
"Eye contact," the director called.
They looked at each other.
Not too much.
Not too little.
Professional chemistry.
Controlled.
But when the bridge came—
Everything shifted.
He pulled her in.
Chest almost touching.
Her hand pressed lightly against his shoulder as choreographed.
Three seconds.
One.
Two.
Three—
The director didn't yell cut.
The music didn't stop.
The room went very, very quiet.
Because neither of them looked away on count three.
They stayed.
Four.
Five.
The tension snapped only when Winter turned first, following the choreography half a beat late.
The music ended.
Silence.
The choreographer cleared his throat.
"Good," he said carefully. "That… that's the feeling."
Feeling.
Jungkook stepped back, pulse steady but louder than he liked.
Winter adjusted her sleeve.
Composed.
Unbothered.
But her breathing wasn't perfectly even.
He noticed.
He was starting to notice everything.
Break time again.
Staff whispered near the monitors.
Clips were already being replayed on screen.
"Zoom that bridge part."
"Slow it down."
Jungkook watched from a distance.
On the monitor, it looked worse.
Or better.
Their proximity. The softness in his eyes. The slight parting of her lips.
It didn't look like choreography.
It looked personal.
Winter stepped beside him without speaking.
They watched the playback together.
"That's going to trend," she said quietly.
He didn't deny it.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
She hesitated.
"I knew what I signed up for."
"That's not what I asked."
For a second, her guard slipped.
Just a fraction.
"It's not the stage that scares me," she admitted.
"The comments?"
She nodded once.
Jungkook looked back at the screen.
He had lived through hate waves before. Rumors. Speculation. Accusations.
But for her, the scrutiny would be different.
Sharper.
Crueler.
He didn't like the thought of her facing it alone.
"You won't be alone," he said before he could stop himself.
Winter turned slowly.
"That's not how this works."
His jaw tightened slightly.
"Maybe it should be."
She held his gaze.
And there it was again—
That invisible thread pulling between them.
Dangerous.
Unspoken.
The assistant director called her name.
She stepped away first.
Professional distance restored.
But the space felt wrong now.
Too wide.
By evening, rehearsal wrapped.
Phones buzzed nonstop.
Another clip had leaked.
This one clearer.
Bridge section.
Five seconds.
Hashtags climbing.
"Chemistry overload."
"Are they dating?"
"This isn't acting."
Winter sat in the back of the van, scrolling silently.
Her face remained calm.
But her fingers trembled once before she locked the screen.
Her manager sighed. "Keep interactions minimal at the live stage."
"I understand."
Across the city, Jungkook's manager delivered the same warning.
"No unnecessary skinship. No improvisation."
Jungkook leaned back in his seat.
"I follow choreography."
"Follow it exactly."
Exactly.
He thought about those extra two seconds.
They hadn't been planned.
He hadn't meant to hold her that long.
He just—
Didn't want to let go.
Later that night, his phone buzzed.
Unknown notification.
Instagram.
A direct message.
From her.
Winter:
We need to be more careful tomorrow.
He stared at the screen longer than necessary.
Typed.
Deleted.
Typed again.
Jungkook:
Did I make you uncomfortable?
Three dots appeared almost immediately.
Winter:
No.
A pause.
Then—
That's the problem.
His chest tightened unexpectedly.
Jungkook:
Tell me what you're thinking.
Longer pause this time.
Winter:
I don't want to lose control of this.
He understood.
She wasn't talking about choreography.
He leaned back against his headboard.
Jungkook:
Then we control it together.
Three dots.
Gone.
Back again.
Winter:
You make it sound easy.
Jungkook:
It's not.
Another pause.
Then her final message of the night:
See you tomorrow, sunbaenim.
Professional again.
Safe again.
But as he set his phone down, Jungkook realized something unsettling.
He wasn't thinking about controlling the situation anymore.
He was thinking about that moment during the bridge—
When she didn't look away.
And for those extra two seconds…
It felt like neither of them wanted to.
Across the city, Winter lay awake in the dark.
She replayed the rehearsal in her mind.
The hold.
The silence.
The way he had looked at her — not as an idol. Not as a stage partner.
But as a woman.
It had been years since someone looked at her like that without calculation.
Without expectation.
Without strategy.
That was what made it dangerous.
Not scandal.
Not rumors.
But the possibility that it wasn't fake.
She turned onto her side, staring at the faint glow of city lights through her window.
Tomorrow would be the live stage.
Millions watching.
Cameras everywhere.
No room for mistakes.
No room for extra seconds.
And yet—
A small, traitorous part of her wondered—
If the music slowed again…
Would he hold her longer?
And would she let him?
End of Chapter 2