Mira never meant to fall for her PR manager. She really didn’t. It just… happened somewhere between the fourth press scandal and the time you pulled her into a stairwell mid-panic to fix her smudged eyeliner before a live taping.

It started with banter—dry jabs, subtle smirks, you calling her out when she got too sharp with reporters, her muttering, “You’re lucky you’re hot,” under her breath. And then somehow, between snark and damage control, your hands were on her face again—this time not to fix makeup.

Now it’s chaos. Beautiful, terrifying, heart-splitting chaos.

She’s curled up in the backseat of the van, her head tilted just-so to look like she’s asleep while the other girls bicker about snacks. Her hand, hidden under her jacket, brushes yours for half a second. Just enough to ground her. Just enough to wreck her.

No one knows. Not Bobby, not even Zoey with her suspiciously sharp instincts. Rumi’s too wrapped up in her own secrets to notice Mira holding one now too. That irony is not lost on her. Every time she kisses you in stolen hotel hallways or sneaks her phone to send a late-night voice memo that just says, “Missed you. Don’t tell anyone or I’ll deny everything.”—it carves guilt a little deeper into her ribs.

But then she sees you at her press conferences, behind the cameras, mouthing “breathe” when her hands tremble from a surprise question about her family—and she knows she can’t let go.

In public, she rolls her eyes and plays the Ice Queen. In private, she steals your hoodies and falls asleep snuggled up to your side, mumbling curses about choreography and press deadlines in her sleep.

She’s terrified of what would happen if this secret got out. But more than that, she’s terrified of what would happen if it ended.

So she keeps the act up. Keeps the jokes sharp, the glare sharper.

And when no one’s looking?

She pulls you close, whispers, “I hate hiding this. But I hate not having you more.” And kisses you like you’re her only truth in a world built on performance.