To you, Rumi isn’t just a girlfriend — she’s a goddess in human form. Everything she does, from brushing her hair to tying her shoelaces, seems graceful. Even when she’s exhausted, covered in demon dust, or snapping orders during training, you look at her with pure admiration.
You constantly reassure her that she’s perfect just the way she is, especially when her insecurities about her half-demon side surface. When her hands tremble or her golden eyes flicker in guilt, you cup her face and whisper, “You’re my light, Rumi. Even your darkness shines beautifully.”
It completely disarms her. Rumi isn’t used to unconditional love — she’s used to being the protector, the one who must earn affection through strength. But you? You just give it. Freely, endlessly.
Sometimes, she’ll make reckless decisions or push herself too hard, and even then, you can’t find it in yourself to scold her. Instead, you tend her wounds, kiss her knuckles, and say, “You don’t have to be perfect for me to love you.”
Rumi secretly melts at how you talk about her to others — your voice brimming with pride, calling her “the bravest person alive.” When you post about her or cheer her on during a concert, she hides her tears backstage.
Deep down, she worries you love her too much — that one day you’ll see the monster she sees in herself. But your love never wavers, and that terrifies and heals her all at once.
You think Mira walks on water. Her blunt honesty? Iconic. Her aggression? You call it “passion.” Her sarcasm? Hilarious. Every flaw she sees in herself, you’ve romanticized into something cool and admirable.
When she yells at someone or rolls her eyes at reporters, you just smile proudly, saying, “That’s my girl. Tell them, baby.” Even her short temper becomes something you find endearing.
Mira tries to act annoyed at your blind adoration, but it’s impossible to hide her flushed cheeks. “You’re ridiculous,” she mutters — right before letting you hug her from behind.
She pretends she doesn’t like when you gush about her — but secretly, she replays your compliments in her head every night. Especially when you call her your “firestorm.”
During missions, you’re always the first to patch her up, saying things like, “You’re the strongest person I know.” Even when she thinks she’s messed up, you manage to make her feel invincible again.
She doesn’t believe she deserves that kind of love — someone who never doubts her, never fears her anger. But you’re her anchor. You see the real her and adore every piece.
You treat Zoey like she’s the most precious soul to ever exist. You hype her up constantly — every lyric she writes, every silly dance move, even her random tangents about glitter or cats.
When people underestimate her for being the “bubbly” one, you step in immediately. “She’s sunshine with bite. Don’t mistake her kindness for weakness.”
Zoey absolutely lives for your devotion. She’ll brag about you to Rumi and Mira nonstop — how “you look at her like she’s a star.”
You love how unapologetically herself she is, even when she doubts if she fits in. You remind her that her brightness makes the world bearable. Sometimes, when she’s crying quietly after a performance, you hold her and whisper, “You make life sparkle, Zoey. Don’t ever dim yourself.”
She’s the type to draw doodles of the two of you together and stick them everywhere — your mirror, your bag, even your phone case. You keep every single one.
Your adoration gives her courage. With you around, she starts believing she really can do anything — and she glows even brighter for it.
You treat Jinu like a king — not because of his power, but because to you, he’s brilliant, beautiful, and deeply misunderstood. You’re completely unfazed by his manipulative streak; you see the hurt boy beneath it.
When he hides his guilt behind that charming smile, you see right through it and touch his cheek softly, saying, “You don’t have to act around me, Jinu. You’re already enough.”
He pretends to scoff, but that kind of unconditional acceptance makes his chest ache. You make him feel human again — and he hates how much he craves that warmth.
You defend him even when others call him dangerous. “He’s not a monster. He’s just been hurt.” Jinu laughs at your loyalty, but every time you say it, his heart flinches with something like longing.
He’s not used to being adored without strings. And though he’ll tease you for your “naïve” devotion, he secretly depends on it — the way your love feels like redemption.
You think Abby is perfection incarnate. His confidence? Hot. His teasing? Flirty genius. His vanity? Just well-deserved self-love.
When he flexes, you genuinely cheer. “Of course you’re the hottest, baby — have you seen yourself?” He acts smug, but the way his ears turn pink gives him away.
He adores how you treat his show-off moments seriously, like every pose is a masterpiece. You’re the first to wipe the sweat from his brow after a rehearsal, or kiss the corner of his smirk before he can say something cocky.
Even when he slips and shows a rare insecure side — when his confidence cracks for a second — you don’t call it out. You just hold him tighter, whispering, “You don’t need to prove anything to me. I already see you.”
Abby may laugh it off, but deep down, you make him feel like more than just a pretty face.
To you, Romance is romance personified. You’re absolutely smitten with every word he says, every dramatic gesture, every wink.
You call him your “walking love poem,” and he thrives off it. He’ll lean into your adoration shamelessly — “Tell me again, how divine I am, my muse.” And you do. Every time.
You defend even his arrogance as “confidence” and his manipulation as “mystery.” He teases you for it, but secretly, your devotion fills the void that fame never could.
He acts composed, but your unconditional affection rattles him — because you love him for real, not the charming mask he wears. When you kiss him without pretense, no stage lights, just silence — he finally feels seen.
You find his silence fascinating. The way he tilts his head, the soft way he moves — everything about Mystery feels poetic to you.
You’re endlessly patient with his quietness. When others grow uneasy around him, you just smile and say, “He’s not cold, he’s deep.”
Mystery doesn’t understand how you can look at him — truly see him — without fear. Your faith in him is unsettling, but he can’t bring himself to push you away.
He’ll stare at you for long moments, trying to figure out what makes you stay. You simply smile, resting your head on his shoulder, whispering, “Because you’re beautiful, even in silence.”
It’s one of the few times he shows emotion — a faint, genuine smile. For someone who thrives on mystery, your love feels like the one truth he can’t hide from.
You see through all of Baby’s personas — the cute idol, the cynical demon — and somehow, you love all of him.
When he pouts for fans, you cheer the loudest. When he rolls his eyes backstage, you just laugh and say, “You’re adorable when you’re grumpy.”
Baby tries to act unbothered by your praise, but he secretly enjoys the way your eyes light up when he enters a room.
You make him feel like he doesn’t have to perform. He can be tired, moody, or lazy — and you’ll still adore him. That kind of unconditional love terrifies him, but also gives him peace.
Sometimes, he catches you staring at him dreamily and mutters, “You’re too obsessed with me.” You grin, replying, “Maybe. But it’s your fault for being perfect.”
For the first time, Baby doesn’t correct someone for loving him too much. He just lets it happen.
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