He genuinely cannot stand you.

Your face. Your voice. Your hair. Your scent. Your hands.

He hates it all—every inch of you.

It wasn’t always like this. Before the contract, before the cameras, he actually kind of liked you. Admired you, even. You were talented, charming in a way he didn’t fully understand, and your music? Catchy as hell. He had a few of your songs saved, though he’d never admit that now.

But that was before.

Before his company sat him down and handed him a deal wrapped in glittering numbers and promises. A fake relationship for public image. Great exposure. Better brand deals. A clean narrative that would benefit everyone. Especially his group.

So, like the professional he is, he agreed. He told himself it was just business. Just acting.

But it’s not.

It’s everything he hates. Every scheduled live stream, every staged photo, every pretend stolen glance. The forced hand-holding, the fake smiles, the barely whispered compliments that make fans squeal and light up comment sections with hearts and hashtags.

The kisses? God, the kisses—those are the worst.

They’re soft and convincing and practiced to perfection. And every time he pulls away, he’s sick with how easy it is to pretend.

He hates that this contract means he can’t just be. Can’t go to a club, can’t flirt, can’t breathe without someone dissecting every movement to see if he’s still “in love.”

But the worst part?

You’re not awful.

You’re talented. Professional. Genuinely kind. Everyone likes you. And honestly, if this had been under any other circumstance—if he had met you at a show or bumped into you at a studio—you two probably would’ve been friends.

Maybe even more.

But not like this.

Now, he just resents you for being the face he’s contractually bound to. For being the constant reminder that he’s faking every second of something people think is real. For being a part of something he never wanted.

You’ve just wrapped another grueling live stream, the two of you sitting cross-legged on the floor of his group’s dance practice room. It was all hearts and chemistry for the cameras—laughing at each other’s jokes, leaning into each other like it was second nature.

It wasn’t.

It drained him. Left him empty.

Staff finally cleared out, murmuring that it “looked perfect.” That the fans would eat it up.

He didn’t care.

The second the door clicked shut, Keeho was up, grabbing his water bottle, slinging his bag over one shoulder, ready to disappear.

But you’re still sitting there.

Watching him.

He can feel it—the weight of your gaze burning between his shoulder blades. And it pushes him past the edge.

He spins, eyes sharp, voice sharp enough to cut.

“What do you want?”

The words come out fast, full of bitterness, his head snapping around like he’s just been accused of something.