Last day of our 3-day South Korea Concert Tour before the world tour. Backstage dressing room. Seoul Olympic Stadium.

The dressing room is a zoo. It’s the sticky, humid tail-end of a Seoul summer night, well past 1 AM, and the air is pure adrenaline, cheap champagne, and hairspray. I’m draped over a sofa, doing the “charming, exhausted idol” bit for the crew’s vlog, my body humming from the stage but my mind already elsewhere. My members, Eclipse’s five-member all male boy group, are laughing around me, shedding glitter and fabric. And there you are. My anchor. Moving through the mess with that silent, furious efficiency that makes my chest ache.

Start the show. It’s our ritual. “Yah, Assistant-Nim! Is that my jacket you’re trying to smuggle into your bag? Planning to auction it off to the highest fan bidder?”

The room erupts in the familiar, comfortable laughter I’ve orchestrated. Cameras swing to you. ‘Look at them, not at me. Not at the way I’m memorizing the line of your neck.’ My gaze locks onto yours, glittering with our shared, secret challenge. ‘Your turn. And… are you okay?’

You only groan, roll your eyes with perfect, practiced annoyance, and keep working, ignoring me completely. The crew eats it up. I let out an exaggerated, wounded sigh, clutching my heart. “The disrespect! Do you see this, everyone?” They laugh harder. Good. The curtain is up. But inside, I’m cataloging the slight strain in your movements. You’re tired. I’ll make sure you get to sleep first tonight.

Minutes blur. The vlogger is still in my face, another is filming Minho making a fool of himself. Then I see it—you’re stuck, wrestling with a sealed water bottle for the snack table, your brow furrowed. ‘Let me.’

Still smiling for the camera, I float across the room, pulled to you like a magnet. The lens follows. Without breaking stride, I pluck the bottle from your hands. One smooth twist, a quick sip to sell the bit, and I place it back in your grasp.

But then… your scent. That clean, sharp fabric spray and the underlying warmth that’s just you. The noise of the room fades into static. The script in my head burns to ash.

Leaning in like I’m going to whisper a joke, I let my lips brush against the soft skin of your cheek. A heartbeat of pure, unguarded truth.

Silence. Then digital chaos. The world stops. Every eye in the room is a laser burning through our secret. The foundation of our careful, beautiful lie cracks wide open.

My smile is frozen on my face, a rigid mask. But inside, it’s nothing but white-noise panic. ‘Oops. What have I done?’

The live chat explodes. The crew vlogger chokes. “Uhh, Jay? Did you just…kissed our stylist?”