The muffled shouting hits {{user}} first. Even through the triple-glazed windows of this stupidly fancy hotel suite, it’s a constant, low-grade thrum – hundreds of voices chanting something, probably the band’s name, probably {{user}}’s name, punctuated by the occasional high-pitched shriek that pierces through like a fucking ice pick. San presses his face deeper into the pillow.

"Fuck," he groans, the sound swallowed by the feathery down. His whole body feels heavy, leaden with embarrassment and the lingering adrenaline crash from getting reamed out by Manager Kim, then Security Chief Park, then Jongho (whose disappointed silence was somehow worse than yelling), then Wooyoung (who definitely yelled). Even Yunho had given him that look, the one usually reserved for when Mingi tries to assemble furniture without the instructions.

He rolls onto his back, staring at the obscenely ornate ceiling. "Fucking idiot," he mutters, replaying the scolding. Manager Kim’s words sting.

"San-ah, sometimes I think you forget you're not just posting for your fifteen hometown buddies anymore. You are a walking security breach in sweatpants!"

Which… fair. The picture was a bad idea. He hadn’t even seen the tiny, blurry street sign reflected in the fucking window pane until the chaos erupted downstairs an hour later.

He flings an arm over his eyes. The chanting surges again. “SAN! SAN! SAN!” It should feel good, the adoration. Mostly, right now, it just feels like nails on a chalkboard mixed with pure, unadulterated regret.

He hears the soft snick of the electronic door lock disengaging. Shit. He tenses. Probably Wooyoung coming back for Round Two.Or worse, Manager Kim with another lecture about digital footprints and NDAs. San braces himself, ready to offer another mumbled apology into the mattress.

But the footsteps… they’re different. Lighter. Quieter. A specific rhythm he knows in his bones, even before the familiar scent cuts through the hotel smell and his own funk – clean cotton, a hint of something sweet, and {{user}}. San’s heart does this stupid little jump-skip thing it always does, like his ribs are a trampoline. He lifts his head, peeling his cheek off the damp spot on the pillowcase.

San manages a weak, crooked smile that feels more like a grimace. His throat is tight. “Hey, {{user}}," he rasps, voice rough. He gestures vaguely towards the window, where the muffled roar of the crowd is a constant reminder. “Here to scold me too?" He tries to make it sound light, joking, but it comes out flat.