A/N- Disclaimer: This story is a work of fanfiction. It is inspired by the members of Stray Kids but does not depict their real personalities, relationships, or personal lives. All characters and events portrayed here are fictionalized for creative storytelling purposes.
This chapter contains mature themes and/or intimate scenes intended for adult audiences. Reader discretion is advised.
**********
The van ride back to the hotel wasn't quiet—but it was different.
The air was charged, full of post-show energy and laughter. But this time, when fans crowded near the loading gate with light sticks waving and signs held high, the boys didn't make their usual jokes about the frenzy.
Instead, Jeongin glanced out the window, brows raised. "They're not waiting for us tonight."
Han smirked, stretching dramatically. "They're waiting for her."
A few heads turned—just for a second—smiles hidden behind palms and side-eyes.
Chan squeezed your hand discreetly beside you and whispered, "You changed the whole show, you know."
You didn't answer. You just leaned your head on his shoulder and closed your eyes.
By the time you made it back to the hotel, everyone was finally winding down.
Felix yawned dramatically. "I'm one cold shower away from being unconscious."
"Or dehydrated," Lee Know muttered. "You burned through that stage like you were possessed."
Each of them peeled off in pairs or alone, fading into their rooms one by one.
You stood outside your door, turning to say goodnight, but Chan took your hand instead—and kept walking.
"Wait—" you blinked, laughing a little. "I thought I was going to my room?"
"You are," he said, his voice low. "It's just not that one."
His room was bigger. Quieter. Darker.
You stepped inside and turned to him in amused surprise, but before you could speak, he cupped your chin with one hand and pulled you into a kiss—deep, slow, breath-stealing.
Then he ran his thumb over your bottom lip. You instinctively took it in between your teeth, gently, and that changed everything.
He stilled for a second. His eyes darkened. His hand at your waist tightened. His breath hitched—just enough to feel it.
"You shouldn't have done that," he whispered, voice dipping an octave.
"What're you gonna do about it?"
"Come here."
He led you into the bathroom—larger than the one in your room, with warm marble floors, frosted glass, and a rainfall shower already fogging the mirror with anticipation.
Your eyes flicked to the counter. Everything was meticulously organized: toners, serums, moisturizers, all lined up like soldiers. His toothbrush aligned with military precision.
You burst into a soft laugh. "Your skincare routine could run a boot camp."
Chan smirked. "You're about to see just how detailed I can be."
He wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you close, lips brushing the shell of your ear. Then he began to undress you.
Slowly. Deliberately. Piece by piece, as if learning you all over again.
He turned on the water—warm, steamy, cascading down in sheets. And then he pulled you in.
The water traced your skin in rhythm with his hands—pressing against your back, grazing your hips, teasing the curve of your thigh. He kissed you under the water, deeper this time, with no pretense of control.
Your hands slid over his chest, gliding down to his hips, feeling the strength under your palms. His mouth moved down your neck, his breath hot even in the steam.
He pinned you gently to the wall, his forehead pressed to yours, his voice husky: "Do you want to know what that top did to me tonight?"
You were breathless. "Yes."
His hand slid up, fingers wrapping lightly around your throat. Not tight—just enough for you to feel his presence, his control, his need.
He leaned in, eyes locked with yours.
"It made me want to take you apart—slow. Until the only thing you could say was my name."
You shuddered.
After the shower, you didn't dry off.
He carried you to the bed, still damp and flushed, his mouth trailing down your collarbone, hands tracing the outline of your hips like they were a map he already knew by heart.
He touched you differently now. Not just with lust—but reverence. Like he knew what he had in his arms, and didn't intend to waste a second of it.
He whispered your name like a confession. You whispered his like a prayer.
Then—his mouth found yours again, and suddenly you were beneath him.
His hands pressed into the mattress on either side of your head, his bare chest hovering just above yours, skin still warm and damp from the shower. His gaze searched your face like he needed to memorize every second.
You reached up and ran your fingers through his wet hair, pulling him closer until your lips met again—deeper, hungrier this time.
Your legs slid around his waist, heels hooking behind him to pull him flush against you.
The second your hips rolled up to meet his, he groaned—low and guttural—and dropped his forehead to yours. "God..." he breathed, voice shaking, "you feel like..."
You rolled again, slow, deliberate, meeting every motion with equal need, bodies aligned like they were made to find each other in the dark.
"Don't stop," you whispered, voice thick with want.
His hands moved—one gripping your hip, anchoring you, the other sliding up your ribcage, fingers spreading wide across your chest, holding you close as his rhythm deepened.
You moved together, breath for breath, pulse for pulse—until his hand slid higher, up your throat.
Not forceful. Present. Claiming you without caging you.
When he applied just a hint of pressure, your moan echoed into his mouth—loud, unrestrained, honest.
Your nails raked down his back, clinging to him as the tension that had been building since Orlando—since the moment you walked into his life—finally tore through both of you like lightning.
You shattered together. Every breath, every tremble, every whispered name.
And afterward, when your bodies stilled, when all that heat melted into warmth, he collapsed beside you, pulling you tightly to his chest like he wasn't done being near you.
You let your fingers trace lazy patterns along the lines of his arm, your forehead resting on his shoulder, his heartbeat still racing beneath your cheek.
He kissed your forehead. "This was everything."
You hummed in agreement. "And more."
BANG BANG BANG.
You both jumped.
From the other side of the wall—Seungmin. "You know she has a room too, right?"
You and Chan froze. Then burst out laughing, arms tightening around each other.
His phone buzzed. A message from Seungmin.
Seungmin :
"JYPE might be cool with the kiss, but these walls aren't soundproof, Romeo."
You groaned into the pillow. "I'm changing floors."
Chan laughed. "He can deal with it. I've earned this."
Then your eyes met—and everything shifted. Serious now. Real again.
"We have one more day," you whispered.
He nodded. "And a meeting with JYPE."
You both fell quiet.
The world was waiting again.
But for now—this night, this room, this moment—belonged only to you.