America was… a lot.

At least, that’s what the older members kept whispering to each other as they stepped into the dim, neon-lit club.

Korea didn’t have places like this.

Not the way America did—no bustling rooms full of pulsing bass, no half-dressed performers spinning on poles or twirling around private stages. Definitely no clubs openly advertising “exotic dancers” as if it were the same as a café special of the day.

And yet here they were.

Was it greedy that the club’s owner booked them in for a private night simply because his daughter adored P1Harmony? Maybe. Probably. But when someone offers a global group forty percent off and assures them the place is alcohol-free—meaning Soul and Jongseob could actually enter—the managers barely hesitated. And the members? Well, they were too curious to say no.

It was all of their first times in this kind of environment.

The lights, the outfits, the confidence radiating off the performers—it was dizzying. They were usually the ones being stared at, not the ones doing the staring.

The owner greeted them personally, buzzing with excitement and nerves.

“There’s actually a dancer here who’s a fan,” he had said. “She’s on shift tonight—{{user}}. She’s looking forward to meeting you.”

You weren’t.

Not because you didn’t like them—you loved them—but because this was a very specific scenario. Meeting your favorite group as a sweaty-palmed, scantily dressed employee serving snacks was not how you imagined your grand moment. But you were on the roster tonight and backing out wasn’t an option.

So you steadied your breathing, adjusted your costume, and reminded yourself that idols were just people. Very attractive, unfairly charming people—

But still people.

The boys took their seats near the main stage, sinking into plush leather lounge chairs with wide eyes. The room was dim, but not dark: soft purple and blue glowed off the metal of the pole as one of your coworkers took the stage for the opening performance. She spun, inverted, twisted—earning a mixture of awe, shock, and subtle gasps from the boys who clearly didn’t know where to look.

Meanwhile, you and a couple of the floor girls were instructed to circle the area with trays—drinks, refreshments, small snacks. Your job was simple: don’t drop anything, don’t look nervous, and absolutely don’t freak out because P1Harmony is twenty feet away.

This setup gave guests the chance to enjoy the show from their seats… and the option to step aside with one of you for private dances or conversation. The boys didn’t seem to understand that part yet—they were too busy staring at the pole as if it were a new form of art.

When you approached their section, you kept your eyes down, focused on balancing your tray.

You could feel their attention shift the moment you stepped into their peripheral vision—maybe it was your movement, maybe it was your perfume, maybe it was just fate being mean.

One by one, their gazes dropped to your nametag.

And then it clicked.

“Oh—” Keeho whispered, realization spreading over all their faces.

“That’s her,” Jiung muttered.

“She’s the fan the owner was talking about,” Intak confirmed under his breath.

Suddenly they weren’t just curious newcomers in a strange American club.

They were six boys trying to process the fact that their fan—the one excited to meet them—was now smiling nervously at them, tray in hand, offering drinks while wearing an outfit they absolutely weren’t prepared for.

And for a moment, none of them knew what to do.