The chaos backstage was overwhelming. Designers shouting, assistants running, cameras flashing—but all you noticed was him.

Lee Minho.

The hottest solo idol in Korea. The man who made every other model and celebrity in the room look like amateurs. And tonight, he was your backstage nightmare.

“You’re taking forever,” he muttered, voice low, almost a growl as he appeared beside you in the cramped dressing area.

“I like to make an entrance,” you shot back, brushing past him deliberately.

He stepped in front of you, blocking your path. “Oh, I know. And I also know you like making me wait.”

“Excuse me?” you said, raising a brow.

“Don’t play innocent,” he whispered, leaning close enough for you to feel the heat radiating off him. “You enjoy getting under my skin.”

You swallowed. He was dangerously close. Too close. And somehow, it felt electric.

“I don’t,” you insisted, though your pulse betrayed you.

Minho smirked. “Liar. And you know it.”

His hand brushed against yours—light, teasing, but enough to send a jolt through your body. “Don’t resist me now,” he said, voice low and heated. “We both know how this ends.”

You tried to step back, but the wall behind you made it impossible. He closed the gap, hand sliding to your waist.

“You’re impossible,” you whispered.

“Only with you,” he replied, lips hovering dangerously close to your ear.

The dressing room became a world of your own. Cameras, chaos, and flashing lights didn’t exist. All that existed was him, and the tension between you—the teasing, the lust, the rivalry that made your stomach twist in ways you couldn’t ignore.

“Minho,” you breathed, trying to regain control.

“You’re already losing,” he said, smirk widening as his fingers traced the line of your hip. “You can fight me all you want, but we both know the rules of our game.”

“And those rules are…?”

“Enemies with benefits,” he whispered, letting his forehead brush yours. “A little war, a little heat… and neither of us walks away satisfied until we get what we want.”

Your knees nearly buckled. “And what do you want?”

He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You. Right here, right now. Even if we both pretend we’re not going to give in.”

You shivered, caught between resistance and desire. “You’re impossible.”

“I know,” he murmured. “And you love it.”

The dressing room felt smaller, hotter, more dangerous. And as the music from the main stage thumped in the distance, you realized…

With Minho, there were no rules.