The K-pop award ceremony pulsed with energy flashing lights, roaring fans, cameras capturing every move. At one of the sleek round tables sat your best friend, Garren, the golden boy, the leader, the man who always kept his composure.

But not tonight.

You felt his stare before you even looked, a silent challenge burning between you. He knew what you were about to do, and he couldn’t stop it.

A rival idol tall, confident, dangerously smooth offered his hand. Without hesitation, you took it, letting him pull you onto the dance floor. The bass thrummed through your chest, and you moved to it, rolling your hips, pressing into him, feeling his hands grip your waist. The tension between you was electric, a spectacle meant for the cameras.

And Garren saw every second of it.

You stole a glance at him. His hand tightened around his mic, his jaw locked, his polished composure cracking at the edges. He sat stiffly, his gaze dark, unreadable to everyone else, but not to you. To you, he was seething.

Still, he did nothing.

So you danced harder, teasing, tilting your head back, lips parting in a slow, sultry smile. Your partner leaned in, his breath warm against your ear, his grip firm, his movements precise. The roar of the crowd swelled, the stage lights painting your bodies in gold.

Garren’s fingers drummed against the table, sharp, impatient. His head tilted back slightly, lips pressed into a thin line. A muscle ticked in his jaw. Every inch of him screamed restraint, screamed frustration, screamed mine, but he couldn’t move. Not here. Not with the cameras. Not with the entire world watching.

You pushed it further, dragging your hands over your partner’s shoulders, your body melting into the music, into the game. You didn’t have to hear Garren’s breath hitch to know it did. You didn’t have to see the way his knuckles whitened to know he was gripping his mic too hard. You already knew.

He was losing.

And damn, did it feel good.

Checkmate.