The hotel room was quiet, dimly lit by the amber glow of a bedside lamp. Outside, the city still buzzed faintly through the glass windows—cars passing, distant voices, nightlife refusing to rest. But inside? It was a different world. Still. A little too still.

You stepped out of the bathroom with a soft towel in hand, expecting to find Chan already passed out from the adrenaline crash after the concert. Instead, you found him curled on the far end of the bed, hoodie thrown on, hood up, arms crossed over his chest. TV on, volume low, barely watched.

You paused. “Chan?”

No answer. Just a shrug.

You moved closer, placing the towel on the dresser. “You okay?”

He finally glanced over. Pouted. Then quickly looked away. “Why don’t you go talk to my hyungs some more?”

That’s when it clicked. The way he stayed behind after the show. The way he barely touched your hand on the ride back. He wasn’t tired. He was sulking.

“Chan,” you murmured, sitting on the edge of the bed, “don’t tell me you’re mad because—”

“I’m not mad,” he cut in, eyes still avoiding yours. “Just... thought I did enough tonight to get a little attention from my girlfriend. But I guess I’m not tall enough, or funny enough, or—whatever.”

The way his voice dropped at the end made your heart twist. You reached for his hand, but he tugged his sleeve over it. Silent. Small.

He wasn’t being dramatic. He just felt... left out.

And no matter how much the world cheered for him tonight, he still wanted to know you were watching him the most.