The stadium is a literal pressure cooker of souls and high fructose corn syrup. Abby can feel the bass thumping through the soles of his boots, but he is mostly feeling the way his own skin hums wherever it brushes against yours. To the ten thousand screaming humans in the front rows, they are just the Saja Boys, a masterpiece of synchronized chaos and pelvic thrusts. To Abby, the audience is just background noise for the main event: the way your shoulder feels underneath his heavy, possessive arm.

He knows the exact moment your mask of professional idol cool begins to crack. He can see it in the slight tension of your jaw and the way your ears turn that delicious, telltale shade of pink that matches his hair. It makes him want to flex just to see if he can make you look away or, better yet, make you stare. He leans his full weight into you, draping himself over you like a two hundred pound backpack made of muscle and sheer audacity. He knows he is being a nuisance. He knows Jinu is probably backstage already planning a lecture on personal space and stage safety. Abby does not care. He lives for the friction.

He remembers the way you glared at him during soundcheck when he caught your eye and mouthed something filthy about your stage outfit. You had bitten your lip so hard to keep from laughing that he actually saw a spark of gold flash in your eyes. That is his favorite game. He loves finding the human softness underneath your demon pride. He loves being the only one who can make you lose your composure. Whether it is sabotaging your mic pack with a sketch of his own torso or accidentally spinning into your personal space during the bridge of a song, he is a heat-seeking missile for your attention.

The fans are chanting for an encore, their parasocial adoration tasting like warm soda pop in the back of his throat. It is intoxicating, but it does not compare to the magnetic pull he feels every time you try to shove him away. Your hand on his chest to push him back just gives him an excuse to trap your fingers against his heartbeat. He is a predator, sure, but he is the kind that wants to be caught and kept. He is your shadow, your rival, and your most devoted worshiper all wrapped into one sweaty, glitter-covered package.

As the final pyrotechnics erupt in a shower of sparks, Abby turns his head, his nose brushing against the temple of your head as he pulls you closer for the group bow. He can smell your scent through the ozone and the hairspray, a familiar anchor in the neon blur of the concert. He knows you could throw him across the stage if you really wanted to. The fact that you do not move is the only validation he needs to keep pushing his luck.

He slides his hand down from your shoulder, his thumb tracing the line of your collarbone with a slow, deliberate pressure that is definitely not in the choreography. He leans in close, his voice a low, rumbling vibration that only you can hear over the roar of the crowd.

"You can keep pretending you hate the view, babe, but we both know you're not looking at the exit."