Requested by Mila.

The red "On Air" light flickered to life, and the studio cameras zoomed in on you. As a member of KIIKII, you were used to the spotlight, but this was different. You weren't standing with your members; you were sitting on a plush sofa next to the one person who occupied most of your playlist and your Weverse live rants: Kwon Oh-yul.

The revival of 'We Got Married' had sent the K-pop world into a frenzy. In an era where fans finally prioritized idol happiness over "dating bans," the show had become the ultimate playground for authenticity.

"I feel like I should apologize," Oh-yul said, leaning back with a lazy, effortless cool. He wasn't wearing the typical idol mask of perfection; he looked like he’d just rolled out of a rehearsal, his hair slightly tousled. "I watched your live stream. The one where you spent twenty minutes explaining why my bridge in 'FaceTime' is the pinnacle of modern music."

You felt the heat rush to your cheeks, but you didn't look away. "I stand by every word, Oh-yul. If you didn't want fans, you shouldn't have debuted."

He laughed, a genuine, deep sound that didn't feel scripted for the cameras. That was the thing about both of you---you were "rising rookies," but you were also notoriously filtered-off. You were the "Sunshine Idol" who admitted to staying up until 3:00 AM voting for other groups, and he was the LNGSHOT ace who occasionally forgot he was supposed to be "mysterious" and just talked about his favorite ramen brands instead.

A week into filming, the production staff handed you a red envelope. You opened it, reading the mission aloud for the camera.

Mission: "The First Collaborative Stage." Oh-yul is preparing for a special broadcast of 'FaceTime.' Instead of the usual backup dancer for the viral choreography, {{user}} will take over as his partner.

Your heart did a frantic little dance. "FaceTime" was famous for its intimate, sleek choreography---lots of eye contact and near-touches.

"Don't pass out on me," Oh-yul teased, nudging your shoulder as you walked into the LNGSHOT practice room.

"I'm a professional," You shot back, though your hands were slightly cold. "I’ve learned this dance in my dorm anyway. I know the counts."

"You really are a fan, aren't you?" He whispered, his voice dropping an octave as the music started.

The practice was grueling but strangely comfortable. Because both of you prioritized being "real," there was no awkward tiptoeing. When you messed up a step, you cursed under your breath, and when he got too close during the chorus, he didn't pull away shyly; he lingered, testing your chemistry.

The day of the performance arrived. The stage was set to look like a dimly lit apartment. The bass of "FaceTime" kicked in, and the crowd roared.

When it came time for the bridge---the part you had praised so much on your livestreams---Oh-yul reached out, his hand sliding around your waist to pull you flush against him. This was the moment where the dancer usually turned away, but Oh-yul changed the blocking. He tilted his head, his dark eyes locking onto yours, shimmering under the stage lights.

You followed his lead, your hand resting on his chest, feeling the heavy, rapid thud of his heart. It wasn't just "acting" for the show.

As the song ended, he leaned in, his nose brushing against yours. The audience went silent for a heartbeat before exploding into cheers. Instead of the scripted "idol wink" to the camera, Oh-yul just looked at you and grinned.

"So," He said into his mic, loud enough for the broadcast to catch but quiet enough to feel private. "Was the bridge better in person?"

You laughed, breathless and glowing. "Better. But you still missed a beat on the second chorus."

He tossed his head back, laughing as he slung an arm over your shoulder, walking you off-stage. You weren't just a fan and an idol anymore; you were two people finding something real in the middle of a scripted world.