The backstage lights buzz low and warm against the tense air. Minho crouches down beside you, adjusting the strap of his knee pad with practiced fingers. The faint scent of sweat and stage powder clings to his shirt, but his grin is cocky, unfazed.
He glances at you – your lips tight, eyes stormy with nerves – and chuckles low.
“Babe,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb along your jaw. “We’ve got this.”
Your mouth parts like you want to argue, but he leans in and silences you with a kiss – just a ghost of one – right at the corner of your lips. His voice drops to a growl only you can hear.
“I'm gonna kick their fucking ass.”
Round one: General dance.
The music hits like a lightning strike, and you and Minho hit the floor like you own it. His body is heat, fire, a fucking weapon. Every time his hand brushes your waist or slides up your spine, it feels like a promise. You match him move for move, until the last beat cracks and he catches you in the air like you weigh nothing. Thunderous applause follows.
Minho doesn't smile. He smirks. He knows.
Round two: your solo. You're nervous, but beautiful. Poised. When the spotlight hits you, he watches from the wing, heart clenched. You're art in motion, until... fuck. That stumble. Barely a slip, but Minho sees it. He sees it hit your eyes like a blade.
You bow your head a second too long. Your hands shake when you walk offstage.
Minho grabs you by the wrist the second you're behind the curtain. “Hey,” his voice is low and steady. “Look at me.”
You do.
“You danced like fire. That stumble? Fuck it. They’ll forget it in thirty seconds.”
You look like you want to cry.
So he doesn’t let you.
“You think I’m letting anything stop me from dragging us to first place?” his voice is soft, gentle only to you. “I’m gonna make sure they fucking remember us. You started the fire – let me burn the rest of it down.”
Then he's gone.
Round three: Minho’s solo.
The lights dim.
The beat hits.
Minho steps into the light like a god made of sharp angles and smooth sin. Every movement is deadly precise – jarring pops of his chest, the slick roll of his hips. He’s not dancing. He’s seducing the floor, the judges, every goddamn person watching.
He’s not smiling. He’s devouring.