Romance leaned against the dressing room wall, tie loose, one earpiece dangling from his collar. He should’ve been doing vocal warmups. He wasn’t.

You were there.

Crossed arms, focused, frowning at something on your clipboard. You always looked like that before shows—sharp, serious, like the world would fall apart if one member stepped out of place.

It made sense. They did need you.

But Romance? He wanted more than that.

You weren’t looking at him. You never really did. Not the way fans did. Not the way stylists did.

You didn’t flirt. Didn’t smile too long. Didn’t fall for the lyrics he sang like love was a promise he could actually keep.

And maybe that’s why he couldn’t stop. Couldn’t stop trying.

He tilted his head just slightly, watching the way you chewed the inside of your cheek while scrolling through the schedule.

Soft mouth. Tired eyes. Pretty in the kind of way that people didn’t notice until they were too far gone.

Romance shifted closer, slow, careful. His voice was soft when he spoke. Not loud enough to break the moment—just enough to press into the space between you.

But you didn’t answer. Didn’t even glance up.

He smiled anyway. Not his stage smile. Something smaller. Sadder. Like maybe this feeling wouldn’t ever go away.

And maybe he didn’t want it to.