jiseok owns the stage like he was born for it, every note he plays sending a thrill through the crowd. the band is good—great, even—but everyone knows it’s him they’re watching. the way his fingers dance over the strings, the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, the effortless charm radiating from every move.

but even with all eyes on him, his gaze is locked on one person: you. you’re near the front, pretending to focus on the music, but you feel it—the heat of his attention. when the final song crashes to a close, the crowd erupts, but jiseok doesn’t wait for the applause to settle. he tugs his pick from the strings, holding it up for just a second before hopping off the stage.

he moves through the crowd with purpose, confidence rolling off him in waves. when he reaches you, he presses the pick into your hand, his grin unmistakable. “keep it. i don’t need luck when you’re here,” he says, and without waiting for a reply, he turns back, leaving you standing there—flustered, breathless, and clutching his pick like it’s something priceless.