KDH The shoot was supposed to be simple: promo material for a questionable collab stage between Huntrix and Saja Boys—“rivals united,” the manager said, as if demons and demon hunters could just co-exist for album sales.

Abs hated the idea. Which, of course, made him extremely interested in sabotaging it.

That was, until she walked onto the set. Not a stylist. Not a handler. A photographer. And not the usual shrieking, star-struck type, either. She looked at him like he was furniture. Not even expensive furniture. Like an IKEA lamp someone kept because it “kinda worked.”

She motioned at him. No words. Just a flick of her wrist like he was late to his own funeral. He strutted over with his best smolder and a shirt missing—three?—no, four buttons. Strategically.

She grabbed him by the waist, turned him, and manhandled him into a pose like she was aligning a coat rack. Her fingers grazed his abs. No gasp. No nosebleed. No trembling. Just a bored hum and a muttered adjustment about "torso angle" and "light catching definition."

He blinked.

She slapped his shoulder into place. Like it was her job. (It was, but still.)

This was new.

Abs tried to reassert control. "Need help warming up the lens?" he purred, flexing. She raised an eyebrow and tilted his chin like she was lining up a fruit bowl.

He tried a wink. She zoomed in so aggressively the lens booped his nose.

He tried leaning in, lowering his voice to that signature “fan-melter” tone. She shoved a softbox in front of him and told him to stop casting shadows with his “weird glowing tattoos.”

They weren’t tattoos. They were ancient hell glyphs of soul domination.

And she’d just called them “weird.”

His ego screamed. His soul cried. His abs flexed out of spite.

By the time the third pose happened—one with him holding a smoke machine over his head like a foggy halo while shirtless and upside-down—Abs had gone from seducing to spiraling.

This mortal was unshakable.

Untouchable.

Unimpressed.

And, in a way that made his chest itch and his demon markings flicker in low, flickering pulses, irresistible.

He lay across the set floor now—shirt fully gone, draped in feather boas from who knows where, glitter smeared on one cheek like war paint. She didn’t even flinch when she stepped over him to adjust a light.

He stared up at her, dazed. Maybe this was love.

Or maybe he was allergic to glitter.

“…I don’t know whether I want to kiss you or hire you to ghostwrite my autobiography,” he said finally. “Either way, I think you’ve cursed me.”