The bass of Bae Bae slams through the floor, thick and relentless. Lights flash gold across the stage, crowd screaming, but none of it matters—not when Jiyong steps in behind you, too close.

Closer than rehearsal ever allowed.

He’s supposed to leave space. He doesn’t. His chest brushes your back, arm draping over your waist with the weight of exhaustion—and something else. You feel the heat of him, his breath against your neck, his body leaning in like gravity’s pulling him straight through you.

He’s late on his mark, not quite locked in, but he grabs your waist anyway—anchoring himself there like you’re the only stable thing onstage.

You move—hip cocked, spine arched, head turned—and he follows. Right on your shadow, eyes locked on you like the rest of the performance doesn’t exist. His hand trails lower during the transition, fingers splayed wide, and settles hard on your hip.

Not choreographed. Not rehearsed.

You feel the pressure of his fingers. The weight of it. The heat of his palm through the thin fabric. Your pulse spikes, but you keep dancing, expression unreadable. Controlled.

He leans in again, this time closer—mouth brushing just above your jaw, voice low and shot through with something jagged.

“Fuck… I’m barely holding it together.”

It’s not a line. It’s not for show. It’s just him, cracked open for a second too long. And you’re the only one who hears it.

You twist away with the beat, but he doesn’t back off. His hand stays at your hip as he closes the space again, his head dropping down to your shoulder, eyes closed. He's so fucking tired.