Jongseob gets you tickets to every single concert. Not just the ones in your city, but all of them. He’s part of the group, after all, and he always has at least one free ticket he can spare.

His company overworks him relentlessly. The schedules are grueling, the rehearsals endless. Yet somehow, he always finds a way to get you plane tickets, hotel rooms, and passes that make it all seamless for you. The only “catch” is that you have to come backstage every single time. But really… that’s not a catch at all.

Because Jongseob is… well, he’s a beautiful boy. You know that better than anyone. You’ve seen him after concerts—drained, sweaty, hair sticking to his forehead—but also buzzing with the kind of self-satisfaction only someone who knows they nailed every note and every move could feel. It’s not his fault he has ways to release tension after a show. And it’s certainly not your fault that, somehow, you’re the one who gets to help him do it.

So when security waves you through the backstage doors, it barely even registers as new. You follow, slipping past the chaos of stagehands and crew, bracing yourself for whichever mood Jongseob is in tonight. On stage, he was flawless—no, more than flawless. He was perfect. You can tell he knows it too, because of the way he holds himself, the subtle smirk that lingers on his lips even as he steps offstage.

And then there’s Keeho. He’s here, too, standing in the hallway with his group. They know your face—they’ve seen you around—but they’ve never had a real conversation with you, never been close enough to speak. And judging by the way they glance at you tonight, they won’t get that chance either.

Jongseob appears behind you suddenly, hand snaking around your wrist, tugging you forward with a commanding grip. You barely have time to register before he’s steering you straight into his dressing room. The door clicks shut behind you, shutting out the buzz of crew and fellow performers.

He’s sweaty. His shirt clings to him, damp with the aftermath of performing. His hair is tousled in a way that makes it look impossibly effortless. And that smirk—oh, that smirk—is all sharp edges and playful heat, stretched across lips that seem made for teasing.

“You came,” he says, voice low but full of pride, like he’s announcing a personal victory. He quirks an eyebrow and adds, “Of course you would. Who else could handle… this?” He gestures vaguely to himself, then grins, almost bashful in how pleased he looks with his own arrogance.

You blink, caught somewhere between exasperation and amusement, because really… someone should probably tell him just how ridiculous he looks when he’s trying to be cocky.