Chapter Text
Backstage, the air was thick with the smell of hairspray, old coffee, and sweaty costumes. The fake leather couches were uncomfortably warm under the buzzing mirror lights, which threw sleepy rings of light onto the walls. A crumpled protein bar wrapper poking out from under the coffee table showed just how exhausted everyone was after the show.
Abby was sprawled on the couch, stuck between falling asleep and being awake, with stage makeup smudged under his eyes. His hoodie was half off one shoulder, and he could feel a good kind of heaviness in his body from performing. The adrenaline rush was long gone, leaving just a nice weight in his arms and a familiar ache in his knees—reminders of every step and leap he’d taken under those bright lights.
Jinu flopped onto the armrest beside him with a sigh.
“Seoul’s already sold out.”
Abby cracked one eye open.
“That was fast.”
“Pre-sale barely lasted twenty minutes. I refreshed the site, and the fan servers were already crashing.”
Across the room, Baby was doing lunges in front of the mirror, as if they hadn’t just performed full choreography for two hours.
“Do we have the full list of tour cities yet?”
“Mostly,” Jinu said, scrolling on his phone. “Busan, Tokyo, Bangkok, Toronto, Singapore, LA, New York, Berlin. Europe leg’s still being finalized.”
“Do we get more rest days this time?” Abby asked.
“Define ‘rest,’” Jinu replied.
Mystery, stretched out on the floor with a hoodie over his face, let out a low groan.
“They’re giving us one-day turnarounds again, aren’t they?”
Jinu didn’t answer.
“That’s a yes,” Baby muttered.
Abby pushed himself upright and reached for the bottled water on the table.
“When are we dropping the tracklist?”
“Next week,” Jinu said. “They want to announce the concept first, do the teaser photos, then roll out the previews.”
“Do we even know what the concept is?” Mystery asked.
Baby’s grin peeked out from behind his water bottle. “I overheard the stylists. It’s called Peachy.”
Abby blinked. “Peachy?”
“Think retro summers. Warm, glowing colors. Innocent, soft—” he smirked, “—but not too soft. It’s playful. They want us to toe the line.”
Jinu raised an eyebrow. “Meaning?”
“Meaning short sleeves, flushed cheeks, leaning close in photos like you’re sharing a secret. Youthful, but a little scandalous if you look long enough.”
Mystery pulled his hood down just enough to frown. “So basically they want us to sell crushes?”
“Exactly,” Baby replied with a nod.
Abby let out a short laugh. It sounded ridiculous, but he could already picture it—their smiles caught half in shadow, a soda can passed between two hands, a thin current of tension threading through the light. It was a concept that looked innocent until you lingered too long.
“Apparently, the label’s calling it a love letter to youth,” Baby read from his phone, running a hand through his hair. “Bright, feel-good, but subtle. They want something that makes people ache a little without knowing why.”
Abby leaned back again, letting the thought settle. After years of sharp edges and heavy styling, the idea felt… strangely disarming.
“Sounds like breathing out,” he said quietly. Like something they hadn’t done in years.
The others didn’t argue. For once, nobody teased him.
There was a knock on the door before anyone could say more. Their manager poked her head in.
“Final sweep in ten. Change out of your stage clothes, grab your things, and don’t forget—9 a.m. call time tomorrow. Full-day tour rehearsal.”
Everyone groaned.
The door closed again.
Baby slung his bag over his shoulder. “Convenience store run. I’m starving.”
“Didn’t you eat half the green room spread?” Jinu asked, but he stood anyway.
Mystery followed, slow and reluctant, but his hood was already up. Abby pulled his hoodie tighter, grabbed his mask, and trailed them out into the warm night air.
The convenience store near the studio was tucked beneath a pharmacy, next to a claw machine that hadn’t worked in over a year. It was nearly empty at this hour, except for the soft buzz of coolers and flickering neon lights.
They walked in like shadows—hoods up, masks on, voices low.
Baby darted toward the drink aisle and held up a neon-orange soda like he’d just discovered treasure.
“Dinner of champions.”
Jinu rolled his eyes and reached straight for cold coffee.
“More like sugar crash of champions.”
Mystery lingered by the instant noodles, browsing through cup lids one by one as if the fine print held some secret code.
Abby wandered the snack aisle without much thought. He wasn’t hungry—just caught somewhere between wired and worn out. He picked up a bag of gummies anyway. Jinu glanced at it and gave a sideways smirk.
“Starting method acting early?”
Abby frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“The concept. Sweet, soft, all that.” Jinu plucked the bag from his hand and tossed in an extra soda. “Gummies fit the role.”
“Shut up,” Abby muttered, but his ears warmed under his hood.
