My Rival Bandmate Became My Secret Lover At The Album Retreat

The crisp mountain air was supposed to be a cleansing force. That’s what Seungmin had told himself in the van on the way up, the winding roads a prelude to the intense focus he craved. This album had to be perfect. His vocals, the harmonies, every breath mark and dynamic shift—all of it had to be flawless. He stepped into the designated dormitory building, his rolling suitcase clicking neatly behind him on the polished wooden floors, a comforting, rhythmic sound. He found his assigned room, 3B, and pushed the door open, his mind already mapping out where he would place his humidifier, his stacks of sheet music, and his laptop.

The map in his head dissolved into static.

Hwang Hyunjin was sprawled on the bed to the right, a tangle of long limbs and dark hair, already looking infuriatingly at home. He glanced up from his phone, a slow, easy smile spreading across his face that did nothing to soothe the immediate knot of irritation in Seungmin’s stomach.

“Roomie,” Hyunjin said, the single word dripping with a playful charm Seungmin had never found particularly charming.

“Manager-nim assigned the rooms?” Seungmin asked, his tone flat. He placed his suitcase precisely next to the empty bed on the left, the one furthest from the window and from Hyunjin.

“Guess he thought we could harmonize,” Hyunjin quipped, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He immediately upended a duffel bag next to him, its contents spilling onto the comforter and floor in a cascade of black clothing, charcoal pencils, and at least three different sketchbooks.

An involuntary twitch started in Seungmin’s left eye. He ignored it. Methodically, he opened his own suitcase. He placed his toiletries in a neat row on his nightstand. His pajamas were folded and set at the foot of his bed. His laptop and chargers were arranged on the small desk, cables tied and secured. His side of the room became a small, quiet island of order in the sea of Hyunjin’s encroaching chaos.

A stray pencil rolled across the floor, coming to a stop just beside Seungmin’s shoe. He stared down at it.

“Are you planning on claiming the entire room as your personal art studio?” Seungmin asked, not bothering to look up.

Hyunjin laughed, a light, airy sound that felt like a disruption. “Just the inspiring parts. You can have the boring, empty spaces.” He gestured with a sweep of his hand toward Seungmin’s meticulously organized area.

“My space isn’t empty,” Seungmin said, his voice tight. “It’s clean. There’s a difference.”

“Is there?” Hyunjin leaned down, his hair falling over his eyes as he picked up the errant pencil. He didn’t move back to his side, instead staying close, examining the graphite tip with an artist’s focus. The faint scent of his cologne—something woody and sharp—pricked at Seungmin’s senses, another unwelcome invasion of his personal space. He could feel the warmth radiating from Hyunjin’s body. It was distracting. Everything about Hyunjin was a distraction. With a final, silent sigh of resignation, Seungmin turned his back, focusing on the sheet music for their title track. This was going to be a very, very long month.

The control room was a bubble of focused silence, broken only by the producer’s voice through the talkback mic. “Okay, let’s hear the playback on that harmony stack.”

The music filled the space, a lush layering of their voices over the melancholic piano melody. Seungmin closed his eyes, his head tilted as he isolated each vocal line in his mind. He heard it instantly—a slight imperfection, a minuscule drag in the timing that made his teeth ache. It was Hyunjin’s part, the one meant to add a breathy, emotional texture underneath his own lead harmony.

“Stop,” Seungmin said, his eyes snapping open. He leaned forward, pressing the button for the talkback. “Producer-nim, the third harmony. The entrance on the second bar is late, and it’s slightly flat. It’s making the whole chord feel heavy.”

Across the room, Hyunjin, who had been listening with a serene expression, stiffened. He pushed his headphones off one ear. “I don’t think it’s heavy,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “I think it sounds more… human. It’s supposed to be a sad song. The drag makes it sound like a sigh.”

Seungmin felt a familiar wave of impatience. “It’s a harmony, Hyunjin. It needs to be precise to support the melody. It’s not a sigh, it’s a mistake.” His tone was clipped, professional. This was about the music, not about feelings.

“Music is feelings,” Hyunjin countered, his dark eyes flashing with a hint of defiance. He turned to the producer. “It feels right. It’s more emotional this way.”

