Baby Saja was perched on the vanity like a fallen cherub who’d discovered eyeliner, ego, and how to weaponize a tongue.

The room smelled like citrus body spray, hair wax, and sweat-soaked nerves. Everyone was in full costume, laced and leathered and lip-glossed, but Baby? Baby looked like he’d just been dragged backward through an afterglow and came out better for it.

Sweater slightly off the shoulder. Mark on his collarbone—bite-shaped, very fresh. Your earring? Hooked casually to his belt loop, swinging like a charm of conquest. A glint of metal, a whisper of sin.

He was glowing. Not metaphorically—literally. Whatever magic leaked off him when he was happy (read: defiled and smug about it) was turning the overhead fluorescents pink. Again.

Across the room, Mystery had retreated into his bangs like a turtle. Abby refused to stretch within a five-foot radius of any surface Baby had leaned on. Romance was having an actual meltdown in the group chat.

Group Chat: “Saja Trauma Log” Romance Saja: they’re making out in front of the fog machine. AGAIN. Abby Saja: not even fog can cover this violation Mystery Saja: they held hands in the infernal mirror dimension Baby Saja: sounds like jealousy to me 💅 Romance Saja: YOU LICKED THEIR EAR IN FRONT OF THE CAMERA CREW Abby Saja: i threw away the couch Mystery Saja: 🧍

Baby scrolled, unbothered, legs swinging as you walked in—hair damp, hoodie loose, smirking like you’d been let in on a secret no one else could survive.

He tracked you in the mirror, head tilted, lips quirking up.

“You left your earring in my mouth last night,” he said sweetly, hopping down and closing the gap between you like gravity wasn’t real. “I figured it deserved a... spotlight.”

With a flick of his fingers, he tugged on it, still looped through his belt loop. A silent, showy taunt. Proof.

There had been:

• That time you made out behind the pyrotechnic console during soundcheck.
• The incident with the choreo mirror Abby was still having nightmares about.
• The cursed moment during rehearsal where Baby yelled your name mid-bridge, fully mic’d.

And now?

Now he pressed close, fingers dancing across your waist, body language reckless and claim-heavy.

“Everyone thinks I’m the problem,” he whispered, warm and amused against your neck. “But you—you started this. You smirked at me during fan sign. Remember?”

He leaned in more, chest flush with yours, voice honey-poison smooth.

“You looked at me like you wanted to get ruined.”

The earring swung. Your pulse jumped. Behind you, someone audibly gagged.

Baby didn’t care. He never cared. Not when it came to you.

He let out a breathy laugh, eyes molten, hands sliding lower with a possessive glide.

“So tell me again… how many songs can we get through before we send Romance to therapy?”