Baby came back with enough food for three people balanced in his arms.
“Emergency morale booster,” he announced, unloading his haul into the basket.
Mystery raised a rice ball and a canned energy drink, as if it were evidence.
“I’m good.”
Baby gave him a flat look. “That’s not a meal.”
“I’ve got protein bars in my hoodie.”
“That’s concerning,” Baby shot back.
“That’s just Mystery,” Jinu deadpanned.
They made it through self-checkout with their usual clumsy efficiency, piling everything into plastic bags and slipping back out onto the street. The city felt calmer now—muted, sleepy, almost kind. For a few blocks, they walked in silence, chewing and thinking.
“Do you think we’ll make it through the tour without anyone breaking?” Baby asked suddenly.
“Define breaking,” Jinu replied.
“Like, actual tears. Meltdown territory.”
“Then no.”
“Abby?” Baby asked.
Abby didn’t look over.
“Not first.”
Laughter broke the tension—something they hadn’t realized had been sitting with them all along. For a moment, they weren’t idols, weren’t products. Just boys out past midnight, carrying plastic bags that rattled with snacks. The dorm wasn’t far. The others filed inside, mumbling goodnights. Abby lingered outside a moment longer, watching the city lights buzz against the night sky.
Abby woke to the sound of Baby rifling through cabinets. The dorm was dim, blinds still drawn, and everyone was moving like shadows. Practice loomed, but breakfast supplies were nonexistent.
“We need food,” Baby muttered, slamming a cupboard shut. “Unless you guys want to survive on instant noodles.”
“Didn’t you buy half the convenience store last night?” Jinu grumbled from the couch, hair sticking up in all directions.
“Snacks don’t count.”
Within minutes, the four of them had dragged themselves out the door, hoodies up and masks on. The morning air was cool, soft with sunlight that hadn’t turned harsh yet. Their sneakers scuffed against the pavement as they moved down the quiet street, voices low and uneven with sleep. The grocery store was only a few blocks away, tucked beneath a row of apartments. Delivery trucks idled out front, and the glass doors breathed cold air into the already warm morning. Inside, fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, too sharp for the hour.
Baby made a beeline for the fruit section, holding up apples like trophies.
“Healthy era,” he said.
Jinu muttered something about needing caffeine and disappeared toward the coffee aisle. Mystery crouched near the drinks cooler, methodically checking labels like he was decoding a puzzle. Abby trailed after them, basket in hand, tossing in milk, bananas, and ice packs for sore knees. The ordinariness of it all felt strangely comforting, like they were just boys on a grocery run instead of idols about to throw themselves into weeks of rehearsals.
He was reaching for a pack of yogurt when something stopped him.
Down the aisle, near the rows of bottled water, stood someone Abby didn’t recognize. A stranger—but not one he could ignore.
He had long, pale pink hair tied back loosely, with platinum-blond bangs that fell softly over his forehead. His features were gentle but arresting—eyelids heavy like he hadn’t slept, lips faintly parted in thought, cheekbones smooth under the cold store light. He wore a basic white T-shirt under a lemon-yellow cardigan, tucked into simple blue jeans. Nothing flashy. Nothing branded. But the colors—bright, soft, sunlit—made him stand out like a brushstroke in the middle of something gray.
His frame was slender, partially hidden behind the loose cardigan, sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal slim wrists. He moved slowly, thoughtfully, pushing a half-full cart and scanning labels like the world wasn’t rushing around him.
Abby just stared.
Something about him made time feel syrupy—like it slowed down just enough for the image to burn itself in. Even under awful fluorescent lights, surrounded by cereal boxes and stacked pallets of soda, the boy looked… unreal. Not perfect, exactly. Just beautiful in a way Abby couldn’t define.
He realized too late that he hadn’t moved.
Then came Baby’s voice, deadpan and loud enough to sting:
“Okay, stop gawking at the pretty boy in the dairy aisle like it’s your debut drama.”
Abby startled, blinking hard.
“I wasn’t—”
“You were,” Baby said, already turning back to the juice boxes. “We’re here for carbs, not crushes.”
Heat shot up Abby’s neck. He shoved the yogurt into the basket and yanked his hood lower. When he risked one last glance, the boy was already turning the corner with his cart, long pink hair swaying behind him.
Gone.
The others didn’t notice—or if they did, no one said anything. Jinu was grumbling about espresso shots, Mystery was still comparing bottle caps, and Baby had moved on to arguing with himself about which juice had more actual fruit in it. But Abby couldn’t stop thinking about that face. Just a flicker, really. That hair. Those eyes. The way he moved like the world owed him nothing, and he owed it even less. Abby didn’t even know who the guy was, but the image had dug in, like a splinter behind the ribs.
