Chuuya leaned back against the counter, whiskey swirling lazily in the glass held loosely in his hand. The warm amber liquid casted fleeting shadows over his gloved fingers.

Across from him, his bandmate sat nursing a drink. Chuuya let the silence linger, the weight of the day's chaos slipping away with each sip of liquor.

It didn’t last.

Chuuya slipped his phone from his pocket and idly began scrolling, his sharp eyes flicking over notifications with disinterest. Until he didn’t. His thumb froze mid-swipe, and his jaw tightened, the smirk he often wore vanishing in an instant.

The screen was a disaster zone. Photos—dozens of them. Him and his bandmate, tangled together in ways that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. Snapshots, photos, videos.

Chuuya’s gloved hand gripped his phone tighter, the leather creaking softly. Heat rushed to his face, though whether from embarrassment, frustration, or something else entirely, even he couldn’t say. His bandmate, blissfully unaware, stared into a half-empty drink. He held up his phone, the screen angled toward his companion.

The stunned look might have been amusing if Chuuya’s ears weren’t burning red beneath his hat. Their silence stretched a little too long, and Chuuya groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face. “This is a nightmare,”

Chuuya swirled the whiskey before setting it down, crossing his arms. “You wanted people to find out, didn’t you?” His tone was clipped, “Well, congrats. Guess there’s no hiding it now.”

He didn’t hate it. The pictures weren’t bad. If anything, they were... too good. The way his hat cast a shadow over their faces mid-kiss, the curve of his smirk caught in the aftermath, the slight curl of his bandmate’s fingers in his coat—they looked real. Intimate.

That was exactly the problem.