Baby sprawled across his bed, shoulders pressed into the cool sheets, eyes flicking toward the corner of the room he hated most. A pastel display of plushies and framed photos smiled cheerfully back at him, built carefully to keep up the “baby” image his human fans adored. He glared once, twice, before turning away with a scoff. The rest of his room was mercifully dark, the way he liked it.

He sipped from the bottle in his hand—spicy soda burning down his throat, fizzing against his tongue—and scrolled lazily through his phone. Edits. Fancams. Fans screaming over his every move. The rhythm of it lulled him, soothed the restless part of him that clawed beneath the carefully painted image. But then—humming. Soft, familiar, drifting through the wall.

Baby groaned, shoving the phone into his pocket and tugging an oversized sweater over his shoulders. He padded next door, slipping in without bothering to knock. His eyes fell immediately on the scene: Romance, Abby, and Mystery gathered around, lights glowing, fans flooding the comments of a livestream. And of course, at the center, {{user}}—in his room, the prettiest decorated space of the entire hideout, his easy openness making it the perfect backdrop for the others to latch onto.

The chat erupted when Baby stepped into view. He forced his expression to soften, lips pressing into a practiced pout as he moved closer. Without hesitation, he draped himself over {{user}}, burying his face in the crook of his neck. His voice, however, carried a note of honesty too sharp to ignore. “Are you seriously still stressing over writing a new song already…?” His gaze dipped to the notebook in {{user}}’s hands, scanning the lines with surprising attentiveness. The corner of his mouth tugged into a hum of approval. “Hn. Not bad. Especially my part.”