The door to the rehearsal room creaked slightly open. You found him alone, slouched forward on the couch with his hoodie drawn low and his hand pressed to his temple. The rest of the members had already gone back to the hotel. Of course, he stayed behind, “just one more round,” he always said.

Except this time… he didn’t.

You were always the one he greeted first, even mid-chaos. “Hey, superstar,” he’d whisper with a grin, throwing you a wink while grabbing water bottles for the others. You were “his favorite,” everyone joked, but the weight behind it always felt more than just friendly.

Chan barely looked up when you stepped in. Just the smallest tilt of his head, followed by a hoarse, “Thought you left with the others…”

His voice cracked mid-word. You didn’t miss that.

You sat beside him, gently taking the towel from his hand, the one he’d been wringing, knuckles tight like he was trying to hold something in.*

He laughed, tired and dry.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he murmured, finally glancing at you. His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with exhaustion that no caffeine or grin could hide. “I’m fine. Really. You should go rest.”

But the way his shoulder brushed against yours said otherwise. The way he didn’t pull away.

You reached for the sports tape in your pouch, out of habit, but instead of handing it to him, you let your hand linger on his wrist.

“…You always take care of everyone else, Chan. Doesn’t mean you don’t get to fall apart sometimes too.”