Chapter Text
Watching out of the corner of his eye as Chan talked to Jisung and Changbin about some new music, he noticed Felix walking over to the couch and settling next to Hyunjin. Which was fine. Felix could sit wherever he wanted. He didn’t belong to anyone. Really, he was just being himself. Chan knew that. He told himself that. Just… sitting next to him. That was all. Chan nodded along to the conversation, offered agreement at the right moments, smiled when expected. He was doing everything right—everything he was supposed to do. And yet, his attention kept drifting back to the couch, pulled there against his will. It was nothing. Just Felix choosing comfort. Just Felix being Felix. Until suddenly, it wasn’t. The tightness in his chest slammed into him before he could brace for it. Felix began to knead—slow, unthinking movements, instinctive and soft, like his body had made the decision before his mind caught up. Hyunjin laughed quietly, warm and indulgent. He didn’t pull away. Didn’t hesitate. When Felix leaned closer, Hyunjin shifted instinctively, opening space as if it were meant to be there. Chan’s breath caught.
It shouldn’t have mattered. Felix wasn’t doing anything wrong. And yet… every touch, every soft hum, every ease of closeness carved at him like a claim he wasn’t allowed to stake. Heat coiled low in his stomach, sharp and unwelcome. His chest ached, heavy, pressing inward as if someone had locked it in a vice. Felix’s scent, sweet, warm, grounding—wafted to him, and his body betrayed him: pulse quickening, focus splintering, jealousy creeping in like a silent, invasive shadow. He had no right to feel this way. He was his leader… and yet he couldn’t stop. Couldn’t look away. Every tiny movement between them felt like something stolen before he’d even been given the chance to reach for it.
“Hey, Chan… earth to Bang Chan.” Jisung’s voice snapped him back. Chan turned, heart hammering, realizing too late that both Jisung and Changbin were watching him.
“You okay there, Channie?” Jisung asked.
“Yeah,” Chan said too quickly. He forced a tight smile, hands clenching in his lap, knuckles whitening. “I’m fine.”
He wasn’t. Because Felix hadn’t stopped kneading. Because Hyunjin hadn’t moved away. Because Chan couldn’t stop imagining how it would feel—how it should feel—if Felix leaned into him like that. If Felix trusted him with that softness. If Felix didn’t flinch or retreat, didn’t keep that careful distance he always seemed to hold just for Chan. The jealousy burned hotter, uglier for how quiet it was. He wanted Felix to choose him. Wanted it so badly it scared him.
“So then,” Changbin said, breaking the tension, “which one should we go with first?”
“Uh…” Chan started, and betrayed himself immediately. His eyes flicked back to the couch—to the curve of Felix’s back, the way he fit so easily between Hyunjin and Seungmin, drawn in without resistance. Something in Chan snapped tight.
Heat surged, sharp and insistent, twisting low in his stomach. His jaw clenched. Fists tightened in his lap. Jealousy finally showed its teeth, raw, possessive, furious even in its restraint. Felix wasn’t his. He knew that. But the need, the instinct, didn’t care about logic. It cared about proximity. About scent. About the fact that Felix was being touched, comforted, and cuddled by everyone but him. Illogical thinking—but the instincts of an alpha were never logical. “I guess the first one works,” Chan forced out. “We can go to the recording studio tomorrow…” His voice faded as his attention was caught again. Felix hadn’t even noticed that Chan had been watching him. Actually, he hadn’t looked his way once. The jealousy sharpened, turning inward, painful and humiliating.
“Actually,” Chan said abruptly, the word cutting through the room, “why don’t we head over to the studio now?” The sharpness in his tone startled everyone—Jisung, Changbin, even a few of the others nearby.
“Aren’t we on break until tomorrow?” Jisung asked. Chan met his gaze, holding it. Just the barest whisper of pheromones slipped into the air. Not dominance. Not command. Urgency. Control stretched thin. A silent please. Help me.
Changbin caught it immediately. “Yeah. Sure. Let’s go. Getting a head start is a great idea.”
Relief hit Chan hard, dizzying. Out of everyone he knew, Changbin had his back just like he had Changbin’s. Every step toward the door felt wrong—like tearing himself away from something essential. His hands curled into fists at his sides, knuckles whitening as he forced himself not to turn back, not to look, not to give in to the instinct screaming to cross the room and take what he wanted.
