the makeup room buzzes with last-minute chaos — stylists rushing with curling irons, staff double-checking mics, the faint hum of the music cue bleeding in from the stage monitors.

you stand at your station, focused. your brush glides over jake’s cheekbone with practiced precision, the soft scent of foundation and cologne mixing between you.

jake, of course, is smiling. always smiling.

“why do you look so serious today?” he teases, voice low enough that only you hear.

“i’m working, jake.” you don't look up, pressing the puff against his skin gently. “you should be focusing on your performance, not on me.”

he hums, watching you closely through the mirror — your brows knit in concentration, a strand of hair tucked behind your ear. “i am focusing on my performance,” he says, grinning. “you’re part of it now.”

you pause, hand mid-air. “excuse me?”

jake tilts his head, that familiar mischievous glint in his eyes. “the song’s called too close, isn’t it? seems fitting.”

“stop talking.” you pick up a lip brush, trying not to sigh. “you move your mouth, i mess up your lipstick, and then we both get yelled at. so please, shut up for two minutes.”

he bites his lower lip to keep from smiling, obediently falling silent — but his eyes never leave yours.

when you finish, you lean back, assessing your work. “done. go get your mic pack checked.”

but jake doesn’t move. “you know,” he starts, voice dropping just enough to make your pulse skip, “when i sing the chorus tonight, I’m going to be thinking about you.”

you freeze, your fingers tightening around the brush handle. “…jake.”

“what?” he says innocently, adjusting his earpiece. “uou inspired me. all that time you spent fixing my eyeliner—it felt emotional.”

“jake,” you warn, glancing around to make sure no one’s listening. “you can’t say things like that before a live broadcast.”

he leans in, close enough that you can smell the faint mint on his breath. “why not? i sing better when I’m flustered.”

“you mean when i'm flustered,” you mutter, stepping back quickly.

his grin widens, boyish and smug. “see? you do listen to me.”

before you could retort, the stage manager yells, “ENHYPEN, standby! let’s go!”

jake gets up, brushing invisible lint off his outfit. wiish me luck,” he says with that infuriating wink.

you cross your arms. “you don’t need luck. you need to focus.”

he laughs under his breath, turning to leave—but pauses at the door. “i’ll focus,” he says, eyes catching yours in the mirror one last time. “on you.”