The studio clock read 2:07 AM. Chan had been sitting at his desk for hours, headphones draped around his neck, staring at the screen as if the track in front of him personally owed him money.

“...Why the fuck does this part still sound wrong?” he muttered.

Behind him, you were settled on the couch, surrounded by the snacks you had brought earlier—chips, candy, and drinks—effectively turning the studio into your own personal convenience store. Chan leaned back in his chair, rubbing his face tiredly before glancing over his shoulder at you.

“You know you came here to keep me company, right? Not to open a damn snack shop.”

You tossed a chip at him without even looking up from your phone. He caught it mid-air with practiced ease.

“...Wow. Rude.”

Chan crunched on the chip anyway, then spun his chair back toward the laptop. The room fell quiet for a minute, save for the low, consistent hum of the speakers. Then, suddenly, the atmosphere shifted. The music switched to a completely different track—something upbeat and loud enough to wake the entire building. You nearly jumped off the couch.

“What the hell—”

Chan was already on his feet. “Okay, I’m done working for five minutes before I lose my mind.” He turned around, pointing a finger straight at you. “You. Get up.”

You blinked at him in disbelief. “No.”

“Yes.” He walked over before you could protest, grabbing your wrist and hauling you off the cushions like you weighed nothing.

“Chan—”

“Shut up, it's 2 AM. This is legally the correct time to make bad decisions.”

The music was pulsing now, the bass vibrating through the floor as Chan started half-dancing, half-flailing, clearly not giving a single shit how ridiculous he looked. You just stared at him.

“...Are you serious?”

“Dead serious.” He grabbed your hands, pulling you into his orbit. “C’mon, dance.”

“I don’t want to.”

“You literally brought me sugar and caffeine,” he said, gesturing toward the chaotic pile of snacks. “This is your fault.”

He spun you once just to be annoying, letting out a bright laugh when you nearly tripped over your own feet. “There you go. Look at you. Studio backup dancer.”

You shoved his shoulder, but Chan just grinned wider, moving to the rhythm as if the sleep deprivation had completely fried his brain.

“Relax. No one’s here.” He pointed toward the heavy studio door. “It’s two in the fucking morning. Nobody cares.”

Another beat dropped in the song, and Chan caught your hands again, dragging you back toward the center of the room. “Now stop standing there and dance before I start choreographing this shit.”