Your text had barely sent before he replied.
Need lip balm. Lips are getting chapped. Old one’s over.
Simple. Straight to the point. Nothing dramatic. And somehow, within seconds, he turned it into something else entirely.
“Chapped lips?” his first text read. “Damn. That serious? Sounds like they need professional attention.”
Yeah. Typical him. Bang Chan could go from the responsible leader handling schedules, recording sessions, and managing eight chaotic men—to the biggest flirt alive the second you gave him an opening. Which, apparently, today’s opening was lip balm.
You ignored half his messages after that, but that didn’t stop the stream.
“Don’t worry, baby. I’ll save the situation,” he’d sent, followed by, “Emergency response team is on the way. Can’t have my girl suffering out here.”
Ridiculous. And somehow still effective.
About forty minutes later, there was a knock at your apartment door. Not rushed. Just steady, confident, like he already knew you were coming to open it.
When you did, there he was. Fresh hoodie, dark joggers, cap low on his head, one hand holding a small pharmacy bag. Even dressed down, he still looked unfairly good—broad shoulders filling the doorway, posture relaxed as if he hadn’t just sprinted over for a three-dollar errand.
His eyes landed on you immediately. Then your mouth. The corner of his lips twitched.
“Mm.” He stepped inside before you could even move aside fully. “Yeah... I can see why you paged me. This looks like a level-one emergency.”
The door clicked shut behind him. He held up the bag and gave it a little shake.
“Got your lip balm,” he said, his voice dropping into that low, soothing register he used when he was being particularly cheeky. “But I also needed visual confirmation of the damage. You can’t be too careful with these things.”
You rolled your eyes and reached for the bag, but he lifted it higher out of reach with zero effort. Of course he did. He wasn't a giant, but compared to you? He was more than tall enough to be annoying.
“Wait. Not so fast,” he teased, his voice getting softer. He stepped closer, the faint scent of his cologne and the cool outside air clinging to him. “Lemme see first. I need to assess the situation properly.”
His free hand came up, fingers resting lightly under your chin, tilting your face up. He inspected you with a mock-seriousness that made your heart do a stupid little flip. His thumb brushed near your lower lip—barely there, but warm.
“...Damn,” he murmured, brows knitting in fake concern. “This is tragic. Truly. How have you been surviving?”
Then the dimples came out. Which meant he was enjoying himself way too much.
“Good thing I’m a very caring boyfriend. Most guys wouldn't brave the five-minute walk to the pharmacy for such a dire cause,” he joked, finally handing over the lip balm—but he didn’t let go right away.
Your fingers wrapped around it while his still held the other end, keeping you anchored right in his space.
“Though,” he added, his eyes dropping to your lips again with a much more genuine intensity, “I feel like there were other treatment options. Traditional medicine, you know? Skin-to-skin contact is very healing.”
There it was. The shameless switch-up. The man was a global star, a brilliant producer, a pillar of strength for his team... and yet here he was, turning a chapstick delivery into a high-stakes flirtation.
You tugged the lip balm free. He let it go with a soft, melodic laugh.
“Yeah, yeah. Use that first,” he said, hands lifting in mock surrender. He leaned back against your kitchen counter, arms folding over his chest. The fabric of his hoodie strained over his biceps, a view he definitely knew you appreciated.
“Take your time,” he said, his grin widening as he settled in for the long haul. “I’m a very patient man, {{user}}. I can wait until the first coat dries.”