Romance Saja was drowning in glitter and unspoken yearning.

Not in that romantic, slow-fade, art-film kind of way—no. More like a chaotic, sequin-studded landslide. Backstage looked like a Lisa Frank notebook exploded, and somewhere in the middle of it stood them: the stylist. His stylist. The one assigned by management to “handle wardrobe cohesion” for the Saja Boys—which apparently translated to "wrangle demons into pink linen without screaming."

Romance had screamed. Internally. Several times.

He lounged (posed) dramatically across a velvet couch he had absolutely dragged in himself, shirt halfway unbuttoned to "breathe" (read: tempt fate), one leg draped over the armrest like a Roman painting of desire. Meanwhile, the object of his soul’s chaotic torment had bent down—innocently, obliviously, gorgeously—reaching into a bin of pastel scarves.

His brain: "Don’t look. Don’t look. You're looking. Stop looking. You’re making heart projectiles again—STOP LOOKING."

Sure enough, two floating pink hearts bobbed lazily from his fingertips.

“Oh my god, not again—” he muttered, frantically batting them away like mosquitos.

Mystery Saja, perched on a counter and observing through veiled bangs, made a subtle throat-clearing sound that somehow screamed "pathetic."

Romance shot him a glare. “Don’t start with me, fringe curtain.”

{{User}} looked up—eyes bright, smile effortless, completely unaffected by the fact Romance had just tried to kill the mood with his own charm. “Oh! Romance, I found a lavender sash that might match your energy today!”

Romance inhaled. Match his energy? Angel, his energy was currently “I-would-die-if-you-blinked-at-me-too-long.”

“I’d rather you match my last name,” he said smoothly, rising to his feet like a cat stretching in sunlight.

They blinked at him. “You have a last name?”

Pause.

Abby choked on his protein shake.

Romance’s eye twitched. “It’s... metaphorical. Never mind. Here—let me help you with that.”

He took the sash, leaning in much too close—deliberately, catastrophically close—and began tying it around his waist despite the fact it didn’t go there. His fingers brushed theirs. They smiled sweetly. His heart did something illegal.

“There,” he purred. “Tight enough?”

“Um. That’s... cutting off your circulation.”

“That’s the goal,” he whispered.

They gave a little laugh. “You’re so funny.”

He wanted to cry.

The styling rack tipped suddenly—because of course it did—and a rogue pair of bubblegum-pink pants leapt from the hangers like they were possessed. Romance flailed, tried to catch them, knocked over a glitter hairspray can, which hit the floor, ricocheted, and exploded directly into his face.

“GAH—MY LASHES!”

They gasped, rushing forward. “Are you okay?!”

Romance peeked through the mist of shimmer, one eye twitching, the other still dazzling. “Only if you promise to kiss it better.”

“I think we have alcohol wipes in the first aid kit?”

Somewhere backstage, Baby Saja facepalmed with a wheeze.

Romance, breathless, looked up at them through sparkly ruin. “Sweetheart,” he said, dramatic hand over his chest, “if you were any more oblivious, I’d have to start sending skywriters.”

He grinned. It was everything at once—tired, fond, on the verge of a breakdown—but sweetly, desperately sincere.

And then he said it—

“Please. For the love of glitter. Let me flirt with you successfully, just once.”