By the time they reached checkout, the moment had folded itself into the hum of scanners and the crinkle of plastic bags. The boys filed out onto the sunlit street, balancing their groceries between them, already bickering over who had to carry what.
Abby adjusted the strap of his bag, keeping his head down as they walked back. His mind, though, was still caught on that glimpse in the aisle—bright and hazy, ordinary and unreal all at once. Just a stranger. Someone he shouldn’t have been looking at that long.
Practice waited, but Abby carried more than groceries back to the dorm.
Later that afternoon, the studio air felt heavier than the mirrors could reflect.
The choreography for the tour’s opening number was fast, layered, and relentless. By the fifth full run-through, everyone was flagging—shirt hems darkened with sweat, breaths uneven, shirts tugged over mouths between takes to cool down.
Abby landed the final pose half a beat late. His chest rose and fell as he bent forward, palms braced on his knees. The music cut out with a harsh click.
“Reset!” their choreographer called. “You’re dragging tempo again!”
Baby groaned quietly. Jinu grabbed a towel from the edge of the mirror and flung it over his shoulder without looking. Abby ran a hand through his damp hair and tried not to glare at his own reflection.
They reset positions. Beat one: stillness.
Then the music slammed back in.
The first eight counts hit hard. Sharp angles, feet snapping into clean lines, arms cutting through the air like muscle memory had teeth. Abby focused on the steps, counting in his head, ignoring the sting in his legs.
The choreo was a blend of contrast—soft gestures twisted into hard stops, silhouettes flickering in and out of sync like something fragile trying to hold its shape. The concept brief had said “playful but seductive. Abby hit the floor with the others, rolled into the next transition, came up breathless and a beat behind. Damn it.
“Again!” the choreographer barked.
They went again.
And again.
By the time they called a break, sweat dripped from Abby’s jaw and soaked the hem of his hoodie. His lungs ached. His heart thumped like it had bruised itself on the beat.
He dropped to the floor beside Mystery, who had immediately flattened out like roadkill.
“I think my ribs are vibrating,” Mystery muttered.
“Good,” Jinu said from somewhere behind a water bottle. “Means they’re still attached.”
Baby sat cross-legged, peeling the wrapper off a protein bar with all the energy of someone doing calligraphy. He took one bite, then paused like something important had just occurred to him.
“Oh, by the way.” He tore off the wrapper. “Abby was in love this morning.”
Abby, still catching his breath, blinked.
“Huh?”
Mystery raised an eyebrow. “What now?”
“At the store,” Baby said, chewing. “You should’ve seen him. Frozen in the dairy aisle. Mouth slightly open. Holding yogurt like it was his last anchor to reality.”
Abby groaned. “Can you not—”
Jinu raised an eyebrow. “What happened now?”
“There was a guy,” Baby said, grinning. “Abby saw him and went completely still. Like, emotionally concussed.”
“I was not—” Abby sat up straighter. “It wasn’t like that.”
“I thought he was having a stroke or saw God or something,” Baby went on, waving the protein bar like a pointer. “But no. Just some pretty boy with pastel hair.”
Mystery perked up. “Pastel?”
“Pink,” Baby confirmed. “Long. Bleached bangs. Yellow cardigan. Looked like a walking Pinterest board.”
Jinu tilted his head. “Wait, pink hair?”
“I don’t know who he was,” Abby muttered, toweling the back of his neck. “I just… noticed him.”
“You noticed him so hard you forgot we were buying food,” Baby said. “I was like, ‘Abby. Yogurt.’ And he was just standing there, like he'd seen an angel posing next to the dairy.”
Abby threw the towel at him. “Shut up.”
“Was he famous?” Mystery asked, mildly curious. “Or just hot?”
“Hot,” Baby said instantly.
“I don’t know,” Abby admitted. “He just looked… different.”
There was a beat of silence, like they were all picturing someone who fit the description.
“I didn’t even talk to him,” Abby muttered.
“Didn’t have to. You mentally composed a love letter just from the way his hoodie sleeve slipped down his arm.”
Jinu let out a low whistle. “Pink hair, huh? Bet he’s an indie model. Or a ghost.”
“I think he was just… there,” Abby said. “He didn’t look famous.”
“Well, if he turns up in your dreams tonight, at least we’ll know why,” Mystery said, lying back down and covering his face with a towel.
Abby didn’t respond. He was still thinking about the way the boy had moved through the aisle—like he had time to spare. Like the world bent around him without needing to be asked.
Practice resumed soon after, and another round of footwork drills queued up on the tablet.
But through every eight-count and every line adjustment, Abby’s mind kept drifting—not to the mirror, or the music, or the burn in his legs—but to a stranger with long pink hair and a soft yellow cardigan, disappearing around the corner of a grocery aisle.
