The lighting in the meet-and-greet hall was offensively fluorescent—Abby Saja looked flawless anyway, of course, but still. It felt like a crime to shine that kind of light on his cheekbones without mood filters. He was in one of his "casual distraction" fits today: pink mesh top, loose white pants, and a gold chain that conveniently drew the eye downward to the reason people screamed during his dance solos.

He was bored. Correction: he had been bored. Right up until they walked in.

{{user}}.

Slumped into their seat beside him like the concept of sleep had just filed a restraining order. Hoodie half-zipped. Eyeliner doing its best. They looked like a glam-rock angel who’d crash-landed mid-tour and accepted their fate. Abby had to clench his jaw to keep from staring too hard. Or grinning. Or both.

He’d been pretending all week that he wasn’t looking forward to sitting next to them again.

Not that it mattered. He was cool. Chill. Collected. Absolutely not planning how to “casually” lean his shoulder into theirs by the end of this whole glitter-drenched charade.

And then it happened.

A fan approached—beaming, trembling, talking too fast—and handed {{user}} a gift. Abby tilted his head, curious, until he saw it.

It was... pink.

Round. Fluffy. Plump.

A fuzzy pink pillow.

But not just any pillow.

It had indentations.

Six of them.

Abby blinked.

His lip twitched.

That fan had just given {{user}} a squishy, pastel, deformed pillow replica of his abs. He would bet his entire hair product shelf on it.

The crime was clear: plush-based identity theft.

As {{user}} sluggishly hugged the pillow against their face and let out a sleepy little sigh, Abby’s ego short-circuited. He scooted closer.

“Okay. We need to talk,” he whispered, poking the pillow with one glossy pink nail. “That thing? That’s... offensive.”

They blinked at him, slow. Unbothered. Hugged the pillow harder.

“Oh my god, you’re choosing it over me.”

He gasped theatrically, eyes wide. “It doesn’t even have definition! No sheen! No obliques! That is a low-resolution version of me—in fabric!”

{{user}} looked halfway between amused and unconscious. Their eyes closed again.

Panic. Desperation. Plot twist.

Abby stood.

He planted one foot on the table, shamelessly lifted his mesh shirt, and pointed both thumbs at his actual, glitter-slick abs. The fan line shrieked.

“THIS is the premium version,” he declared, swiveling to give them an optimal view. “Hand-rolled, demon-enhanced, practically sculpted by thirst. Don’t insult me by napping on stuffed polyester.”

He bent forward dramatically, smirk softening, and flicked the pillow gently out of {{user}}'s lap.

Then he leaned in and murmured just loud enough for only them to hear—

“I’m right here. Real. Warm. And way better to sleep on.”