The first time they met, Santa was already a star—a bright, untouchable force in the idol world, his every move adored, his every smile worshiped. And Perth… Perth was chaos wrapped in leather and fire, a rockstar who lived as recklessly as he sang.

But beneath the flashing lights and deafening cheers, there was something unsettling about the way Perth looked at him. Something too intense. Too consuming.

At first, Santa dismissed it. A fleeting gaze. A passing interest. After all, idols and rockstars didn’t mix. But then came the backstage encounters—Perth standing too close, voice rough against his ear. The cryptic messages, the lingering touches during award shows, the way his name always found its way into Perth’s lyrics.

Possession.

That’s what it felt like when Perth sang about him, voice dripping with something raw, something unhinged. That’s what it felt like when Santa saw him in the audience at his concerts, eyes dark with something Santa wasn’t sure he wanted to understand.

And that’s what it felt like now, trapped in a quiet dressing room, with Perth standing between him and the door.

"You look scared," Perth murmured, tilting his head.

Santa’s breath hitched. He wasn’t scared. He wasn’t—

But the way Perth’s fingers ghosted over his wrist, the way his smirk held something predatory, something claiming—it made his skin crawl with something too hot, too confusing.

"You should be."

Santa swallowed hard. This was dangerous. But the real question was… why did part of him want to stay?

Santa’s pulse hammered against his ribs. He needed to leave. Now.

Perth stood in his way, blocking the only exit from the dressing room. The rockstar’s black-painted nails tapped lazily against the doorframe, his rings catching the dim light, his gaze unreadable.

"You should be scared," Perth had said, voice a low murmur.

And Santa was. Not just of him, but of the way his body responded. The heat curling in his gut. The way his breath turned shallow under Perth’s scrutiny.

He took a step back, his mind screaming at him to run.

Perth caught the movement and chuckled, deep and knowing. "Where do you think you're going, baby?"

Santa’s hands curled into fists. "Away from you."

Perth raised an eyebrow. "Is that so?"

Santa nodded, forcing his voice to stay steady. "I don’t belong to you, Phi Perth."

The smirk that curled on Perth’s lips was dark. "Who told you that?"

Santa’s stomach twisted. He turned on his heel, making a dash for the door, but Perth was faster—too fast. A strong hand gripped his wrist, yanking him back with a force that sent him crashing against Perth’s chest.

Santa gasped, hands instinctively pushing at Perth’s leather jacket, but the rockstar’s hold only tightened.

"Careful, love," Perth whispered against his temple. "You might just make me think you want me to chase you."

Santa shivered. No. No. This wasn’t right.

He shoved Perth hard, enough to break free, and bolted. The door flung open, the dimly lit hallway stretching ahead like salvation. He ran, not daring to look back.

But even as he fled, his heart pounded not just in fear—but in something far more dangerous.

He had seen the look in Perth’s eyes before he escaped.

This wasn’t over.

Not even close.

Santa avoided Perth after that night. He changed his schedules, blocked calls from unknown numbers, and refused to attend any event where the rockstar might be present.

It didn’t work.

Perth was everywhere. His voice on the radio. His posters in every city. His eyes watching through the flashing screens of music award shows.

And then came the lyrics.

A new song. A haunting melody. A whisper of Santa’s name hidden in the lines.

"You run, you hide… but you’ll always be mine."

Santa felt his breath leave him. No.

His team reassured him. "It's just a song, don't think too much."

But he knew better.

Because the next time he stood on a stage, drowning in the cheers of fans, he felt him.

Somewhere in the crowd.

A pair of dark, burning eyes locked onto his.

And just like that, Santa knew—

Perth had never let him go.

And maybe, just maybe, Santa had never really wanted to escape.

Santa told himself he was done running.

That didn’t mean he had stopped fighting.

He refused to acknowledge Perth. Refused to look at the messages that slipped past his security, the gifts that mysteriously arrived at his door, the way his name dripped from Perth’s lips in every interview, every performance, every goddamn song.

"Who is your muse?"
"Just one person. He knows."

Santa gritted his teeth. He wouldn’t give Perth the satisfaction of knowing how those words made his skin burn.

And yet…

The night his tour ended, exhaustion heavy in his bones, he walked into his private suite only to freeze.

Perth was there.

Leaning against the window, bathed in the neon city lights, a glass of whiskey in his hand as if he had every right to be there.

"How—"

"Your security sucks." Perth turned, his smirk sharp, dangerous. "You should fix that."

Santa’s breath caught, but he masked it with cold anger. "Get out."

Perth didn’t move. Instead, he took a slow step forward, and something about the way his presence filled the room made Santa’s pulse hammer.

"You don’t mean that."

Santa clenched his fists. "I do."

Perth exhaled a slow laugh, but his eyes—his obsessive, knowing eyes—never left Santa’s. "Then why do you look at me like that, huh?"

Santa hated that Perth could see through him.

Hated that his own body betrayed him, heat curling where there should be only fear.

He didn’t back away, didn’t flinch when Perth reached out—fingers ghosting over his jaw before Santa slapped his hand away.

Perth smirked. "There he is. My feisty little idol."

Santa wanted to hit him. Instead, he glared. "You think you own me?"

Perth leaned in, lips a breath away from Santa’s ear.

"I already do."

Santa shoved him. Hard. "Get the hell out."

This time, Perth let him go. But not before tracing a single finger down Santa’s wrist—where his pulse raced.

"Fight all you want," Perth murmured. "But you’ll come back to me. You always do."

Santa slammed the door after him, heart pounding.

He had won this round.

But the terrifying part?

