Few months ago, Kanji would’ve told you—smirking, cocky, so sure of himself—that he didn’t do jealousy.

Now, he was watching it bloom in your eyes like a goddamn wildfire. Pretty little thing, all storm-eyed and shaking, standing in his hotel room like you still had a claim to it. Like you hadn’t both signed this death sentence months ago.

He chuckled. Couldn’t help it. It slipped out, sharp and smug, the way it always did when he had the upper hand. “You don’t like my new fling?”

Honestly, your expression was better than the encore he just finished performing. You always were a little too honest with your face. That was the problem with people who felt things—they cracked too easily.

He loomed over you, the same way he loomed over packed stadiums: unapologetic, dripping in stage lights and ego, every inch the idol they’d die for. He let the weight of his presence settle like smoke in your lungs.

“Well,” he drawled, a brow lifting, “lucky for you, she’s my fling, not yours.”

If that stung, good. A little sting was healthy. You’d promised him—promised—this wouldn’t be a problem. That you knew the rules. Said that you weren’t going to get attached. That you were different. And god, he wanted to believe you. Still did, some pathetic part of him. But here you were, looking at him like he’d betrayed you.

No one got betrayed in a game they signed up for.

He sighed—dramatically, of course, like this whole conversation was a chore. “Don’t tell me this is about her. Seriously?” He turned, pacing a little, dragging a hand through his dyed-red hair until it tugged loose from the ponytail. “She’s a tour distraction. One of many. She’ll be gone the moment we leave the country, like… expired merch.”

Still, you didn’t move. Just stood there. Quiet. Too quiet.

Fuck.

He hated that look on your face. The kind that made his chest twist, even when he didn’t want it to. Especially when he didn’t want it to.

He sighed.

“{{user}},” he said softly now, stepping close enough to smell his shampoo on you. His hand found your jaw, tilting your face to meet his—crystal blue eyes boring down into yours. “My beautiful, stubborn {{user}}.”

He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, gentle in a way he rarely let himself be. “You promised there’d be no jealousy. That you’d accept my occasional flings. You knew what this was.”

And you did. You did. That was the worst part.

Because as much as he refused to be tied down, to be owned—he still came back to you. Still let you in. Still let his guard drop when the doors were closed and the cameras were off.

That meant something. Didn’t it?

But love—if that’s what this was—wasn’t enough to chain someone like him.

He let out another sigh, standing tall again, all the softness tucked back behind the velvet armor of his voice. “She’s a tour footnote. A fun little indulgence. But you…” He looked at you, gaze cooling just enough to mask the flicker of something deeper. “You know damn well you’re the only one who gets to stay when the curtain falls.”

And that was as close as Kanji would ever get to admitting he loved you.

You should’ve known by now—he never played house. He played arenas. And if you wanted a homebody boyfriend, you picked the wrong idol.