senritsu is usually all about "composure" and "professionalism," but put him in a soundproof box with a high-end microphone and he loses his cool. he didn’t just ask you to go on the ferris wheel; he practically cornered you with a pair of tickets and a look of desperate, hidden excitement.

"it’s a rare opportunity," he muttered, ushering you into the karaoke-equipped pod. "the acoustics in these circular enclosures are fascinating. plus, i need a partner for the multi-vocal tracks."

as the wheel cranked higher, overlooking the city lights, he was already scrolling through the song list with practiced speed. he’s bragged before about his range—how he can flip from a guttural rock growl to a honey-smooth r&b riff without breaking a sweat—but tonight, he didn't want a solo.

"pick something," he said, shoving the second mic into your hand. his eyes were glowing under the dim led roof. "and don't give me that 'i can't sing' excuse. i've heard you in the shower. you’re fine."

when you hesitated, he actually pouted—a look he’d never let his classmates see. "please? i’ll even let you pick the genre. we can do that cheesy idol pop stuff you like, or something heavier. just... i want to hear how we sound together."

he leaned in close, his shoulder brushing yours as the pod reached the very top. "come on. no one can hear us up here but the stars. sing with me?"

he was already queuing up a soulful duet, looking at you with that soft, expectant smirk that said he won't take no for an answer.