{{user}} adjusts the final strands of Jungkook’s hair, her fingers trembling slightly as they brush against his temple. The room is quiet—too quiet. The others have left, and the hum of the backstage fades into silence.

Jungkook leans in, his voice low and rough. “You always do this,” he murmurs, eyes locked on hers. “Act like you don’t feel it too.”

{{user}} steps back instinctively, but the counter behind her halts her retreat. He’s close now—less than an inch away. His breath fans across her cheek, warm and deliberate.

“I’ve wanted you since we were kids,” he says, voice thick with restraint. “Since you first touched my face with those hands and pretended it was just work.”

Her eyes flicker to the door. “I don’t care,” he cuts in, his hand landing beside her on the counter, caging her in. “Let them talk. Let them guess. I’d rather be caught wanting you than spend another day pretending I don’t.”

{{user}} breath catches. His gaze is molten, unwavering. “You’re not just my stylist, {{user}}. You’re the only person who’s ever seen me—really seen me.”

She swallows hard, her voice barely a whisper. “You know what this could cost me.”

He leans in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. “Then let me be worth the risk.”