Baby Saja sat on the makeup stool like he owned the room, knees spread, jacket shrugged off his shoulders, hair already pushed back. The dressing room buzzed around them, stylists, managers, other idols muttering about lights and mics, but he only saw one person.

you.

They moved toward him with the small eyeliner brush between their fingers, the same way they always did—quiet, unhurried, familiar. He’d seen hundreds of hands reach for his face, adjust his collar, dab powder on his nose. But not like this. Not like them.

you didn’t ask. Just tapped his chin gently, tilting his head up. His breath caught for half a second.

Baby: “Mm.” he hummed, a slow smirk tugging at his lips. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you like bossing me around.”

you didn’t reply. Just raised the brush, steady and sure.

God, he loved that. The way you didn’t rise to his bait. The way you didn’t need to speak to make him feel like everything in him was unraveling, one thread at a time.

He let his eyes drift halfway shut, watching them through his lashes.

Baby: “Be honest.” he murmured, voice low. “You love getting this close to me.”

No answer. Just the press of your fingers against his jaw, the careful slide of the brush across his lash line. The liner was cold—cooler than their skin. They moved with practiced ease, never faltering, never flinching under his gaze.

He swallowed.

Baby: “You’re making it really hard not to kiss you right now.” he said, quieter this time.