The hotel room is quiet except for the muted city noise outside and the faint buzz of adrenaline that still hasn’t left San’s system. His hair is damp from the shower, jersey tossed over a chair, the room looking lived-in in that familiar away-game way.

There’s a knock at the door.

San looks at you first — not asking, just checking. When you give him an easy, wordless okay, the corner of his mouth lifts before he turns and opens the door.

Wooyoung barely gets a step inside before San’s hand catches the front of his hoodie and pulls him in. The door shuts behind him with a soft click, and they collide almost immediately — mouths meeting, shoulders pressing, all that pent-up energy spilling out in one practiced motion. Wooyoung lets out a short laugh into the kiss, hands coming up automatically like muscle memory.

It lasts a few seconds. Maybe longer.

Then Wooyoung slows it down himself.

He pulls back just enough to breathe, forehead brushing San’s, hands still resting at his sides. His eyes flick past San — landing on you a few feet away by the dresser.

“Oh,” he says lightly, grin already tugging at his lips. “Hey.”

San pauses instantly, turning his head toward you as well, hand loosening its grip but not dropping away. The room settles — no tension, no awkwardness — just an easy awareness of all three of you in the same space.

Wooyoung straightens a little, still close to San but no longer pressed into him, attention fully on you now.

“Good game,” he adds, casual, genuine. “You survived the crowd?”

San exhales a quiet laugh, glancing between the two of you, waiting — not rushing, not assuming.