If he were anyone else, if they were anyone else, he wouldn’t have hesitated. But he was the leader of Stray Kids. They were idols, and the world was watching everything they did. Felix deserved safety, not confusion. Chan’s restraint—earned, practiced, brutal—wrapped tight around him, choking off the urge before it could become action. Still, the ache didn’t fade.
Felix’s warmth lingered. The hum vibrated under Chan’s skin. The intimacy he wasn’t allowed to touch pressed in from every direction. He swallowed hard, grounding himself with sheer will as he reached the door. He looked back. Just once. Felix’s back curved against Hyunjin, kneading slowly, content and unaware. The sight hit Chan like a blow. The longing hadn’t dulled, it had sharpened into something dangerous. He was leaving. But every step was a war. Each breath was chosen. Each movement was an act of restraint so tight it burned. Wanting Felix wasn’t the problem. Wanting him—and not allowing himself to reach—that was the agony.
A sudden touch on his shoulder made him start, instinctively whipping around. Relief flooded him when he saw Jisung standing there, offering a small, encouraging smile. Changbin appeared on the other side, flanking him. With both of them guiding him, Chan stepped out. The cool air hit his face, grounding him—if only slightly. As the door closed behind him, Chan knew this wasn’t something that would fade with distance. It was a burning in his chest that he constantly carried. Something he’d locked away for a reason.
Even as they walked, Chan’s mind refused to quiet. Every imagined movement of Felix against Hyunjin sent his pulse spiking again. He could still feel it—the warmth, the hum lingering in memory, the scent. Sweet, vanilla honey. Clinging, tethering him, impossible to cut.
He knew once they reached the studio, Changbin and Jisung would ask. He wasn’t ready—not with the ache in his chest, the heat simmering low in his stomach, still gripping him so unrelentingly. A constant war between duty and desire. Chan swallowed hard, forcing his body to obey reason even as every instinct screamed at him to turn back, to close the distance, to reach out, to claim what he’d been craving. But he didn’t. He kept walking. And while the physical desire burned hot beneath his skin, he knew it was more than that. So much more. Chan had never let himself truly examine how deep it went—because that was a door he’d sealed shut for a reason. If he opened it, if he acknowledged everything he felt… There would be no stopping it. No pulling back. So for now… for everyone’s sake, for Felix’s sake, this was the safest option.
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By the time the three of them reached Chan’s studio, the insistence to turn back had dulled just enough for him to think again. The heat flooding him now wasn’t want or jealousy. It was shame—heavy, suffocating. Shame that he had come so close to losing control. Shame that, for a split second, he had almost let his alpha side take over. He truly was one step away from ripping Felix away from the others and—
Chan stopped himself sharply, breath catching as the thought fully formed. His stomach churned at the image: his hands closing around Felix, instincts overriding consent, reason, everything Felix trusted him not to be. He pressed his palms flat against the edge of the desk, grounding himself in the solid reality of the studio, the walls, the equipment, the space where he was in control. What scared him most wasn’t the jealousy.
It was how easy it would have been.
How natural it felt for that instinct to rise, sharp and possessive, whispering that Felix should have been with him—that Felix should have been his to pull close, to shield, to claim. The thought alone made his chest tighten painfully. Felix deserved safety. Choice. Gentleness. Not an alpha who had to remove himself physically from the room just to keep from crossing a line he had sworn he never would. How much longer he could maintain that restraint, though, was the question he didn’t have an answer for. It hadn’t just been today, it had been building slowly over time, every moment he’d gone against his instincts.
Chan dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly, deliberately, until his breathing steadied. This—this—was why he kept his distance. Why he buried what he felt so deeply he barely allowed himself to name it. Because wanting Felix wasn’t harmless. Because if he ever stopped holding the line, stopped choosing restraint every second of every day… he didn’t trust how far that instinct might go. Behind him, the familiar sounds of the studio settling, Changbin dropping his bag, Jisung pacing, were grounding. Safe. Proof he had done the right thing by leaving. That distance was still the only thing keeping everyone protected. Especially Felix.
Chan straightened slowly, shoulders squaring as he forced the shame down—not erased, not forgiven, but acknowledged. A reminder. A warning. One he would carry with him, just like always. Because wanting Felix was dangerous. But failing him… that would be unforgivable.
