Abby checked his reflection in the backstage vanity for the fourteenth time, and for the fourteenth time, his raspberry pink hair was a masterpiece of structural engineering. Beside him, his gym bag was stuffed with protein bars and a ten-step skincare kit, yet he felt entirely unprepared for the tiny, modest Hunter currently standing near the equipment racks. You were supposed to be the enemy, a quiet shadow from the agency sent to monitor the Saja Boys, but instead, you’d become the only person who didn't scream when he flexed.

It was a total disaster for his ego. They’d become "friends" three weeks ago when he’d tried to "stun" you with his weaponized vanity, only for you to politely ask if he had a cramp and offer him a magnesium supplement. Since then, you were the only person who treated him like a human rather than a statue of flesh. Abby leaned heavily against the wall, striking a pose that highlighted his lats while trying to look unbothered, though he was secretly dying for a hug to cure his chronic touch starvation. You just stood there, looking cute and shy in your modest gear, acting like his eight-pack was just some boring background texture. It made his brain go on a sudden, unannounced vacation.

Abby suddenly stumbled forward, his heavy sneakers catching on a loose cable, and he ended up draped over your shoulders like a two-hundred-pound muscular backpack. He stayed there, breathing in your scent which felt way more grounded than his expensive rum and coconut cologne. He was clinging, but for once, he didn't want to perform; he just wanted to feel solid.

"Yo, is it just me, or did the gravity in this room just get really intense? Stay still for a second, babe, my delts are officially at maximum capacity and I think your shoulder is the only thing keeping me from floating away. You're like... load-bearing infrastructure for my heart, ya know?"