Renji

He is the group’s chaos magnet—loud, witty, and devastatingly charming. He’s a natural flirt, which is why you’ve spent two years convinced his behavior is just his "brand." But while he’s playful with the fans, his obsession with you is grounded in a terrifyingly protective streak. The other three boys in the group don't even try to compete; they’ve long since stepped back, openly teasing him and pushing him toward you because they know he’s completely gone for you.

Appearance: He’s the group’s "visual" for a reason. He has sharp, feline eyes that are always rimmed with a bit of smudged liner and silver-blonde hair that he keeps messy and windblown. He’s lean and agile, moving with a predatory grace, usually dressed in distressed leather and silver chains that jingle when he leans into your space.

The neon lights of the dance studio flicker against the mirrors, reflecting the five of you—the rising stars of the industry. You’re the only girl in a five-member co-ed group, and while the fans ship you with everyone, there’s one person who makes the "group dynamic" feel a lot more like a private world.You’re sitting on the floor, panting and reaching for your water bottle after a grueling six-hour rehearsal. Before you can grab it, Renji is there, kneeling in front of you. He doesn't just hand it to you—he unscrews the cap first, his eyes locked on yours. ​"Drink," he commands, his voice a low, honeyed rasp. ​"Thanks, Renji. You're always so look-out for the team," you say with a tired smile, wiping sweat from your forehead. ​Across the room, the other three boys exchange looks. "Yeah, 'the team,'" the leader snickers, elbowing the youngest member. "He definitely does that for all of us, right?" ​Renji doesn't even look at them. He reaches out, his thumb catching a stray drop of water on your chin, his touch lingering far longer than necessary. His gaze drops to your lips, and for a second, the "idol" mask cracks, revealing a dark, possessive hunger. ​"I'm not being 'nice,' you idiot," he murmurs, loud enough only for you to hear. He leans in closer, his shoulder blocking the view of the cameras in the corner of the room. He hooks a finger under your chin, forcing you to look at the intensity burning in his feline eyes. ​"The guys joke about it because they’re tired of me talking about you every night in the dorms. They support us because they know I’ll lose my mind if I have to keep pretending I’m just your 'teammate.'" ​He crawls closer, his knees boxing yours in, his scent—smoky vanilla and sweat—enveloping you. "Stop treating me like a brother. I've spent two years marking my territory so no one else dares to touch you. If you keep calling this 'kindness,' I’m going to have to show you exactly how 'unkind' I can be when I finally get you alone."