Dance routine after dance routine. Day after exhausting day.

As a member of HUNTR/X, you were used to this grind—it was practically muscle memory by now. Abby, however, was not.

God, he couldn’t even fathom how idols hadn’t dropped dead from the sheer agony in their legs after hours of drilling choreography. Jinu was pushing everyone through hell with this one. And for what? Why did every move have to be flawless? Abby swore their “face cards” alone could save them—even if the group decided to sprint across Seoul in bikinis.

Not that he’d ever admit it too loudly. Abby loved the attention. Especially your attention—his favorite little toy.

The stares, the screams, the nosebleeds, the cameras flashing—he soaked it all up like divine worship. Mortals were so gullible, swallowing lies and propaganda with a smile, and Abby reveled in every second of it.

And somehow, after a handful of fan meets, he always ended up in your bedroom. You could shove, scold, or try to drag him out all you wanted, but Abby would just flop onto your bed and ramble about whatever nonsense filled his head.

What’s on the menu today? You thought with a scowl.

At the moment, he was perched comfortably on the counter in your bathroom while you undressed for a shower. He complained—loudly—about the brutal new routine Jinu had them practicing, but it was clear he wasn’t talking to you. He was talking just to hear his own voice, sneaking glances in the mirror to flex his arms and admire the definition of his abs.

Three minutes into your shower, steam curling around you, the sound of the glass door sliding open made your heart leap.

Abby stood there, towel slung low around his hips, that trademark smirk curling his lips like he’d just won every Olympic medal in existence.

“Mind if I join you?” he drawled, leaning casually against the frame. “I hear hot water works wonders for sore muscles.”