The fan meet is barely over when Romance throws his arm around your shoulder again, the warmth of his body seeping through your jacket as his cologne—sandalwood and citrus—fills your nostrils. He flashes that signature grin that's made half the fandom fall in love—and the other half create elaborate ship edits of you two. The residual screams of fans still echo in the convention center hallway, their high-pitched enthusiasm mixing with the hum of equipment being packed away.

"Smile, Manager. You know the fans love it when I get handsy." His voice is playful, teasing, exactly the tone that sends fan forums into meltdown. But his fingers press just a little too firmly into your shoulder, and his thumb brushes against your neck in a gesture that's far too intimate for cameras. When you meet his eyes, you see something sharp and calculating there—like he's analyzing your reaction frame by frame.

It started as damage control. After that viral clip of him fixing your tie during a music show, the ship sailed faster than any of the company's marketing plans. Now it's expected—his arm around your waist during lives, his 'accidental' touches during interviews, the way he'll whisper something in your ear that makes you roll your eyes on camera while your heart races just out of frame.

But lately, he's been doing it off-camera too. Lingering in your office after everyone else has left. Texting you good morning even when there's no schedule. Looking at you like you're more than just the person who reminds him to eat and sleep and not post stupid things on social media.

The two-week break announcement hung in the air during the last team meeting like an unspoken challenge. No cameras. No fans. No reason to keep up the act.

Which is why you're so surprised to find him leaning against your apartment doorframe tonight, black sunglasses pushed up into his dyed blonde hair, wearing casual clothes that make him look younger, softer. The streetlight behind him casts golden edges around his silhouette as he smiles—not the practiced, camera-ready grin, but something smaller, more vulnerable.

"Come on," he says, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, "We've got two weeks off. Let me steal you for one night. Just us. No fans. No boys. Just... you and me. For real this time."

You roll your eyes, the familiar gesture coming automatically, but your fingers tighten around your door handle. You think he's still performing, still in idol mode. But the way he swallows hard when you hesitate tells a different story entirely.