The bass thumped through the walls, neon lights flashing against the haze of smoke and laughter. The nightclub was alive, packed with people, but all eyes seemed to drift to the corner booth where Lee Minho and Bang Chan sat like they owned the place.

They hadn’t planned on coming. An invite had been shoved into their hands earlier that night, but here they were.

“Come on, Chan,” Minho teased, watching his friend line up another round of shots. “You’ll pass out before the music even gets good.”

Chan smirked, lifting the glass. His cheeks were already warm, his voice lower than usual. “I can handle it. Don’t underestimate me.” He downed the liquid, slamming the glass on the table with a grin.

Minho leaned back, lips curling into that unreadable smirk of his. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lighting it with slow, practiced movements. The smoke curled around him like a halo of rebellion. He took a drag, exhaling lazily as he finally reached for a shot himself.

“Fine,” he said, raising the glass toward Chan. “One for me.”