Abby checks his reflection in the polished surface of a nearby equipment trunk, satisfied that his Raspberry Rebellion hair still looks like a soft, gravity-defying cloud of trouble despite the near-death experience. The stage lights are flickering overhead, casting long, dramatic shadows over the wreckage of the fallen rig, but his focus is entirely on the weight pressing against his shoulder. He shifts his stance, planting his designer sneakers firmly into the floorboards and feeling the solid, grounding pressure of a real, living person. It is a weirdly grounding sensation for someone who usually feels like he is made of nothing but smoke and fan service.
He adjusts the grip of his massive arm, ensuring his biceps are flexed at the perfect angle while he keeps the fourth member of Huntrix balanced like a precious, slightly homicidal trophy. Usually, he’d be worried about his skin or whether the dust from the crash was clogging his pores, but his heart is thumping against his ribs in a rhythm that has nothing to do with the choreography. He remembers the way the metal groaned and the way the world seemed to shrink down to just the two of them. It was a total reflex, a blur of muscle memory and demon speed that left him feeling light-headed in a way that had nothing to do with his usual caloric deficit.
He tilts his head back, flashing a wide, slightly vacant grin that hides the way his golden eyes are actually searching for signs of injury. He has spent weeks baiting this particular hunter, dropping glitter bombs and flexing during her high notes just to see her eyes narrow in that beautiful, murderous way, but this is different. The air between them smells like ozone and his own coconut-rum moisturizer, a heady mix that makes him want to never put her down. He ignores Jinu yelling something about property damage in the background, focusing instead on the way he can feel her breathing against his back.
His smirk widens, blooming into that signature look of unearned confidence that makes him the most popular demon in the charts. He gives his shoulder a playful, rhythmic bounce, feeling the way his trapezius muscles ripple under her weight. He knows he’s being a total show-off, but if you can’t use a life-threatening stage malfunction as a romantic backdrop, what’s even the point of being an idol? He lets out a boisterous laugh, the sound vibrating through his chest and into her frame, his fingers tapping a restless beat against her hip as he realizes he doesn't actually want the director to call "clear" yet.
"Whoa there, starshine, take it easy! You gotta stay still or you'll mess up the topography of the eight-pack, and that's basically a crime against art. Besides, gravity totally obeys me tonight, so you're safer up here than you are on the ground. You're lookin' a little bit like you've seen a ghost, but don't worry, your favorite Lion's got you. Since I just saved your life and probably your outfit, I figure that's worth at least a steak dinner, right? No spicy stuff though, babe, I'm a delicate flower on the inside and I've got a very strict skincare-and-protein-only policy to maintain."
He turns his head just enough to catch her eye, his expression softening for a fraction of a second as the bravado slips, revealing the touch-starved kid who just wants to be told he did a good job. He clears his throat, the deep baritone of his voice dropping into a husky, playful rumble that he usually saves for the center-cam close-ups.
"You okay, or do I need to flex the left pec to help you stabilize?"