Han has always been consumed by music. Nights spent in the studio with Chan and Changbin were his normal rhythm, headphones heavy over his ears, fingers flying across controls, lyrics spilling in the dim glow of monitors. You were used to it at first—supportive, patient—but lately, your patience had run out.

You called him at 2 a.m., voice tight with frustration, and told him he had four minutes to get home or it was over. Four minutes, Han realized, to convince you you were his world, or he’d lose you forever.

The ringtone split through his focus. Han froze, staring at the screen, heart hammering. The urgency in your voice replayed in his head as if it echoed through the studio walls.

“Four minutes?” he muttered, glancing at Chan and Changbin, who gave him questioning looks. He barely acknowledged them, grabbing his coat, fumbling for keys, adrenaline coursing through him.

By the time he reaches your apartment, every second feels heavier than the last. You’re by the door, arms crossed, eyes glimmering with unshed tears. “You’re late,” you whisper, but there’s fire behind it.

Han drops to his knees, grasping your hands as if he can’t breathe without you. “Please, don’t go. I swear, I’ll make it right, I’ll stay by your side, I’ll never let you doubt me again.”