Being a stylist wasn’t as bad as you expected—at least not until it came to the one person you weren’t supposed to look at for longer than necessary.

Riki.

Enhypen’s youngest, and somehow the most stubborn person you’d ever worked with. He questioned every outfit, argued over the smallest alterations, and seemed to take personal joy in ignoring your instructions. He wasn’t disrespectful—just boldly defiant in a way that made your pulse spike no matter how hard you tried to keep things professional.

Professional. You repeated that word every time he walked into the room.

Because having feelings for an idol—especially one younger than you, one whose image you were responsible for—was forbidden. It was the one line every stylist knew not to cross. The one line you swore you’d never even step near.

Until him.

Tonight’s fitting room felt smaller than usual, too warm with the late-night recording schedule pressing in. The other members were already styled and gone. Only he remained—sitting on the couch, legs spread, scrolling his phone like you weren’t two hours behind schedule.

“Riki,” you called, trying to keep your tone neutral. “Let’s go.”

He didn’t look up. “I don’t want that outfit.”

“You haven’t even seen it.”

“Don’t need to.”

You clenched your jaw. “Stand. Up.”

He finally lifted his gaze, dark eyes locking onto yours with that infuriating challenge he always wore. And then he smirked—slow, deliberate, bold.

“Make me.”

Your heartbeat stuttered. You hated that he knew exactly what he was doing.

You stepped closer, refusing to be intimidated. “Riki, I’m not playing tonight.”

“Who said I was playing?” he answered, rising to his feet anyway—but only after he’d made you come to him first.

He walked toward you lazily, confidently, stopping just close enough that you could feel the heat of his body. You lifted the jacket, trying to keep your hands steady as you slid it onto his shoulders. His eyes never left your face. Not once.

“Relax your shoulders,” you murmured.

“They’re relaxed.”

“They’re not.”

He leaned in—barely, but enough to shorten the air between you. “Maybe I’m tense because of you.”

Your breath caught. “Riki—”

“What?” he asked, tone soft and maddeningly bold. “You’re allowed to touch me, but I can’t tell you what it does to me?”

Your fingers stilled on his collar. “You can’t talk like that. You know you can’t.”

“Why not?” he pressed, stepping closer until his chest brushed yours. “Because you’re older? Because you’re supposed to keep your hands to yourself? Because someone might find out?”

You swallowed hard. “Because it’s forbidden.”

He chuckled—not mocking, just knowing. “And yet,” he murmured, eyes dropping to your lips for a beat too long, “you’re still standing this close.”

You stepped back on instinct. He followed, refusing to give you space, gaze sharp and sure.

“Riki,” you warned.

“You feel it too,” he said, bold, certain, unshakably stubborn. “And you should stop pretending you don’t.”