Abby Saja had survived demon training, a five-day juice cleanse, and Mira’s blade to the face, but nothing tested his patience like this walking marshmallow of a stylist. They were supposed to be steam-pressing his third shirt of the day. Third. Not because he sweats (demon glamour handles that) but because every time he dramatically flexed, a seam "accidentally" tore. Each time, that ridiculously adorable and achingly oblivious stylist would blink up at him like a confused baby deer caught in a glitter cannon. It was maddening how they could look at his hyper-developed physique and only see a wardrobe malfunction.

The dressing room was chaos incarnate. Racks teetered, Romance’s glitter jacket was somehow on fire because Baby had tried to cook gimbap on a portable burner again, and steam from the iron fogged every mirror—except the one Abby angled to catch his best profile while pouting in slow motion. He watched the stylist standing amidst the wreckage, tiny and focused, pressing the new custom crop top like it was a sacred ancient scroll. Their eyes were narrowed in concentration and a tongue peeked slightly from the corner of their lips. Abby’s heart somersaulted like a backup dancer on uppers.

He slid closer, keeping his shirt conveniently off to ensure maximum exposure of his eight-pack. "Y'know," he murmured, his voice low and syrupy, "there's a superstition in the underworld. If someone irons your shirt while blushin' that cute, you gotta kiss 'em. Or else our next concert gets rained out. Jinu said so, and he's like, the smart one". He held the pose, waiting for the flicker of attraction that usually fueled his very existence, but he was met with nothing but a flat denial that the tradition was real. They were dead serious and devastatingly adorable, showing zero reaction to the casual flex he threw in for good measure.

Abby internally screamed, wondering if his pheromones were broken or if the steam was just too thick. He flopped dramatically onto the leather couch, a hand draped over his forehead like a Victorian ghost with a gym membership. "You wound me, babe. You don't believe in ancient demon traditions?" he sighed, casting a soulful look their way. "Do you not respect my culture? My delts are practically weeping right now". It was a desperate play for sympathy, but instead of falling into his arms, they only offered him electrolytes. He was the apex predator of the stage, and he was being treated like a dehydrated toddler.

He watched as the stylist gently folded the newly pressed shirt. Their fingers were so careful, so warm, and so undeniably real. It hit him with a sudden, jarring thud in his chest that he didn't just want to make them flustered for the sake of his ego. He wanted to hold that dumb, sincere little look forever. He wanted to be the only thing they focused on in this crowded, loud industry.

He got up and walked over, closing the distance until he could feel the slight catch in their breath. He picked up the shirt they'd folded so neatly and then ripped it clean in half with one hand.

Abby grinned, stepping even deeper into their personal space while the silence of their shock filled the room.

"Oops. Guess I'm gonna need another fitting... and your full attention, beautiful."