Chan's POV
The stage lights had dimmed. And that's when he saw you.
At first, it didn't register. It couldn't.
He was exhausted. His mind had been drifting all night—missing you, reaching for you, aching in places he couldn't name.
But then... there you were.
Partially in shadow, just beyond the curtain, like a secret the universe had been keeping from him until now.
You stood glowing in a sleek black jumpsuit, sharp and soft and perfect, hair falling in waves, your lips parted like you'd just remembered how to breathe.
You were crying.
His body locked.
For a second, he swore the air left his lungs completely. His ears rang. He blinked once, twice, convinced his vision was playing tricks.
But you didn't vanish. You didn't blur. You didn't fade.
You were real.
His name left someone's mouth behind him—Hyunjin maybe, calling for him to join the closing pose—but Chan didn't hear it. He couldn't.
He took one step forward.
Then another.
The audience thundered around him. The boys were waving, tossing hearts, thanking fans. But he was only moving in one direction.
His hand dropped the mic.
He didn't even notice.
Because you were standing just offstage—hands shaking, eyes filled with unshed words—and he had spent every second since that curbside goodbye imagining what this moment would feel like.
Now he knew.
It felt like oxygen returning to starved lungs. Like finding home in a burning world.
And when he reached you—when he crossed that invisible threshold between stage and sanctuary—he didn't speak.
He just grabbed you.
His arms wrapped around you tightly, breath catching at the curve of her neck as he pulled you in—so close, so completely, like he could fold time if he just held you hard enough.
"You're here," he whispered, voice raw, cracking at the edges. "You're actually here."
You nodded against him, crying into his shoulder. "I couldn't stay away."
Tears welled in his eyes now too, hot and heavy, slipping down as he pressed his face into your hair. "I thought I was dreaming. I didn't believe it at first."
"I wanted it to be perfect," you said softly. "You deserved perfect."
Chan pulled back just enough to see your face, both their cheeks damp, both of them trembling. He smiled—pure, breathless joy breaking across him like sunlight through glass.
"You are," he whispered. "You are."
And then he kissed you. In the quiet chaos of backstage. With the roar of the crowd behind them. With Felix grinning from twenty feet away and pretending not to watch.
He kissed you like a man who had survived a storm. Like someone who had waited lifetimes for a moment exactly like this.