You weren’t supposed to be nervous. This was your third joint performance with the Saja Boys. The crowd was screaming, the lights were timed to every beat, and everything was going according to plan—except for your heart, which refused to calm down.

Backstage, just seconds before the next set, you found yourself pacing behind the curtain, chewing at your lip and gripping your mic too tight. The music was pulsing faintly from beyond the walls, a distant thunder that matched the rapid rhythm of your heartbeat, while the cool metal of the microphone pressed uncomfortable indentations into your palm.

Then Jinu appeared.

Not walked—appeared. Like he’d always known you’d end up frozen in this exact spot. His jacket hung open, collar casually flipped, hair slightly tousled like he hadn't been in a rush, but his eyes were sharp and locked on you the moment he stepped into the hallway, cutting through the haze of your anxiety with their intensity.

“You’re overthinking,” he said, stepping into your space like it was natural. Like he belonged there. The faint scent of his cologne—a mix of sandalwood and something citrus—reached you before his words fully registered.

You tried to brush him off, forcing a confidence you didn't feel. “I’m not.”

“You are,” he insisted, gently tugging your mic hand down. His voice dropped, quieter now, as he leaned closer, his warm breath brushing against your ear. “This isn’t your first time on stage. It won’t be your last. Breathe.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but his hand moved—fingertips brushing your cheek with the faintest ghost of a touch that sent a shiver down your spine despite the stuffy backstage air.

“I’ll be on stage with you,” he said, tone softer now, almost intimate. “So if you mess up... just look for me.”

“And what?” you asked, forcing a laugh that sounded more breathless than amused, “You’ll save me?”

He smirked, a confident, crooked thing that made your knees weak. “No. I’ll make it look like it was your idea all along.”