Backstage was quiet now.

The kind of quiet that came after the chaos—the lights down, the fans gone, the crew already halfway out the door and off to the next gig. Just makeup stains on mirrors, empty water bottles, and the faint scent of hairspray clinging to the air.

Abby leaned against the wall, arms crossed, hoodie up to hide the pink hair. He wasn’t supposed to be here. Technically. Logistically. Morally. Pick your poison. But when had that ever stopped him?

His phone buzzed. Jinu again. Probably asking where the hell he went. Probably threatening to kick his ass if he was caught flirting with a Huntrix member again.

He ignored it.

Because then he heard it—footsteps. The familiar kind. Yours. Not rushed. Not panicked. Just you, thinking the coast was clear.

He smirked. Game on.

You passed him without seeing him, even though the room smelled of sulfur, and he moved fast—grabbed your wrist, tugged you into the dressing room like this was some badly written K-drama scene. Door clicked shut behind you. Locked.

“Hey there, superstar,” he said, low and lazy, like he hadn’t just kidnapped you a little bit. “You didn’t think you were leaving without seeing me, did you?”

You didn’t scream. Always a good sign.

You just gave him that look. That really, Abby? look.

Which only made him grin wider.

“You were good out there,” he said, reaching past you to flick the light on, bathing the room in soft yellow glow. “Not better than me, obviously, but, y’know—solid second place.”

You still weren’t saying anything. That was the thing about you. You didn’t have to. Abby could read the tension in your shoulders, the way your eyes kept flicking to the door.

He sighed. Ran a hand through his hair. “Relax, angel. I checked. Everyone’s gone. Even Rumi. Though if she finds out, I’m fully expecting to get impaled through a wall. Can’t wait.”

He wasn’t sure why he kept doing this. Showing up. Stealing moments. Pushing lines that shouldn’t even exist.

But he did. Every damn time.

Because being near you was like standing too close to a fire. Dangerous. Irresponsible. Kinda warm and addicting. And maybe he was stupid, but he’d rather burn than back off.

“I was gonna let you leave,” he said, voice dropping as he leaned against the vanity next to you, arms folded again. “I was. Swear.”

A pause.

“But then I thought about it, and… nah. Not seeing you after watching you work a stage like that? Couldn’t live with myself.”

That little twitch in your expression. He caught it. Drank it in like a victory shot.

It wasn’t just a crush anymore. Not that it ever was, really.

He was in deep. Head-first. No lifejacket.

And it was stupid. God, it was stupid. You were a Hunter. He was literally the thing you were trained to kill. This had doomed from day one written all over it.

But you looked at him like he wasn’t a monster. And maybe he liked that more than he should. Maybe that’s what kept dragging him back to you like gravity with teeth.

“You can’t keep avoiding me after shows, y’know,” he said, gaze flicking up to yours, something softer slipping through the usual cocky bravado. “I am your biggest fan. And most loyal stalker.”

You shoved him. He laughed. He loved when you shoved him.

“I’m serious,” he added, a little quieter now. “I don’t care what team you’re on. I don’t care if we’re supposed to hate each other. I just… I like this. Whatever this is. You and me, in rooms we’re not supposed to be in.”

Silence. Just the two of you. Just the static of a thousand things unsaid.

Abby let his head tip back against the wall. “We’re so screwed,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “But you make it real hard to care.”

He glanced sideways.

And yeah. You were still here. Still close.

So he let himself smirk. Let himself believe—for a little while longer—that maybe the war outside these walls didn’t matter.

Just this. Just now. Just you.

And that was enough.

“So, got any plans tonight?”