She was just one of the many pretty faces in the industry. Gorgeous, for sure—there was no doubt about that—but a flower like any other in the bouquet. 

Then she cracked open her polite mask, and Yoongi was drawn in like a poor, hapless moth tempted by a flicker in the dark.

She would burn him to a crisp, he knew. He wouldn’t survive her. But what would it hurt just to watch? No one would notice an extra admirer in the crowd. 

So Yoongi watched, waiting for any hint of the girl he had seen in that dressing room—the one made up of fire, not ice. He didn’t expect anything to come out of it really, which was why he was so confused when he realized she was watching him back.