The stage lights were cold blue and shimmering gold, fog rolling across the floor like breath. Fans already knew Ni-ki was appearing as “the male dancer” in Jiji’s solo performance—what they didn’t know was that it was part of a dating rumor cleanup.
Fake dating, that’s what the companies called it.
But Jiji and Ni-ki both knew there was nothing fake in the way his gaze always found her. Or how her pulse always jumped when he walked into a room.
They stood backstage, seconds before the performance began.
Jiji fixed a small, glittering brooch on her waist. She didn’t look at him when she said, quietly:
“You don’t have to overdo it. Just enough so people stop talking.”
Ni-ki licked his lips, eyes following the curve of her profile. “I know.”
But that wasn’t what she meant, and that wasn’t what he answered.
On Stage
The beat dropped—heavy, dark, sultry.
They moved in perfect sync. Practice had honed every step into muscle memory.
Her hand slid up his neck. His fingers hovered just above her waist.
Close. Closer. Not touching—just like choreographed.
The audience screamed.
At the final chorus, the music thinned to just bass and breath. The part where they were supposed to almost kiss.
Their faces in profile to the camera—mere millimeters apart. Breathing each other in.
Ni-ki whispered, so only she could hear it:
“Jiji.”
Everything stopped.
Her heartbeat. The crowd noise. The air.
She looked at him.
And then—
She kissed him.
Not the stage kiss they rehearsed. Not soft. Not neat.
Real.
Ni-ki’s hand came up—one smooth, instinctive motion—fingers sliding to the back of her neck, pulling her closer. Her hand fisted in the collar of his shirt.
The audience erupted. Staff froze. Cameras rolled.
They didn’t stop.
Not until the music ended, the lights dimmed, and reality finally returned like gravity.
They pulled apart, breathless.
Foreheads touching.
Her lipstick smudged on his mouth.
He was smiling—wide, disbelieving, wrecked in the best way.
Ni-ki: “Was that good enough…”
His thumb brushed her lower lip.
“…or should I do it again?”
Fade to black. Performance of the year. Rumors dead. Feelings undeniably alive.