The Blind Spot

“Did you lock it?”

“Yeah. Relax.”

“Relax? Matt, there’s a literal mob of freshmen out there with cameras. If one of them gets a shot of us in here, the ‘rivalry’ narrative is cooked. Management will actually kill me. Like, homicide.”

“They aren’t going to get in. Breathe.”

I didn’t breathe. I couldn’t. My lungs felt like they were full of wet cotton. I paced the narrow aisle between the metal shelving units, the smell of old paper and dust sticking to the back of my throat. It was dark in here, the only light bleeding in from the high, rain-streaked windows near the ceiling. It turned everything gray and grainy, like a bad indie film.

Matt wasn’t pacing. Of course he wasn’t. He was sitting on a stack of bound periodicals from the nineties, long legs stretched out, looking like he was posing for a Vogue cover in the middle of a dustbin. It was annoying. It was actually infuriating how good he looked in the dim light, his tie loosened, the top button of his uniform shirt undone. The ‘Ice Prince’ of StarDust Entertainment. The unbothered king.

“You’re vibrating,” he said, not looking up from his phone.

“I am not vibrating.”

“ You are. I can hear your teeth chattering from here.”

“That’s just… the AC. It’s freezing.” I wrapped my arms around myself, rubbing the sleeves of my blazer. The fabric was scratchy, expensive wool that looked great on camera and felt like torture in real life. “And put that away. The screen glow is gonna give us away.”

Matt sighed, a soft exhale that sounded too loud in the quiet room. He clicked the phone off and slid it into his pocket. Then he looked at me. Really looked at me. His eyes were dark, heavy-lidded, giving away nothing.

“Better?” he asked.

“Marginally.”

I kicked the metal shelving unit. A dull clang echoed, and I winced. “I hate this. I hate that we can’t even walk to the cafeteria without it becoming a headline on the school forum. ‘Daniel and Matt: Cold War Continues in Corridor B’. It’s so stupid.”

“It’s marketing, Dan. You know that.”

“It’s lying. We’re lying to everyone, every day.” I slumped against the shelf, sliding down until I hit the floor. The linoleum was cold enough to seep through my trousers instantly. “I’m tired of being the ‘jealous underdog’ to your ‘natural genius’. It’s exhausting being the villain in your story.”

Matt shifted. The stack of books creaked. “Is that what you think you are?”

“It’s what the articles say. It’s what the fans say.” I picked at a loose thread on my cuff. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter. As long as the debut team is finalized next month, I can play the villain. I’ll be the Joker to your Batman if it gets me a contract.”

“You talk too much.”

“And you don’t talk enough. Maybe that’s why everyone thinks you’re mysterious and deep when actually you’re just—”

“Just what?”

He was moving. I didn’t hear him get up, but suddenly he was there, crouching in front of me. The space in the aisle was tight, claustrophobic. His knees brushed against mine. The contact sent a weird, static shock up my leg, making my stomach flip.

I looked up. He was too close. I could smell him—not the generic citrus cologne the stylists sprayed on us, but him. Soap, rain, and something warm, like dryer lint. It was a grounded, human smell that had no business belonging to an idol.

“Just what, Daniel?” he repeated, his voice dropping an octave.

“Just… boring,” I lied. My voice cracked. humiliating.

Matt’s mouth quirked up. A microscopic smile. The kind he never showed on camera because it made him look too soft. “Boring. Right.”

He reached out. I flinched, instinctual, bracing for a flick to the forehead or a shove. But his hand just landed on my knee. His fingers were long, pale, the knuckles slightly red from the cold. He squeezed, just once, a firm, grounding pressure.

“Your leg is bouncing,” he said quietly.

I looked down. It was. I hadn’t even realized.

“Anxiety tic,” I muttered, staring at his hand. It looked huge against the dark fabric of my trousers. “Ignore it.”

“Hard to ignore when you’re shaking the whole floor.”

“Shut up.”

He didn’t move his hand. The heat from his palm was seeping through the wool, burning a brand into my skin. It was distracting. It was terrifying. If anyone walked in right now… if anyone saw the way the ‘rivals’ were sitting…

“We should go back,” I said, weak. “The coast is probably clear.”

“No.”

“No?”

“I don’t want to go back yet.” Matt leaned back against the opposite shelf, stretching his legs out so they framed mine. He looked tired. The shadows under his eyes were purple bruises in this light. “I don’t want to smile anymore today.”

The confession hung in the air, heavy and unexpected. Matt never complained. He was the golden boy. The machine.

“Tough luck, superstar,” I said, trying for sarcasm but missing. “That’s the gig.”

“It doesn’t have to be. Not in here.” He tilted his head back, exposing the long line of his throat. “In here, I’m just… tired. And you’re just… loud.”

“Hey.”

“But I like the noise,” he added, eyes still closed. “It keeps me awake.”

My heart did a stupid, stuttering thing against my ribs. I looked away, focusing on a dust bunny in the corner. This was dangerous. This was the ‘Blind Spot’ the managers warned us about. The moment you forget the cameras are always rolling, even when they aren’t.

“You’re weird today,” I mumbled.

“Maybe.” He opened his eyes. They locked onto mine immediately. Heavy. Intense. “Daniel.”

“What?”

“Come here.”

“I am here. I’m literally two feet away from you.”

“Closer.”

I swallowed. My mouth was dry. “Why?”

“Because I’m cold. And you’re basically a radiator when you’re stressed.”

“I’m not a heater for you to—”

He tugged on my knee. Not hard, but insistent. I slid forward, friction burning my palms on the linoleum, until our knees were knocked together, tangled. The proximity was alarming. I could see the tiny gray flecks in his iris. I could see a small scar on his chin I’d never noticed before.

“Better,” he whispered.

He leaned his head forward, resting his forehead against my shoulder. Just dropped it there. Like he was cutting a puppet string. The weight of him was shocking. Solid. Real.

I froze. My hands hovered in the air, unsure where to land. This was a violation of every protocol. No unnecessary touching. No ambiguity. Maintain the rivalry narrative.

But he smelled so good. And he was shaking, just a little. A fine tremor running through his shoulders.

“Matt?”

“Five minutes,” he mumbled into my blazer. “Just five minutes without being watched.”

I slowly, tentatively, lowered my hands. One landed on the floor. The other… the other found its way to the back of his neck. His hair was soft, slightly damp from the rain earlier. My fingers curled into it automatically.

He let out a long, shaky breath, his body relaxing against mine. The tension that held him upright, that perfect idol posture, dissolved. He was just a seventeen-year-old kid hiding in a library.

“You’re idiots,” I whispered, mostly to myself. “We’re such idiots.”

“Yeah,” he breathed. “But we’re good at it.”

We sat there in the gray silence, the rain tapping a frantic rhythm against the glass high above. The world outside was waiting for us—the cameras, the fans, the endless scrutiny, the lies. But in here, in this dusty, forgotten aisle, there was just the heat of his forehead on my shoulder and the terrifying, electric realization that I would burn the whole industry down just to keep him like this for five more minutes.