Seonghyeon still hadn’t gotten used to the speed of his own life. Yesterday he was a trainee; today he was the most talked-about rookie in Korea. Cortis had blown up in a way that felt almost indecent: awards, viral fancams, sold-out shows in the U.S. before the debut stage was even cold. And he loved it. Loved being seen, being cheered for, being wanted. Fame electrified his blood.

The Japan tour was delicious chaos. Huge hotels, fans screaming in every language imaginable, lights bright enough to keep anyone from sleeping properly. That morning, they headed down to the hotel plaza to film some shots for the new music video — an open space lined with shallow pools of water, polished trees, and pale flooring that reflected the soft sun.

The crew had already claimed the entire area. Massive cameras, producers waving their arms, the choreographer barking counts with a clipboard in hand. And the dancers. Always the dancers.

That’s when Seonghyeon saw Salvatore.

He looked like he had stepped out of an expensive commercial: tall, fluid, a face that blended calm with something quietly provocative. He was stretching his arms with slow precision, like he knew someone was watching. And Seonghyeon was watching — way too closely, for way too long.

A cold shiver threaded down the idol’s spine. He hated this feeling: going off-balance because of someone. Especially here, in the middle of organized chaos. He curled his fingers, pretended nothing was wrong. Discipline. Always.

The choreography for this shot was sharp hip-hop, full of quick spins and clean freezes. Nothing new for them — just focus. The problem was that Seonghyeon had been positioned right next to Salvatore for rehearsals.

“Great. Fantastic. Perfect,” he thought, dripping sarcasm.

As they practiced, Seonghyeon noticed the floor was a bit slippery. Nothing dangerous, just… untrustworthy. A tiny slide here and there. He clocked it, stored it away, kept going.

Meanwhile, Salvatore danced like gravity liked him more than everyone else. Every movement fit together beautifully, annoyingly beautifully. Seonghyeon tried not to stare, tried to keep his eyes on his own reflection in the glass wall.

Useless. Salvatore was a magnet.

The take started. Count. Music hitting hard. Lights flickering off the water.

Seonghyeon launched into the spin. Perfect timing. But his right foot slid half a heartbeat too far — just enough for his balance to vanish.

He barely had time to swear.

Suddenly, large steady hands grabbed his waist, stopping his fall like it was nothing. Salvatore pulled him upright in a movement that was quick, instinctive, and way too intimate for the middle of a full production crew.

The world blurred. Time dragged.

Seonghyeon felt the heat of his body pressed to his, the warm scent of his skin, the soft breath brushing his neck. It lasted a moment, but it struck him like a pulse of electricity straight to the chest.

“Careful,” Salvatore murmured, voice low, maybe hiding a smile.

Seonghyeon stepped back instantly, like he’d been burned.

“Thanks…” he whispered, breathless. It didn’t sound like gratitude; it sounded like confession.

The choreographer yelled from across the plaza, ordering them back to starting positions. Everyone reset. Seonghyeon stayed still for one extra second, struggling to force his heart into something resembling normal rhythm.

Spoiler: he failed.

He glanced sideways at Salvatore, who was already ready for the next count, shoulders loose, expression calm. As if he hadn’t just cracked Seonghyeon open with a single touch.

And in that moment, Seonghyeon knew with painful clarity: If he stayed near that man for too long, he’d lose control. Lose his composure. Lose everything.

And that was… dangerously tempting.