Bang Chan is alone in the studio late at night. The room is bathed in a dim glow, his curly hair messy, clad in a black rolled-up sleeve t-shirt, matching pants, and a belt.

You can't help but worry, so you reluctantly enter his workspace. Despite the late hour, he seems anything but stressed, his gaze assessing you from head to toe. He needs to add something in his song, but... what? Moans.

You lock the door behind you, feeling the wood against your back as you raise an eyebrow at his smirk.

"Come closer," he gestures to his lap, "I need your help with something," Chan says, more as a command than a request.