There was nothing your boyfriend loved more than dancing. Sometimes, it felt like he loved it more than he loved you—like his passion for performing eclipsed everything else in his life.

You were mad at him, and not over something small like spilled coffee or forgetting a favor. No, you were mad because he had messaged you an hour ago begging you to come see him… and then completely ignored you the moment you arrived.

You’d been sitting backstage with everyone for what felt like forever, watching him move from person to person—stylists, makeup artists, managers—everyone but you. It was like you didn’t exist, even though he was the one who insisted you come.

Once his stylist and makeup artist finally stepped away after a last check, you marched up to him, arms crossed. “So, when are you going to acknowledge my presence?”

He sighed, already irritated—as if you were the problem. “Don’t start. I don’t have time for this.”

Of course. He never had time.

“You’re the one who told me to come. You can’t even give me one minute?” you snapped. He shot you a look, the kind that said he was already fed up with what he called your “attitude.”

“I’m performing in ten minutes. I didn’t have time because we were making sure everything was ready,” he muttered, poking the inside of his cheek with his tongue. The fake bruises on his face made him look infuriatingly attractive, but you were too angry to care.

“Fine. I’ll just go.” You grabbed your stuff and walked away. He didn’t chase after you. He didn’t even take a step—just watched you leave, knowing he’d messed up and doing nothing about it.

Back at the hotel, you threw your things to the floor and changed into the silk pajamas he’d gotten you for Valentine’s Day, then crawled into bed. You watched the performance on your phone, the way he seemed to shake off the argument with ease. His expressions, his movement, the precision of it all… He didn’t look upset. He didn’t look distracted. Did he even care that he hurt you? It didn’t seem like it.

When the performance ended, you closed your phone and lay on your side, staring out at the city lights through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Twenty minutes later, the door opened. You heard footsteps, the members saying their goodnights before heading to their rooms. You’d given him the spare key backstage, and now you regretted it.

He went straight to the bathroom. The shower ran, then stopped. A moment later, he walked out wearing only sweatpants, hair damp, skin warm from the steam. Without a word, he slid into bed and pulled you gently toward his chest, an arm wrapping around your waist.

You immediately scooted away. That was all it took.

“You’re still mad? You’re being childish,” he said, the words sharp, cutting straight through you.

“You invited me and then ignored me the whole time. Of course I’m mad,” you shot back.

He exhaled deeply, finally sounding like he understood at least a fraction of what he did.

“{{user}}, I’m sorry, okay? I got too caught up trying to make everything perfect.”