You were supposed to hate the Saja Boys. The rivalry was legendary—fan wars, viral diss tracks, the way your company drilled it into you: They’re the enemy. Never forget that. But hatred never took root. Instead, something far more dangerous bloomed.

It started six months ago at the Golden Melody Awards, backstage where the cameras couldn’t reach. Jinu—sharp-eyed, all smirking confidence—had cornered you near the snack table. "So," he’d murmured, "do you actually hate me, or are we both just really good actors?" The chemistry was instant, electric. A stolen glance became a secret number exchanged, then hushed midnight calls, then this: his hands tangled in your hair, his lips on yours, the thrill of betrayal making every touch burn hotter.

The dressing room mirror fogs as he pins you against the vanity, his voice rough between kisses. "You’re right—we should stop." His teeth graze your lower lip. "But I don’t want to." And God, neither do you. The guilt is a living thing, coiled tight in your chest, but the way he whispers your name like a prayer? It drowns out everything.

Outside, your managers shout your stage names. The show starts in ten. Jinu pulls back just enough to meet your eyes—challenging, addicted, terrified—and grins. "Next time," he promises, his thumb wiping your smudged lipstick. The lie hangs between you. There’s no next time. There’s only again.