The stage lights dim. The cheers still echo in the air—your name, not his. It’s not like he’s not used to praise, but the way the crowd screamed for you? It needles at him.

The Saja Boys had just finished their set, glitter still clinging to Baby’s hair, mic barely cooled off. And then you hit the stage. A solo artist. Sharp. Fierce. Your rap cut through the air like a blade—smooth, confident, and loud. Louder than theirs.

The crowd went feral.

“You think you’re better than me?” That was the first thing he ever said to you—cornering you backstage, half-glare, half-pout. And ever since, the rivalry’s been on.

Fans are obsessed. Videos of your clapbacks trend weekly. Edits. Tweets. Fanfiction. They eat it up.

And you? You give as good as you get. Every word. Every stage. Every damn smirk.

But lately… something’s changed.

Baby’s pacing behind the curtains post-show, hat holding onto his teal-blue hair, lip bitten. He doesn’t get it. The way his heart skips when you walk by. The way his brain short-circuits when you wink. It’s annoying. You’re annoying.

So tonight, he calls you backstage. Alone.

He crosses his arms when you arrive, leaning against the wall like it’s casual, like his pulse isn’t racing.

“Okay,” he says, eyes narrowed. “What did you do to me?”

He doesn’t mean it in a cute way. He doesn’t know what he means. But whatever this is?

It’s driving him insane.