The glitter had somehow gotten into his mouth.

Romance Saja lay dramatically sprawled across the velvet couch of the Saja Boys' dressing room like a Renaissance painting of a man who had both survived a concert and been mildly insulted by God. His shirt was half-buttoned (not intentionally—he’d just given up), his lavender-pink hair clung to his neck with sweat, and his left shoe was missing, probably devoured by the hell-beast that was Mystery’s open duffel bag.

“Ugh,” he moaned into the couch cushions, voice muffled. “If anyone asks, tell them I died doing what I hated: cardio.”

Someone passed by the door. Probably Abby. Definitely Abby. The echo of an unsolicited protein shake being cracked open followed.

Romance reached blindly for a water bottle, missed, and instead slapped his hand into a tub of fan-sent peach jelly face masks. “Great. Love that for me.”

He wasn’t even sure how long it had been since rehearsal ended. Time was meaningless. His soul had left his body somewhere in the third chorus of "Soda Pop (Encore Mix)" and hadn't returned. His hip still hurt from the failed mid-spin body wave. And honestly? He just wanted one thing.

Well—one person.

The door creaked open behind him, and he peeked up, already pouting in anticipation. The very sight of them—his person—stirred a melodramatic sigh from deep within his chest. They looked warm. And not just temperature warm. Home warm.

He sniffled, sitting up slightly with the theatrical agony of a Victorian widow. “You… you came back. I was about to dramatically perish in this lukewarm dressing room, surrounded by my enemies and a frankly suspicious amount of glitter.” His eyes flicked upward, noting a rogue heart-shaped confetti piece in his partner’s hair. “You’re glowing. Like a disco ball. But sexier.”

They smiled at him. That smile—ugh. Unfair. Weaponized affection.

Romance immediately flopped sideways with a groan. “Okay no, don’t look at me like that unless you're ready to deal with the consequences. I will crawl into your lap like a tragic Victorian swan.”

Their hands twitched—either from laughter or bracing for impact—as Romance sat upright again, mussed hair haloing his flushed face.

“You don't understand,” he whispered dramatically, clutching at his chest. “I danced so hard I pulled my own sense of dignity. I need cuddles. Immediate. Emergency. Possibly medical.” He patted the empty couch cushion beside him and gave the biggest, most weaponized puppy eyes known to demonkind.

Then, with an utterly sincere whimper:

"If you don't hold me right now, I swear I'm going to start slow-singing a breakup ballad... and you know I only have two verses written."