“So what happened, man?” Changbin asked as Chan settled into his chair. “You know you can’t keep doing this to yourself, right?”
Chan sank back, the familiar creak of the chair grounding him as he stared down at his hands. They were steady now. Too steady. Like nothing had happened at all. Somehow, that made it worse. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “But what choice do I have, Bin?” He didn’t look up. If he did, he wasn’t sure he could keep the control he’d just barely reclaimed.
“You know if I crossed that line,” Chan continued, voice rough with exhaustion, “there’d be no going back.” His fingers curled slowly, palms pressing together as if holding something fragile—or dangerous. “And truly… what kind of leader does that make me?” The question lingered in the air, heavy and unanswered. It wasn’t just about rules or image. It was about trust. About being the one person everyone relied on to stay steady when things got complicated. Chan had built himself around that responsibility, layer by layer, until restraint felt like part of his bones.
He had helped raise each one of them. Late nights. Early mornings. Holding things together when they were still learning who they were, when everything felt too big and too fast. Felix, especially, young, bright, fragile in ways he never let show. They had been two foreigners in a different country, and Chan had been there from the beginning, guiding, protecting, teaching him how to survive this world without losing himself. They were his kids. And how could he cross that line with Felix?
The thought alone made his chest tighten, guilt and affection tangling so tightly he couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. To want him, to look at Felix and feel anything other than protective brotherly pride, felt like a betrayal of everything Chan had promised himself he would be for them.
“It makes you a human one.” Changbin’s voice was gentle but firm as he moved closer, resting a solid, grounding hand on Chan’s shoulder. “We all know how much you’ve sacrificed,” He continued quietly. “How much you still sacrifice for us. You carry it like it’s just part of the job.” Chan didn’t look up. He didn’t trust himself to.
““But don’t you think,” Changbin said after a beat, squeezing his shoulder slightly, “that you deserve a little happiness too? That maybe you deserve some peacefulness as well?” The words hit harder than Chan expected.
“And Felix,” Changbin added softly, carefully. “That Felix deserves it, too.”
Chan’s breath caught. Because that was the part he never let himself consider. Not because he didn’t, but because if he did, he knew the answer. So he never looked at it—not honestly. He had framed it all as protection, leadership, restraint, but what if, by shielding Felix from himself, he was actually hurting him? Chan swallowed hard. The room suddenly felt too quiet.
“I don’t know how to be what he needs, or even more than that, what he deserves,” he admitted at last, voice low and raw. “I don’t know how to be his leader… his alpha… and want him… without ruining everything.” Changbin didn’t answer right away. He just stayed there, steady and present, reminding Chan that he didn’t have to carry everything alone. And for the first time, that certainty Chan had clung to, that restraint was the only right answer, began to fracture, just slightly.
“Wait a second—who are you guys talking about?” Jisung asked from the couch across the room, blinking between Changbin and Chan. “I thought you were discussing the new music?”
Laughter burst out instantly, loud and genuine, cutting through the heaviness that had settled in the studio. Changbin let out a sharp bark of it, shaking his head, while Chan startled before the sound followed—soft at first, then real. For just a moment, the weight lifted.
Jisung only looked more confused, eyebrows furrowing as he glanced between them, clearly trying to piece together what he’d missed.
“Don’t ever change, Sungie, okay,” Chan said, the laughter slowly fading as warmth lingered in his chest.
Jisung scrunched his nose. “I wasn’t planning on it,” he shot back with a grin. Then his expression shifted, his curiosity sharpening. “But for real, who were you talking about?”
Changbin didn’t dodge it. “Lixie, Sung,” he said plainly. “We were talking about Chan and Lixie. And how much he deserves happiness, too.”
The grin slipped off Jisung’s face almost instantly. “Oh.” It wasn’t shocking, not really. More like something clicking into place. His eyes flicked to Chan, then away again, thoughtful in that quiet way he had when actually processing instead of joking. Chan felt his shoulders tense automatically, years of instinct bracing him for questions he wasn’t ready to answer.
Jisung leaned back against the couch, arms folding loosely. “Huh,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. After a beat, he added, “That… actually explains a lot.”