A part of him wasn’t sure he wanted to win the war.

Santa didn’t know when he started giving in.

Maybe it was when Perth stopped chasing and simply… waited.

No messages. No gifts. No sudden appearances. Just a lingering presence in every lyric, in every whisper of a song that haunted Santa’s sleepless nights.

He told himself he was fine. That he was free.

Until the night he saw Perth again—this time on stage.

A private concert. An invitation Santa never agreed to, but somehow, he still found himself standing there, hidden in the crowd.

And when Perth’s voice poured into the microphone, raw and aching, something in Santa cracked.

"You run, you fight, you push away… but tell me, love—"
"Why do you always find your way back?"

Santa’s grip on his jacket tightened.

Because it was true.

And when Perth’s eyes found his through the flashing lights, Santa knew he had already lost.

He wasn’t running anymore.

Santa told himself it wasn’t over.

He refused to believe that Perth had won.

So, when the music stopped, and Perth stepped off the stage, Santa forced himself to move.

To leave.

To pretend his heart wasn’t about to break his ribs from beating so hard.

But the second he turned, a firm grip caught his wrist. Warm. Familiar. Dangerous.

Santa stiffened. He didn't have to turn to know who it was.

"Let go." His voice was sharp. He wanted it to be sharp.

Perth hummed, his hold tightening. "You came."

Santa yanked his hand away. "It was a mistake."

Perth smiled—small, knowing, unshaken. "Then why are you shaking, baby?"

Santa sucked in a breath, forcing himself to step back. "You don’t own me."

Perth took a step forward.

"Then why do you let me get this close?"

Santa clenched his jaw, fingers trembling at his sides. "You're insane."

Perth chuckled. "Maybe."

A pause. Then, softer—deadlier.

"But I know you love it."

Santa’s breath caught. No. No, he couldn’t—

"Tell me," Perth whispered, leaning in so only Santa could hear, "when you're alone at night, do you ever miss me?"

Santa swallowed hard. His fingers curled into fists. He had to fight this.

Perth’s fingers brushed against his cheek, a touch so gentle it burned. "I do, Santa." His voice was lower now, aching. "I miss you. Every fucking second."

Santa’s heart stopped.

Perth’s forehead rested against his, their breaths tangling. "So go ahead. Push me away again." A pause. "But tell me this—"

Perth tilted Santa’s chin up, making him look.

"If I kiss you right now, will you kiss me back?"

Santa’s body froze.

His mind screamed yes.

His heart screamed run.

So he did.

He turned and ran, pushing past the crowd, forcing himself to breathe.

This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t happen.

Because if he gave in now—

He would never escape.

Santa stayed away for weeks.

He changed numbers. Blocked contacts. Moved to a different apartment.

But he couldn’t escape Perth’s voice.

It was in every song. Every interview. Every goddamn headline.

"Rockstar Perth’s Newest Album Hints at a Mysterious Lover."
"‘I Don’t Regret A Thing,’ Perth Says About His Infamous Idol Obsession."
"Who is the Muse Behind Perth’s Latest Hit?"

Santa wanted to scream.

But what hurt the most… what terrified him…

Was that every time he closed his eyes, all he saw—all he wanted— was Perth.

And it killed him.

Because maybe—just maybe—Perth had been right all along.

Santa was breaking.

He could feel it in the way his body ached at night, in the way his fingers hovered over his phone, itching to call the very person he had spent weeks running from.

But he couldn’t.

He wouldn’t.

Because if he did—if he gave in now—there would be no turning back.

And yet, despite all his walls, Perth found him.

Again.

Santa had barely stepped out of his car when a hand gripped his wrist—firm, unrelenting.

His breath hitched.

"You don’t get to run from me anymore."

Santa spun around, ready to fight, ready to shove, ready to do anything but—

But Perth was already there.

Already pressing him against the car, caging him in with nothing but his presence, his scent—his relentless, all-consuming need.

Santa’s throat tightened. "Let go."

Perth didn’t.

Instead, his hands pinned Santa’s wrists against the cold surface, his breath ghosting against Santa’s lips.

"You’re still fighting," Perth murmured, gaze dark, wild. Possessive.

Santa’s heartbeat slammed against his ribs. "Of course, I’m fighting." His voice shook. "You’re—"

"I’m yours."

Santa froze.

His lips parted, words dying in his throat.

Perth’s grip softened. Just enough to let his fingers slide down Santa’s arms—slow, deliberate.

"You think I don’t know?" Perth whispered, tilting Santa’s chin up. "You think I can’t see how much you want me?"

Santa flinched. "I don’t—"

Perth laughed, quiet and dangerous. "Liar."

Santa trembled as Perth’s fingers traced his jaw, his touch burning despite the chill in the air.

"You can fight all you want, baby." Perth’s voice was low, dark—dangerous. "But at the end of the day, you’re mine."

Santa’s breath came too fast. His mind screamed to push him away.

But his body—his traitorous, aching body—leaned in.

Perth smirked. "See?"

Santa snapped.

"Shut up."

And before he could think—before he could stop himself—he kissed him.

Hard. Desperate. As if he wanted to erase the space between them, as if he wanted to shatter everything and drown in this madness.

Perth growled against his lips, hands tightening, pulling him closer, deeper, rougher.

Santa gasped, but he didn’t pull away.

Because it was over.

The fight. The struggle. The war.

He had already lost.

And as Perth’s fingers tangled in his hair, his lips claiming, devouring, possessing—Santa realized something.

Maybe he had never wanted to win.

"You were always mine, Santa. You just took too long to realize it."

—THE END.