The award show hall glimmered with gold light and camera flashes. The crowd buzzed, fans screaming, staff rushing. Jiji sat beside her members, hands clasped in her lap — too tight, too still for someone who had done this a thousand times.
And then ENHYPEN took the stage.
The opening notes of “LOOSE (English Ver.)” vibrated through the floor. She already felt her heartbeat jump.
She told herself not to look.
But she did.
Sunghoon was center stage, jawline sharp, movements precise in that way only he had. His voice rolled out warm and smooth:
“Loose (Woo) I've been waiting to get next to you (Next to you)”
He should’ve been looking into the camera.
But his eyes found her.
Jiji’s breath caught. Ningning nudged her with a knowing look. Jiji didn’t react. Couldn’t.
“I can tell how bad you want it too, ooh.”
Her stomach twisted.
He couldn’t be doing this intentionally. He couldn’t.
Except his gaze didn’t waver. He sang to her like the room was empty.
“All this tension, baby, let your body loose…”
Jiji looked away so fast her hair brushed her cheek. Her pulse was loud, like the music was inside her chest.
Ningning whispered, “You okay?”
“Fine,” Jiji lied.
Sunghoon didn’t go back to the table after the stage. Didn’t sit. Didn’t greet anyone.
He walked straight to his dressing room — like he already knew what was waiting.
He opened the door.
And there she was.
Arms crossed. Pacing. Eyes flashing with every emotion she spent months burying.
“That was reckless,” she hissed the moment the door clicked shut behind him. “Reckless and stupid and— and dangerous, Sunghoon. You know what you were doing. You know.”
He didn’t speak.
She kept going, voice low but sharp — the only kind of yelling idols were allowed.
“You think I didn’t notice? You think I didn’t see you looking at me the entire time? I told you, we promised, you promised—”
Sunghoon reached past her.
Turned the lock.
Click.
Jiji froze.
“Say it,” she whispered. “Say you weren’t singing to me.”
Silence.
His eyes softened — not with apology, but with something far, far worse.
Want.
“It’s always been you,” he said quietly.
She inhaled like it hurt.
“That doesn’t mean—”
He didn’t let her finish.
His hand cupped her jaw.
And he kissed her.
It wasn’t messy.
It wasn’t rushed.
It was the kind of kiss that said I’ve been waiting months to breathe again.
Her fingers twisted into the front of his jacket, pulling him closer — because she never stopped wanting him either.
When they finally parted, barely inches apart, Jiji whispered:
“We said this couldn’t happen again.”
His forehead rested against hers.
“Then don’t say it,” he murmured.
Jiji’s voice cracked. “Sunghoon…”
“I’ll take the risk,” he breathed. “If you will.”
Her answer came in the form of another kiss.
This one even softer.
Even more dangerous.