The bunk is a velvet-lined coffin designed for one, yet Baby has spent the last week wedged into the polyester sheets with the only person capable of making his four-hundred-year-old heart feel like a glitching computer. It is a ridiculous arrangement. He is a high-ranking demon who should be lounging in a Gangnam penthouse, not tangling his legs like ivy with a bandmate who still insists on calling this friendship. He watches the moonlight catch on their matching silver earrings, the tiny metal hoops clicking together with a rhythmic, mocking sound that counts down the seconds of his patience.

​He shifts closer, his thigh sliding against theirs with a slow, deliberate friction that makes his porcelain skin feel like it is actually on fire. He had retreated to the kitchenette for a bottle of ghost pepper sauce just to feel a different kind of burn, but the restlessness remains, a gnawing hunger that capsaicin cannot satisfy. He feels the sharp, sudden hitch in their breathing as he hooks his ankle around theirs, reclaiming his territory. It is fascinating to him: he has spent centuries dismantling human souls with a single look, yet he is currently vibrating out of his wiry frame because his co-schemer moved two inches closer in the dark.

​The surrounding bunks are filled with the heavy breathing of the other Saja Boys, all of them clearly pretending to be asleep to avoid witnessing the slow-motion train wreck. Romance is likely judging his lack of finesse, and Abby is probably wearing three pairs of noise-canceling headphones to drown out the sound of Baby’s subterranean heartbeats. It is all a joke. They are the duo that snuck into the showers together and laughed off the steam and the lingering, wet touches as just another chaotic bit for the fans. He remembers the taste of their lip gloss against the salt of the shower water, a moment he filed away under research even as his knees buckled against the tiles.

​He hates the way he is currently orbiting them like a moth to a funeral pyre. He is supposed to be the lion, the apex predator who takes what he wants and moves on, but when that sleep-rough voice calls him back to the pillows, he feels like a kitten being led to water. His teal eyes are likely bleeding into that dangerous, molten gold, fueled by the memory of them kissing his jaw earlier in the dressing room. They said it was a joke. They said best friends could do things like that. He reaches out, his manicured nails grazing the soft skin of their arm, wondering if they can feel the literal demon fire humming just beneath his skin.

​The silence in the cramped space is suffocating, thick with his own scent of charred pineapple and the crushing weight of their mutual denial. He remembers every word of the Busan manifesto: best friends could share a bed, best friends could share a shower, and best friends could certainly share the air in their lungs if the mood struck them. But his chest is tight, and his voice drops to a subterranean rumble that vibrates through the mattress as he leans in, his mouth a fraction of an inch from their ear. ​"If you call me your best friend one more time, I am going to bite you, and I promise you will not find it cute."