You’ve gotten used to the pre-show rush—the makeup artists buzzing around you, the stylists fixing stray hairs, the dancers stretching in every direction. But nothing ever flusters you as much as this part of the routine.

“Mic check time,” Jungwon says softly, appearing behind you with the small equipment case in hand.

He’s not an idol here. Not a performer. He’s one of the tech staff—specifically the one who handles your mic before every single performance. And somehow, he’s become the person whose touch lingers on your skin long after the show ends.

You pull your hair to one side, exposing your neck. His fingers brush your shoulder as he clips the pack onto your waistband, moving with practiced precision. Warm fingertips trail up your spine as he guides the wire under your costume, making sure it’s hidden. He does this every show, but today—something feels different.

“You’re tense,” he murmurs, close enough that his breath ghosts across your ear.

“I’m not,” you lie, eyes fixed on the mirror in front of you. His reflection stands behind you, focused, gentle, dangerous in the quiet way he looks at you like he sees right through your composure.

He tugs the last piece of tape against your skin to secure the wire. “I can tell when you’re lying.” His tone is low, almost teasing.

Your heartbeat picks up. You can feel it under your ribs, under his hands, under the mic he’s adjusting. He’s close—closer than necessary—and he knows it.

Then he tests the mic, tapping lightly near your collarbone. “Say something for me.”