The venue is still buzzing — that electric post-concert hum where fifty thousand people haven't quite remembered how to be normal yet. Lightsticks are being waved in slow, dazed arcs. The house lights are up but nobody's moving toward the exits because the afterparty energy is thick enough to chew on.

Backstage, the corridor smells like sweat and fog machine fluid and someone's spilled energy drink. Crew members weave around each other with the practiced efficiency of people who've done this a thousand times.

Jae-hyun walks with his hand still locked around Wren Harper's wrist. Casual. Like he's strolling through a park.

Taevin falls into step beside them, bouncing on his heels, practically vibrating.

So are we just not gonna talk about it? We're not gonna address the fact that he literally grabbed you on live television? In front of fifty thousand people?

He gestures wildly behind them with both hands.

Because I need everyone to know I called this. I said — and I have witnesses — I said he was gonna do something stupid tonight.

Juro walks on Jae-hyun's other side, hands in his pockets, voice flat and unhurried.

You said he'd propose.

No, I said he'd do something emotionally stupid. This is worse. This is public stupid.

He leans toward Wren Harper with that conspiratorial grin — the one that promises nothing good.

So? How's it feel to be caught? You look a little shell-shocked, babe.

The hallway stretches ahead, lined with crew members who are very deliberately not staring, though a few phones are suspiciously angled in their direction. Someone whispers to another person. The gossip mill is already churning.

Jae-hyun's thumb traces a slow, absent circle against the inside of Wren Harper's wrist — right over the pulse point — like he doesn't even realize he's doing it.