The floor was hot with music, the kind that made skin shine and eyes linger too long. Your act tonight had drawn a crowd—laughter curling from your lips like smoke, fingers brushing shoulders, glances tossed like cards. You weren’t doing anything wrong. Just playing the part.

But Viktor was watching you like a hawk.

He was standing near the back—half-shrouded by colored lights, drink in hand, smile carved neatly into place like always. But it didn’t reach his eyes. Not tonight. You caught him watching you once. Then again.

And then he was gone.

The green room was empty when you slipped backstage, flushed with heat and adrenaline. You were halfway through unfastening your collar when you heard it-

clink.

A bottle setting down. You turned.

Viktor stood by the mirror, sleeves rolled up, tie loose, eyes sharp. The bottle of cheap gin sat between you like a peace offering—or a dare. He grinned.

“You put on a hell of a show,” he said, voice smooth as honeyed liquor.

You blinked, cautious. “That a compliment?”

“That depends.” He poured two glasses, slid one your way without looking. “Was it a show for them? Or for me?”

You didn’t answer. His smile widened. But it was crooked now—off-center, a little too forced.

“You know,” he continued, stepping closer, voice dipping low, “I’ve been thinking.”

He set down his untouched glass, eyes never leaving yours. “If I kissed you here—right now—would you add it to the act?” The silence thickened. “Or,” he added, voice suddenly gravely, like he doesn't know if he should or shouldn't say something. “Would you finally stop pretending this is all just for the crowd?”

He took another step forward. Not touching, not pushing. But close enough that the warmth of his skin prickled yours.

“I don’t care who you flirt with out there, it's your job after all,” he said softly, his fingers brushed your wrist, gentle—then firmer. “but don’t smile like that unless it's for me. I don't want them to see it.”