After the break, practice dragged on until their limbs felt like overcooked noodles.
They ran the choreo again. And again. Adjusted the ending formation. Refined the transitions. Abby’s tank top clung to his back with sweat, and everyone was barely holding it together by the final cooldown stretch.
Their choreographer clapped once, sharply. “That’s it for today. Don’t die before tomorrow.”
“Not making promises,” Jinu muttered, collapsing to the floor like his bones had gone on strike.
Baby groaned as he peeled off his sweat-soaked tee. “I want to cry and also eat twelve pancakes.”
“Do it in that order,” Mystery advised, lying flat and unmoving.
Before anyone could slink away toward the lockers, the door creaked open. Manager Kim stepped inside, clipboard in hand, eyes already scanning the room.
“Good, you’re all here,” she said briskly. “We need ten minutes. Come sit.”
The boys groaned but obeyed, dragging themselves into a loose circle on the floor. Abby sat cross-legged, his body heavy but his mind still slightly adrift.
“Let’s talk tracklist,” Manager Kim said, flipping a page. “We’ve finalized the order. Title track stays locked. We’re keeping three new B-sides, two re-records, and—” she glanced at them, pausing for effect, “—one collab.”
That snapped them out of their daze.
“A collab?” Baby perked up. “With who?”
“Someone rising fast,” she said. “His numbers are wild for a soloist. He’s been climbing every chart this month—digital and international.”
Jinu leaned forward. “Who is it?”
Manager Kim looked up, then smiled faintly. “His stage name’s Romance. Heard of him?”
They all blinked at her.
“No?” she frowned, surprised. “He’s been trending for weeks. Seriously?”
Mystery shrugged. “I’ve seen the name floating around, but I haven’t heard anything.”
Abby just shook his head.
Manager Kim tapped her phone and held it up. “Well, you’ve definitely heard this.”
She hit play. A soft synth chord bloomed into layered vocals—airy, wistful, almost dreamy. Soft synths and lo-fi textures build gently, with vocals that sound distant and a little sad. It’s not loud or dramatic—
“Oh, I'm drowning / It's raining all day~...”
Jinu’s eyes widened. “Oh, that’s him?”
“I thought this was one of those SoundCloud kids,” Mystery muttered.
“Nope,” Manager Kim said. “That’s Romance. He wrote, composed, and produced it himself. It’s at number three on Melon right now and climbing. International fans are obsessed.”
Abby sat frozen.
“That’s…” Abby started. “Wait. Can we see what he looks like?”
Manager Kim raised a brow, amused, and pulled up an image. “Sure.”
She turned her phone around.
And there he was.
Hair long and pale-pink in soft waves, platinum bangs almost in his eyes. A calm expression that didn’t try too hard. The same boy from the dairy aisle, only styled and lit like he belonged on the cover of a magazine. Which, apparently, he did.
“That’s him?” Jinu blurted.
“No way,” Baby said, laughing. “That’s your dairy boy.”
Mystery snorted. “Grocery store Romance.”
“I didn’t know he was Romance,” Abby muttered, ears already going red.
Manager Kim looked at them, clearly entertained. “So you’ve met?”
“No,” Abby said quickly. “I mean—sort of. We were at the same store this morning. I didn’t talk to him.”
“He did gawk at him for a solid thirty seconds, though,” Baby said helpfully.
“I did not—”
“Oh, you did.”
Manager Kim chuckled and made a note on her clipboard. “Good. Ice broken.”
Abby groaned. “He’s going to think I’m weird.”
“He’s not,” she said. “He’s already agreed to the collab. The song’s being finalized now. You’ll be recording together next week. But he’ll be here tomorrow to go over concepts, vocals, and maybe start choreography.”
Abby’s stomach did something strange. Like the bassline of a song that hadn’t dropped yet.
“So just,” Manager Kim continued, “be professional. Be friendly. Try not to make it weird.”
She gave Abby a quick glance.
“I’m begging you,” Jinu said, deadpan, “please don’t stare at him during vocal warmups.”
“I won’t!”
“Blink,” Baby advised. “Blink and breathe this time.”
“Seriously,” Mystery added, “if he sings in front of you, you might actually collapse.”
“Okay, enough,” Abby grumbled, dragging his hood over his head to hide the fact that his entire face was pinker than Romance’s hair.
But inside, a weird mix of dread and anticipation started building—because tomorrow, the beautiful stranger wouldn’t just be some anonymous boy near the milk.
Tomorrow, he’d have a name.
Tomorrow, they'd be singing together.
And tomorrow, Abby would have to keep it together.
Somehow.