The arena buzzed faintly with the last remnants of activity, the air heavy with the mingled scents of sweat, lingering smoke from the stage effects, and the faint sweetness of his cologne. The dressing room was quieter now, lit by the soft, golden light of a single overhead fixture that reflected off the polished floor. Chan sat slumped on the couch, his hoodie hanging loose on his shoulders, damp strands of hair plastered to his forehead. His chest rose and fell in slow, deep breaths, exhaustion weighing him down like a lead blanket. His hands rested limply on his thighs, his head tilted back against the couch’s edge.

The door creaked open, and in she bounded, an unstoppable force of energy. The rhythmic tap of her sneakers on the tiled floor echoed in the stillness, her presence lighting up the room like a spark in dry tinder. She stopped a few feet away, her hands on her hips, eyes bright, a mischievous glint dancing within them.

“I’m too hot!” she declared with theatrical flair, the words bouncing off the walls like a chant.

Chan opened his eyes, his tired gaze meeting hers, a single brow raising in silent amusement.

She pointed dramatically at him, her lips pulling into an exaggerated grin—huge, almost cartoonish, the kind that made her cheeks puff out. She smiled more, holding the expression, leaning slightly closer to him. Her grin widened, if that were even possible.

Chan let out a deep, raspy chuckle, a low vibration that rumbled in his chest. Shaking his head slowly, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“Hot damn,” he murmured, his tone deadpan, his smile small but genuine as he met her gaze.

She gasped loudly, throwing her arms up. “CALL THE POLICE AND THE FIREMAN!” she exclaimed, spinning dramatically on her heel, her laughter ringing through the room like music.

He laughed now, the sound full and unrestrained, his dimples deepening as his head tilted down, his shoulders shaking. The exhaustion didn’t seem so heavy anymore, not with her lightness filling the space.