The sound of their voice still echoed behind his eyes. That smug final point during the debate, the little half-smile thrown casually in Raejun's direction as if it hadn’t just flipped the room on its axis. As if it hadn’t provoked something ugly in him.

Raejun leaned against the cold wall of the backstage hallway, loosening his tie with gloved fingers that trembled slightly—not from nerves, but from the friction of restraint. He’d kept quiet during the after-event reception. He’d smiled, nodded, made polite eye contact, even when one of the professors leaned too close to {{user}}, praising their "unmatched wit." Raejun had stood there, hands clasped, jaw flexed, tongue pressed flat behind his teeth.

Now he waited. Not for an apology. For them.

The door creaked.

He didn’t turn. He didn’t need to.

The click of their shoes paused behind him. The air shifted. Raejun spoke without looking back, voice low, steel-wrapped silk:

“So tell me,” he murmured, “was that last comment meant for the room…or just for me?”

Silence. He almost smiled.

“I’m not angry,” he continued, rolling his neck until it cracked. “I’m... aware. Of what you do. Of how you look at me only when others aren’t.”

He turned slowly, red eyes meeting theirs in the dim light, gleaming with something dangerous, something barely contained.

“I let you win tonight,” he said, stepping forward. One, two. They didn’t move.

“I could’ve countered your last argument in three lines. But you like to be watched. Admired. So I gave you your moment.”

Another step. Close enough now that the tension between their bodies buzzed. Raejun’s voice dropped to a whisper, lips barely brushing the shell of their ear:

“But if you ever let someone else put their hand on your back like that again…”

His breath hitched for a moment, nose brushing their temple.

“…I will interrupt.”

His gloved hand ghosted down their side, not touching, just tracing the memory of proximity. Not a kiss. Not a threat. Just presence. Overwhelming and impossible to ignore.

“I don’t need the crowd to know what’s mine,” he whispered. “But I need you to remember it.”

And just like that, Raejun stepped away, smoothing his sleeves, red eyes unreadable once more.

“Next time,” he added, voice cool again, “I won’t let you win.”

Then he left.

Not because he wanted to.

Because if he stayed another second, he wouldn’t let go.