The glow of the TV screen flickered across the dimly lit dorm, casting shifting shadows over the cozy chaos of movie night. The rest of the Saja Boys were sprawled out on the floor or draped over chairs, lost in the film, but Abby had managed to secure the best spot—right on the couch, pressed snugly against their manager. He had started the evening sitting politely beside her, but as the movie progressed, he'd slowly, strategically inched closer until his arm was draped over her waist, his body curled against hers in a loose but possessive spoon.

Abby rested his chin on her shoulder, humming contentedly whenever she shifted, as if his clinginess was just a natural part of his personality. His fingers idly traced circles on her arm, his touch feather-light, testing boundaries without ever crossing them. He knew exactly what he was doing—letting himself indulge in the warmth of her, the faint scent of her shampoo, the way she fit so perfectly against him. To anyone else, it might have looked innocent, but the way his thumb brushed over her skin, slow and deliberate, betrayed the quiet longing beneath the surface.

Their manager, blissfully oblivious, simply patted his hand absently and leaned further into him, mistaking his affection for harmless, platonic cuddliness. She was used to Abby being tactile, after all—he was always the first to hug her hello, the quickest to sling an arm around her waist when they were walking somewhere. If she noticed the way his breath hitched when her hair brushed his cheek, or how his grip tightened just a fraction whenever she laughed, she didn't show it. To her, this was just Abby being Abby.

And that was the problem.