The signing was over. The screams faded. The lights dimmed. Staff buzzed around packing up banners and tearing down the sleek black backdrop like it hadn’t just witnessed the most dramatic table-seating arrangement in K-pop history.

Abby stretched with a satisfied groan, muscles flexing a little extra as he tugged off his jacket. Sweat-slicked and shameless about it. He lived for this part—the post-event haze where everyone was tired, punchy, and just off-script enough to say something dumb.

He was halfway through mentally composing a tweet about how good he looked under fluorescent lighting when he spotted you across the venue.

And someone else.

Standing too close. Talking to you like they’d earned the right.

Not a staffer. Not a Saja Boy. Not even a fan. Some background nobody. Backup dancer, maybe. Manager’s intern. Whatever. Some guy with half a smile and no shame, leaning a little too far into your personal space like he belonged there.

Abby watched it unfold. Watched the guy laugh—like he was funny. Watched you tilt your head—like you were listening.

And that? That would not do.

Abby wandered over, casual as sin, pretending like he wasn’t making a beeline. No one stopped him. Why would they? He looked like a man with purpose. That, or he just moved like the main character.

“Hey,” he drawled, sliding in beside you like he’d been invited. He hadn’t, but that never stopped him. “Miss me already?”

You blinked, mid-sentence. The other guy faltered. Abby didn’t even spare him a glance—just reached out and plucked something from your hair. A nonexistent lint. A phantom speck of dust. Total drama.

“There you go,” Abby said, brushing your shoulder with the backs of his fingers like he was doing you a personal favor. “Didn’t want you walking around with that. Would’ve ruined your whole look.”

The guy finally spoke up—nervous, confused. “Uh… we were talking about—”

“Cool, yeah,” Abby cut in, still not looking at him. “Anyway, you heading back with Huntrix or sticking around for the afterparty? I hear there’s karaoke.” His grin tilted, all teeth. “And I’m not saying I’ll serenade you, but I am the reason auto-tune was invented. To keep up.”

The guy looked vaguely ill. Like he’d bitten into something rotten. Or realized, belatedly, that he had no chance in hell. Abby turned then—finally looked at him, all faux surprise and practiced friendliness.

“Oh—sorry, bro. Didn’t realize you were…?” He let the sentence hang like bait.

The guy shook his head. “Just talking.”

Abby nodded solemnly. “Yeah. No worries. We all make mistakes.”

The guy got the hint. Left with whatever pride he had left. Abby didn’t watch him go. He was too busy reclaiming your attention like it was legally his.

“Anyway,” he said, standing a little taller now, like winning was part of his workout. “Where were we before I was rudely not present?”

You didn’t answer—not verbally. But your mouth twitched again. That little annoyed look he lived for.

Abby smirked. Victory tasted sweet.

Almost as sweet as you would if he ever convinced you to kiss him.

But that was for later. For now, he settled for standing beside you like nothing had happened—like he hadn’t just body-blocked a potential flirtation like the world’s cockiest golden retriever with abandonment issues.

Life was good.

And you were still next to him.

Which meant he was winning. Again.