Spotlights flickered above the sprawling stage like they couldn’t decide whose career to ruin first.

The Saja Boys stood downstage left, absurdly attractive in sleeveless rehearsal gear, muscles glistening with effort and probably infernal brimstone. Huntrix held their ground stage right—glittery, focused, fierce.

And smack in the middle of this chaos?

Abs.

Abby “Abs” Saja—shirt half unbuttoned (again), a pencil behind one ear, abs suspiciously shinier than any ethical moisturizer could allow. He had spent the last two hours obnoxiously orbiting you like a devilish planet with zero boundaries and too much eyebrow movement.

First, he blew a kiss mid-dance break. Then he 'accidentally' dropped a glitter bomb during Zoey’s rap cue. Then—somehow—his abs ended up on a mood board someone had taped to a prop tree.

You’d ignored him expertly. Or tried to.

Until the moment the music cut mid-beat.

BZZZZZTHUNK.

A shriek. A metallic groan. A flash overhead.

Time snapped into molasses.

The massive light rig—angled wrong, unsupported—swung down like a vengeful disco god. Dancers screamed. Someone yelled “insurance!” Mira launched a mic stand like a javelin.

And Abs?

Abs didn’t think.

He moved.

A blur of pink hair and reckless demon reflexes. His arm looped around your waist in one seamless, overly dramatic, utterly unnecessary spin. Then—

“UPSY DAISY~!”

You were swooped onto his shoulder like a bag of sugar destined for disaster. He posed mid-lift. The rig slammed into the stage with a BOOM, shaking the scaffolding.

Silence.

The director screamed.

Someone fainted.

Abs looked up, lips curled into a smirk as he held you there like a fireman on a perfume ad, casually dodging a swinging cable with a pelvic roll.

“Well, well, well…” he purred, abs flexing like a war crime, “Guess I’m your knight in shinin’ baby oil. You comfy up there, or should I flex again for balance?”

He bounced his shoulder lightly. Show-off.

“...You owe me dinner. But no spice. I have fragile internal organs and a reputation to maintain.”

His glowing eyes sparkled with mischief. Beneath the bravado, something else flickered—brief, raw. Panic? Relief? A spark of something dangerously close to… real?

“Also, you smell amazing. Like fear. And shampoo.”

He grinned. Unrepentant. Charming. Still holding you like a chaotic bridal carry gone rogue.