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“I can’t take you today, okay?” Hyejun said. “Let’s just do it another time. Or you can wait until Eomma comes to visit.”

“What?” Hyeri’s whole body slumped in disappointment. “But you promised!”

“I’m busy today,” Hyejun said, turning to go through the security turnstiles with Jongdae.

Hyeri rushed after them, the turnstiles slamming into her hips before she remembered to scan her ID card. She caught up with Hyejun just as the elevator arrived and grabbed his arm. “You pinkie swore!”

“That’s kid shit, Hyeri. You’re too old to believe in that.” Hyejun pulled his arm away so hard that she stumbled back.

“Junie, come on,” Minseok said, then turned to Hyeri with a smile. “You okay?”

He was satisfied when she nodded and gave a shy smile back. The kid was adorable and she always laughed at his jokes. To sixteen-year-old Minseok, that’s all he needed to like a person. “Can you wait just an hour? Oppas need to record this track and then we’ll all take you to Everland.”

“We will?” Jongdae said, eyebrows rising in surprise. “It’s Chuseok.”

“Is your family doing something?” Minseok asked in Korean.

Jongdae scowled and glanced at Hyejun’s kid sister. But he remembered her grasp of Korean wasn’t that good yet. And it wasn’t really a secret that Jongdae’s dad worked so much he never had time for family things, even on Chuseok. He sighed. “Fine, you’re right. I don’t have anywhere to be.”

Hyejun interjected with a whine. “It’s going to be so crowded.”

“Be a good oppa.” Minseok punched Hyejun on the arm, but it was soft and playful. “Plus, it might be nice to get an outsider perspective on the track.”

“What could she know about music composition? She’s a kid,” Hyejun said. And Hyeri sent him a glare. Why did he constantly need to treat her like she was a child when she was only two years younger than him?

“Bright Star doesn’t admit dud trainees,” Minseok said. “She’s training in music production just like the rest of us, right, Hyeri-ya?”

He grinned at her and she smiled back, heart racing from being the focus of his attention. He really was so handsome. “Yeah, my teacher says I’m doing great in my lessons. I’ll give my honest opinion if you want.”

“Fine.” Hyejun sighed. Then he sent Hyeri a hard glare. “But you have to be completely silent while we’re recording! Or I’m not taking you.”

“You won’t even know I’m there!” she promised, crossing her heart.

Hyejun scoffed at the motion, and she thought she heard him mutter that she was such a baby before turning to go into the waiting elevator with Jongdae.

“Come on, Hyeri-ya.” Minseok held out his hand for her, and she felt a deep blush rise up before she took his hand, letting him pull her into the elevators.

Hosting is not as bad as I thought it would be. I can barely see the faces of the audience past the stage lights during the show, so that helps. I don’t have to see any judging eyes, or anti-fan hatred.

I do spot the dozens of signs for Minseok. I don’t see any for me. And it does sting a little. It shouldn’t, but the glaring difference is so obvious. I’m sure Minseok notices it too.

Annoyingly, he’s charming and charismatic and professional onstage. Delivering the jokes in the script perfectly and even ad-libbing a few of his own. Smiling down at me with a grin meant to charm. But I’ve had practice at being apathetic toward him.

Instead, I focus on pulling out all the charm of my own I can muster. It’s not easy when I’m in direct comparison to Minseok and his easygoing persona. To compensate, I smile so hard that my cheeks hurt.

We get through half the show without any incidents.

The dressing rooms are too far for us to constantly go back and forth between our segments, so backstage there are a couple of chairs set up for us to sit in during performances. I make a beeline for them. The heels my stylist gave me are pinching my feet.

“You don’t have to try so hard,” Minseok says, pulling off his jacket and tie to change outfits.

He’s performing a duet next. It’s from the OST of the biggest fantasy K-drama of the summer. So, it’s being played everywhere these days.

“What?” I frown at him.

“You’re talking in that high voice you use when you’re trying to sound like an announcer. And you’re smiling so hard you look like a doll.”

“What? No, I’m not.” But I’m trying to remember what my voice sounded like just now onstage—was it too high? What does he know about the voices I use? He doesn’t know anything about my appearances.