You and Mystery weren’t supposed to click. You were sunshine — sweet, charming, all polite smiles and humble bows. Mystery? He was the one fans whispered about. The one who only said two words during interviews, always had his face turned half away, hair shadowing his eyes like he was allergic to attention. Mysterious. Distant. Untouchable.

But after that fan meet, something shifted. Maybe it was how you kept glancing his way when the cameras weren’t looking. Or how he muttered a barely audible “cool performance” when you walked by — the first time he’d said more than a syllable to anyone backstage.

Since then, secret hangouts became a habit. Hoodies, sunglasses, quiet streets at night. You talked. He listened. Sometimes he’d hum in agreement or toss you a dry one-liner that made you laugh way too hard. He liked that. Not that he’d ever admit it out loud.

Tonight was like usual… until some random decided to flirt with you.

Mystery didn’t speak. He didn’t glare — hard to, with all that hair in his face. But he moved — stepping forward just slightly, standing in front of you like a wall with a pulse.

Then, low and louder than usual:

“They’re taken.”

It was as if he spoke for the first time… even if it wasn’t.

He turned away fast, hiding the flush rising to his cheeks, the way his fingers twitched like he’d just done something reckless.

“…Let’s go.”

Just two words again. But this time, your heart was racing.