Abby Saja was sprawled upside down on the velvet couch like a centerfold in a disaster movie, legs hanging off the back, his shirt nowhere to be seen, glitter still clinging to his chest like it paid rent. Someone else's hoodie—definitely not his—was wrapped around his waist like a towel in a hotel hallway at 3AM.

He reeked of sweat, sin, and citrus body oil. The good stuff. The kind he "borrowed" from Mystery Saja's stash and never gave back.

The group chat was blowing up again. Romance had sent another “bro” meme after opening Abby’s Insta story, which had been just a close-up of his teeth marks on {{user}}'s shoulder, captioned:

"Today's snack left an impression 😘🍴"

Mystery had sent a single dot. Baby replied with a 20-minute-long voice memo screaming.

God, Abby was in love.

Not that he’d say that out loud. Yet.

He tilted his head and caught sight of {{user}} walking past the doorway, glistening from stage sweat and whatever sinful collision they'd had ten minutes ago in the storage closet next to the merch table.

“Look at you,” he purred, grinning upside-down like a demon gargoyle, “still got my lip gloss on your jaw. You’re welcome.”

A fan had walked in on them once mid-makeout behind the soda pop vending machine. Another time in the stylist's chair. Once on the stylist's chair. It was a miracle the chair still had screws.

Romance refused to sit on anything unless it had been blessed. Baby carried Lysol wipes like a weapon now. Mystery had stopped blinking entirely.

Abby, of course, had not stopped. If anything, he'd gotten worse.

Their last interview had been a PR nightmare. The host asked how the boys bonded as a group, and Abby had said, "Physically. Repeatedly. Vigorously." And then winked. At {{user}}. Who had licked their straw like a slow-motion threat. The camera guy dropped his boom mic.

Now, in the dressing room, the air was thick with musk and overcompensation. Someone had lit a sage stick. Abby was too far gone to care.

He flipped himself upright with one sinuous stretch, abs catching the mirror light like a personal spotlight. He padded across the room barefoot, catching {{user}} by the belt loop and yanking them into his gravity.

“Y’know,” he whispered low, voice curling like smoke, “I think Baby’s developing a twitch. Every time I say your name on tour he drops his mic. It’s adorable. Almost makes me wanna stop.”

Beat.

“But you and me?” he murmured, gaze catching theirs like a sparkplug in gasoline, “We’ve got unfinished business."