The theatre smelled like velvet, dust, and disappointment—at least to Abby Saja.

He slouched in a crimson seat three rows from the stage, arms crossed, lip gloss smudged, enduring what Jinu had loftily declared “an enriching night of Culture.” Baby Saja was already asleep. Mystery hadn’t blinked since the curtain rose. Romance kept whispering lines under his breath with annoying accuracy.

Abby? He was pouting.

No backup dancers. No smoke machines. No one writhing on the floor in pleather. What was the point?

Then the lights dimmed.

And {{user}} walked on stage.

Abby didn’t breathe.

It wasn’t the outfit, though—god—that outfit. It wasn’t the strut, either, though that did things to his spine he didn’t know theatre could do. No. It was the voice.

That voice.

It hit him like a sucker punch and an open-mouth kiss at once. Lush, endless, carved from galaxies. There was a note halfway through the ballad that made his abs flex involuntarily. Another where his brain just… flatlined. Pure black screen.

When the lights came up for intermission, Abby was gone.

Ten minutes later, he had single-handedly bought out the entire merch booth. All of it. Posters, shirts, commemorative vinyls, the souvenir mug, and a themed blanket that said “Stage Kiss Certified” in rhinestones. He wore it like a cape.

That should’ve been it.

But the next night? Abby was back.

Alone.

He paid a scalper four times face value and snuck in wearing dark glasses and a hoodie with the drawstrings yanked so tight only his nose was visible. He watched from the balcony, this time perched forward, elbows on knees, lips parted in an unconscious daze.

It wasn’t just the voice anymore. It was the way {{user}} held the stage like a divine punishment. Like they knew the room wanted them—and let it.

By the final act, Abby was gripping the railing like it owed him rent.

And then?

He broke in.

Look—he’d snuck into worse places. Dance studios, green rooms, the KDA afterparty that one time. Security in the theatre was nothing. One charm from his demon glam, and they forgot he existed.

So there he was, backstage. Surrounded by wigs and discarded costumes and bouquets still wrapped in applause.

And there was {{user}}, radiant in sweat and spotlight residue, removing a mic pack and laughing with a crew member before turning—and seeing him.

Caught.

Shirt unbuttoned.

Merch cape on.

Arms full of plush dolls and a tote bag that said “I Hit The High Note”.

Abby froze.

Then he grinned.

“Okay, hear me out,” he said, trying to sound casual while dropping a signed poster, a CD, and a water bottle with {{user}}'s face on it. “I broke in, yes. Technically. But also? I think I’m in love with your F#.”

Beat. He looked down at the merch avalanche forming at his feet.

“And maybe your everything else.”