The producer, a man with a perpetually tired expression, scrubbed a hand over his face. He rewound the track and listened again, his brow furrowed in concentration. The other members sat in silence, looking from Seungmin to Hyunjin, a silent tennis match of tension. Seungmin kept his gaze fixed on the producer, his posture rigid, confident in his assessment. He could hear the pitch deviation as clearly as if it were a glaring red light on the console.

“Seungmin’s right,” the producer finally declared, his voice full of resignation. “The emotion is good, Hyunjin, but the pitch is off. It’ll clash when we mix it. We need it clean.” He looked at Seungmin through the glass. “Seungmin-ah, go in the booth with him. Guide him on the pitch. Let’s get it perfect.”

A quiet victory, but it tasted like ash. Seungmin gave a curt nod and stood up. He didn’t look at Hyunjin, but he could feel the other boy’s energy retreat, collapsing inward. The vibrant, expressive artist from a moment ago was gone, replaced by a sullen shadow who pushed himself off the sofa and trudged toward the recording booth without a word. The rift between them was no longer just about messy habits and organized spaces; it was now etched into the very music they were supposed to create together.

Sleep refused to come. Seungmin lay perfectly still in his bed, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling, his body rigid with a lingering frustration from the studio. Every time he closed his eyes, he heard the slightly flat harmony, a discordant note not just in the song, but in the entire retreat. The silence in the room was heavy, thick with the unspoken words and bruised pride that had followed them back from the recording session.

Then, a sound. A soft, persistent rustling from Hyunjin’s side of the room. A whisper of fabric, the quiet scrape of something being dragged across a wooden surface. Seungmin’s jaw tightened. Of course. Hyunjin couldn’t even be quietly resentful; he had to fidget, to stir his chaotic energy into the air, to disrupt the peace Seungmin so desperately needed. He imagined him tossing his clothes on the floor, knocking over a sketchbook, incapable of stillness. The irritation that had been simmering all evening began to boil again. He was going to have to say something. The need for absolute quiet before a recording day was non-negotiable.

Slipping out from under his covers, Seungmin rose to his feet, his movements silent. He expected to see Hyunjin sprawled in his bed, scrolling on his phone. But the bed was empty. A sliver of cool light from the window drew his eye.

Hyunjin was sitting on the floor, his back to Seungmin, cross-legged and hunched over. He wasn't making a mess. He was working. Propped up on the windowsill, his phone cast a cold, white glow onto a large sketchbook open in his lap. He was utterly absorbed, his body a study in concentration. One hand held the sketchbook steady while the other moved with a fluid, mesmerizing grace. The sounds Seungmin had heard weren't careless fidgeting; they were the sounds of creation—the soft scratch of a charcoal pencil across the textured paper, the whisper of Hyunjin’s palm brushing away excess dust.

Seungmin stood frozen in the shadows, an unseen spectator. He watched Hyunjin’s long fingers, the same fingers that gestured so dramatically in conversation, now moving with an incredible precision and delicacy. He would sketch a few lines, then lean back, his head tilted, his brow furrowed in critical assessment. The intensity radiating from him was palpable, a quiet, focused energy so potent it seemed to hum in the air. It was the same energy Seungmin felt when he was dissecting a vocal line, striving for that impossible perfection.

He was sketching the view from the window—the dark, sweeping silhouette of the mountains against the fainter night sky. Even in the dim light, Seungmin could see the sureness in the lines, the confidence in the shading. This wasn't a casual doodle. This was art. This was discipline. This was a side of Hwang Hyunjin that Seungmin had never conceived of, a quiet devotion that stood in stark, stunning contrast to the loud, flamboyant personality he performed for the world.

The annoyance in Seungmin’s chest dissolved, replaced by a strange, hollow feeling of awe. He had been so sure he had Hyunjin figured out—emotional, impulsive, imprecise. But the boy before him was none of those things. He was an artist, lost in his craft with a silent dedication that mirrored Seungmin’s own. He quietly stepped back, sinking into his own bed without a sound, the springs barely making a noise. He pulled the covers up to his chin, but his eyes remained fixed on the focused silhouette by the window. Sleep was even further away now, but the reason had changed entirely. A seed of curiosity, small and uncertain, had been planted in the barren ground of his irritation.