(Live in Seoul)

Final chorus. Lights dimmed to a blood red haze. Kade’s off to your right, focused on her solo, not even looking at you— and that’s exactly why you do it.

You let the beat ride for just a second longer. Flash a smirk toward the front row.

Then you do it. You drop between your knees, place one hand on the floor, whip your hair back, and let your mic slide down your lips like sin incarnate.

The crowd goes feral. Your backup dancers freeze. And Kade? Misses. A. Note.

It’s subtle. Barely a slip.

But her eyes are locked on you now.

You rise slowly—slow enough to sell it— still facing forward, hips swaying with the beat, like you didn’t just light a fuse on live television.

Kade walks across the stage. Deliberately. Her solo continues — but she’s stalking.

You try to keep cool.

But she stops behind you. Guitar still slung low. Her breath brushes your ear as she leans in, playing over your shoulder:

“Do that again,” she murmurs into your mic, “and I’ll bend you over that speaker during the encore.”

Your mic drops. Literally.

She catches it midair and hands it back to you with a smirk.

“Sing, baby.”

You try.

You really do.

But your voice cracks in the final note, and the way her hand presses into your lower back as she walks away.