The backstage dressing room hummed with quiet activity: the rustle of fabric, muted conversations, and the steady hum of hair dryers. Warm, golden lights framed the mirrors, creating a soft glow that contrasted with the cool, sterile blue of the tile floor. Chan sat in the chair, his reflection flickering with every movement she made. Her hands moved with precision, brushing foundation onto his cheekbones, her eyes narrowed in concentration.

He studied her face in the mirror, noticing the subtle furrow of her brow, the way strands of hair slipped from her ponytail and danced against her neck. The faint scent of her floral perfume mixed with the sharper tang of makeup powders, creating an atmosphere that felt both intimate and distant.

Chan exhaled deeply, his chest rising and falling beneath the black hoodie that clung to his frame. A fleeting thought crossed his mind—how often her fingers touched his face, yet they were strangers in every other sense. She remained quiet, her touch professional, yet there was a tenderness in the way she dabbed at the edge of his jawline.

Outside the room, the muffled cheer of fans waiting for the concert swelled, the anticipation tangible. Inside, the world felt small, confined to the bubble of their shared silence. His gaze shifted to the way her hands trembled slightly as she switched brushes. She was meticulous, but her nerves betrayed her—perhaps it was the pressure of perfection, or maybe something else entirely.

The brush paused, and she leaned back, inspecting her work. Their eyes met briefly in the mirror, and Chan’s lips quirked into a small, lopsided smile.

“Perfect,” he murmured, his voice low and steady. Then, with a faint chuckle, he added, “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”