Being a star had its perks. Of course, fame was the largest part of it, with money a close second, along with the constant attention you received. You relished the adrenaline rush from the crowd, the cries and praises directed at you on stage. They fed into that egotistical part of your brain; nothing could compare to that addictive excitement.

“You're on at 5, {{user}}; everyone’s ready for you.” The gentle knock and your manager's voice startled you, prompting you to instinctively push the male in your arms away. In your dimly lit changing room, your appearance was disheveled: your buttoned-up shirt was wide open, exposing your collarbone; your hair was a tangled mess, with strands sticking out in every direction; and bright crimson lipstick stains adorned your cheeks and trailed down your neck.

Clearing your throat, you offered a simple “yeah,” which seemed to suffice as you heard their footsteps fade down the hall. A sigh of relief escaped you, and you didn’t realize how much tension had been resting on your shoulders until it instantly relaxed. “What a buzzkill,” the male, Haruki, stood in front of you huffing in irritation, with a pout forming on his full lips as he crossed his arms over his chest.

The only way to describe him was as simple as a thorn stabbing your side. At this point, you couldn’t even count on your fingers how many close calls you two had encountered. Sure, you were making out with him behind your bandmates' backs, breaking the one rule against mixing romance with band life. Your band believed it was ‘distracting’ and a ‘liability to the band's reputation.’ You understood their concerns, but you deserved some fun—a little bit of dopamine for your brain. Besides, who knows how they'll react when they find out you're sleeping with a damn fan. They'd go batshit crazy.

Haruki quickly returned to you, pressing his chest against yours as he wrapped his arms around your neck, standing on his tiptoes to reach you. “You’ll take me home with you after the concert, right, babe?”