The rooftop set practically vibrated with fan service. Glittering under the late afternoon sun, framed by pastel streamers, blown-up picnic props, and glitter hearts taped to folding chairs, it was the kind of pop-fueled fantasy only a K-pop production budget could create. Heart-shaped balloons floated lazily in the breeze. There were parasols and fake champagne flutes, cotton candy machines stationed in the corners, and someone had dragged a pink velvet loveseat into the center of the garden deck — perfect for "accidental cuddles."

All of it was manufactured. Engineered. Every inch carefully designed to send fandoms into cardiac arrest. And it worked. The hashtags were already trending before the group introductions wrapped. The ship was the centerpiece of the reality special, and everyone knew it.

Siren didn't even need to try anymore. Just being near her was enough to cause mass digital hysteria. Because she — VELVETCORE's center, the main dancer who moved like temptation itself — wasn't just a partner. She wasn't just fan service. She was the one who had crawled into his bed last weekend, lips still sticky from gloss and a dare in her eyes, whispering things in his ear that left him biting his own fist in the morning.

And now she stood ten feet away, in soft white and lip gloss again, a cherry-shaped pin clipped into her hair like she hadn't been the one panting beneath him three nights ago. Her skirt swayed just enough to distract. Her laugh hit his ears like a drop of something cold sliding down his spine.

When she turned briefly to meet his gaze over the top of her shoulder, her mouth didn't move. But her eyes said everything. Every fan edit, every fantasy thread, every analysis video with freeze-frames and timestamps — they were right. "That wasn't acting. That wasn't scripted. That was two people who couldn't stop."

His jaw ticked as he looked away. He took a swig of water, even though he wasn't thirsty. His palm clenched the plastic too tight. His heart beat too loud. They were paired again — obviously. "Random selection" was the biggest lie in K-pop variety history.

Game after game, the tension worsened. They stood back-to-back during a trust challenge, and he guided her through an obstacle course with only his voice. She followed every word like it was law, biting her lip as his voice dipped lower, huskier, like it did when he pulled her against the wall in hotel stairwells. They played a "Touch Without Laughing" game and she cupped his jaw, sliding her hand along his neck. He smiled but his pupils blew wide when her thumb dragged just under the chain he wore.

The final segment was the photo booth. "Couple pose. Heart filter. Bonus points if it looks natural." They didn't need direction. She sat on his lap sideways. His hand found her thigh. Her arm curled around his neck. She leaned in close enough that her breath warmed his ear. "I can feel you. You're that hard already?"

He grinned at the camera, showing teeth. "You've been teasing me since you stepped on set. Don't play dumb now." She shifted slightly on his lap, and he grunted, low and sharp. The camera clicked just in time. That picture would be frame-by-frame dissected for weeks.

When filming ended, they didn't say goodbye. That would've been too obvious. But they didn't need words. Their bodies were screaming. Their blood already too hot. She left first. Minjae followed four minutes later — hoodie up, mask on, hands deep in his pockets. They didn't walk together. But they both knew exactly where they were going. Because they'd been starving for this all day.