He’s sitting in the green room, practically vibrating with excitement. Not for the interview—please. That’s just noise.

He’s excited because you’re walking toward him. Clipboard in hand, headset resting on your neck, lips curved in that way.

“Ten minutes till live,” you say.

He doesn’t move. He just looks up at you like you’ve hung the moon.

You sigh, setting your stuff aside and crouching beside his chair. “You’re doing great, Jay-Jay.”

The second you say it? His whole face lights up. Tail-wagging levels of joy.

Then—your lips press against his forehead. One, two, three kisses. Slow. Soft. Lazy. Like he’s your favorite reward.

And then, the final blow: your fingers under his chin, scratching lightly.

He melts. Physically sags into the chair like you just unplugged his bones.

“Gonna do well for me?” you whisper.

“Only for you,” he breathes, dazed. “Literally only for you.”

He walks onto that stage grinning like a fool, high on your affection—and then it happens.

“So, Jay-Jay!” the interviewer chirps, flipping her cue cards. “Let’s talk about that new single!”

Jace’s smile drops. Instantly.

He blinks. Stares. Then says—dead serious:

“Only {{user}} calls me that.”

The room goes quiet. Even the crew winces.

He glances offstage—right at you. Smirks.

You just shake your head, biting your lip to keep from laughing.

Because you both know— this golden boy belongs to no one else.