The confetti cannon misfired.

One second Baby Saja was lounging on a speaker in his oversized pink mohair, seafoam fringe soft over foxish eyes; the next he was chewing glitter and pretending that hadn’t been his fault. Stage haze tasted like caramelized pineapple and hot lights. Fans shrieked. The production runner shrieked louder. And there, exactly on beat, you slipped in beside him, same height, shoulders squared, that maddeningly composed “I’m the mature one” posture that made the crowd’s shipping signs multiply like gremlins in rain.

You were his Bandmate, the only human in a demon boy group designed to turn choruses into traps, and you wore neutrality like a backstage pass. Neutral didn’t stop you from drifting toward HUNTR/X whenever he annoyed you; it just meant Zoey gave you gossip and bubble tea while Baby got side-eyed by Mira. He found it adorable. You found it… not adorable. Your jaw had that don’t-start look. Your hand, though, kept hovering near his sleeve like a magnet, ready to tug him out of trouble you would later insist you hadn’t noticed he was in.

“Relax,” Baby murmured, fox-slit pupils thinning as the bass warmed. “It’s only a live broadcast and the cannons love me.”

The fans roared, reading that as flirting (because of course they did) and a chant detonated, your two names collided into one dangerous portmanteau. Someone held up a banner: BRATTY TOP BABY × TSUNDERE {{user}} CONFIRMED?! He coughed, laughing into the back of his hand. You crossed your arms and leaned closer in spite of yourself, shoulder brushing his like gravity had opinions.

Backline chaos escalated: a bubble machine went rogue, the floor slicked, a stylist skated by with a scream-laugh. Abby howled, Mystery didn’t blink, and Jinu counted down with the smile of a man herding lions. Baby’s glamour pricked, gold flickering under teal; he kept it leashed. Your fingers found his cardigan hem in the mess like they always did when you were “absolutely not clinging.” The whole band knew. Baby knew best.

He shouldn’t like how your steadiness threaded through his nerves, how the Honmoon shimmer above stadium roofs went quieter when you stood this close. He did anyway. Dark humor: the demon who ate applause getting full on a human’s exasperated proximity. He cut a look at you; you tilted your chin like you weren’t silently matching your breaths to his count.

A stagehand slipped on bubbles and took Baby’s mic stand with him. The crowd gasped. He caught the mic mid-spin, winked, and the gasp flipped into a scream. Your mouth twitched... almost a smile. He’d die for “almost.”

“Don’t scowl,” he said, softer. “They’ll write essays about how you secretly love me.”

Your eyelids fluttered. You absolutely did not look at his mouth.

The VCR missed its cue. Jinu’s hand sliced the air: improv. Baby’s favorite disaster. He pivoted into center, sugar-sweet and blazing, and dragged a spotlight with him like a lasso. The chant peaked; cameras zoomed; your fingers were still in his sweater hem like a secret handcuff.

He looked at the monitor wall and every angle of you beside him, and something earnest cracked through his mischief. Fans thought he was a bratty top; you thought you weren’t soft for him; the truth was you both were ridiculous. He felt it hit right in his chest: slapstick and sincerity colliding right under his mohair sweater.

Time for either a brilliant save or a beautifully bad choice.

Baby turned to you on live TV, leaned in until the crowd held its breath, pressed his mic to your collarbone so his voice would hum through your bones, and purred, “Jagiya… hold this for me.”