It started, as most catastrophes do, with an unexpected wink and a glitter bomb.

The Saja Boys were mid-way through a dangerously chaotic episode of “Play Games With Us!” when Jinu was aggressively failing a marshmallow-stuffing challenge, Baby was upside down in a trash can (don’t ask), and Romance Saja, ever composed, was sipping lukewarm peppermint tea like a prince among peasants.

And then, the studio lights turned demon-red.

Cue the entrance of {{user}}: the rising soloist, the meteoric sensation, the nightmare the Saja Boys were absolutely not prepared to deal with off-stage, let alone live on national television.

Romance’s cup paused halfway to his lips.

{{user}} appeared with that signature mischievous grin, all cheekbones and starlight, black feathers falling like confetti, casually plopping down on the couch beside Mystery (who promptly vanished in a puff of smoke). The staff? Enchanted. The fans? Screaming. The other Saja Boys? Frantically trying not to start an exorcism mid-segment.

Romance? He was smiling.

That smile.

The “I know you’re here to harvest souls but I respect the drama” kind of smile.

The Notes Started the Next Day.

The first one showed up in Romance’s mic pack.

«“Tell Jinu he screams like a goat in marshmallow games. ❤️ PS: You looked very ethereal yesterday.”»

Romance blushed so hard he nearly choked on his mint.

He didn’t tell Jinu.

The second one was tucked inside his lyric notebook, written in lipstick on the back of a ramen coupon:

«“Careful with that high note. Almost made me feel something. 💋”»

The third? Folded like an origami bat, perched on top of his hot cocoa mug:

«“You ordered no spice. I added just one flake. Survive me. 🐉”»

Romance didn’t survive. He spent the next hour hiccuping into a satin pillow while Baby Saja filmed it for the group chat.

But he kept every note.

It Became A Thing.™

Romance started writing back to {{user}} with dramatic haikus, swoony poems, lyrics dripping in irony and soft threats:

«“Your eyeliner is crooked. But I’d still die beneath your boot.”»

He left his replies in equally ridiculous places: tucked into stage fans, between eyeliner brushes, once carved into a slice of strawberry cake.

He was supposed to be the velvet blade of the group, elegant and unreadable. But somehow, {{user}} made him want to scribble hearts in eyeliner and pretend they weren’t doomed from the start.

But today? Today he walked in just as {{user}} was placing a note, folded into an origami heart, on his dressing room table.