Chan let out a slow breath. “Sung—”
“Never mind, don’t worry about it,” Jisung cut in quickly, holding up his hands. “I’m just saying… yeah. That makes a lot more sense now.” The room went quiet again, but it wasn’t heavy. It was careful. Considerate. Jisung glanced at Changbin, then back at Chan, expression softer than before.
“You’ve always taken care of us,” he said simply. “All of us. So I get why this is hard.” Chan swallowed, fingers tightening briefly against the arm of the chair. Waiting for the but that he knew had to be coming.
“But,” Jisung added, tilting his head slightly, “you’re allowed to be more than just our leader, you know. Both you and Felix were destined for each other. Can you tell me you don’t feel that? Because all of us can see it. The only ones who can’t are you and Felix.” The words weren’t accusatory. They weren’t persuasive. Just honest.
They settled into Chan slowly, sinking beneath his skin instead of bouncing off the defenses he’d spent years building. He didn’t respond right away. He couldn’t. Because hearing it said out loud—by someone else, by someone he loved and trusted—made the line he’d drawn for himself feel thinner. Fragile. Like it had only ever existed because he needed it to. And that scared him more than the jealousy ever had. Chan stared at the floor, jaw tight, heart pounding in a way that felt too exposed. He had always believed restraint was strength. That his silence was protection. But now… now he wasn’t so sure anymore.
“Talk to him, Chan,” Changbin said quietly. His hand was still on Chan’s shoulder, steady and warm. Not pushing. Just there. “You do so much for us,” he continued, voice low but sure. “You carry everything. You always have. But maybe… maybe it’s time you do something for you.” Chan’s breath hitched.
“And for Felix,” Jisung added after a beat. “Because keeping your distance doesn’t just protect him. It keeps him in the dark and makes him think that you don’t like him that way. And you, better than anyone, know he deserves honesty just as much as you deserve a chance.”
The room was silent again, but it wasn’t heavy with expectation. It was patient. Chan finally lifted his head, eyes unfocused as if he were looking at something far away—at years of restraint, at choices made for everyone else. His fingers curled slowly against the arm of the chair. “I don’t know how to start,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “What if I say something… and the alpha in me takes over?”
Jisung smiled softly from the couch. “Yeah,” he said. “But what if by not saying anything, you’ve already hurt him? We know that wasn’t your intent. Just… talk to him, Channie. Give yourself a chance.” The words landed quietly, steadily, and Chan let them.
Chan went very still. It wasn’t panic that followed. It wasn’t heat or instinct or that familiar tightening in his chest. It was something colder, heavier—like a weight settling where certainty used to live. He had told himself, over and over, that silence was protection. That distance was him doing the right thing. That holding back was the kindest thing he could truly offer.
But what if it hadn’t been?
What if all this time, Felix hadn’t felt protected at all—only kept at arm’s length and thought he was treated just as he treated everyone else? What if Chan’s careful avoidance hadn’t read as leadership or self-control, but as indifference? As rejection. As something quietly that he painfully kept inside and hidden, that he would never voice out loud. The thought hollowed him out. Chan swallowed, his throat tight, breath shallow as the realization worked its way through him. This wasn’t about what he might do anymore. This was about what he already had—about the spaces he’d left untouched, the conversations he’d never allowed to happen, the warmth he’d denied without ever asking whether Felix wanted that distance in the first place.
Restraint, suddenly, didn’t feel like the right thing to do. It felt wrong. For the first time, the line he’d drawn so carefully didn’t feel like a boundary he was protecting. It felt like something he’d been standing behind while Felix waited on the other side, unaware there was even a choice to be made. Chan’s fingers curled slowly against the arm of the chair. Talking to Felix and confessing didn’t feel reckless anymore. It didn’t feel like crossing into forbidden territory. It felt like acknowledging something that had already existed between them, something he’d pretended not to see because it was easier than facing what it asked of him. He was still afraid. Of changing things. Of saying the wrong thing. Of discovering that he was already too late. But for the first time, the fear wasn’t enough to keep him silent. And that quiet shift—responsibility turning outward instead of inward—felt like the moment everything truly changed.
Now, though, he had to find the right time. A time when he could talk to Felix alone. This wasn’t something meant for open air or casual ears. It was fragile. Personal. Something that deserved privacy and intention. Felix deserved that. Chan exhaled slowly, steadying himself. This wasn’t about crossing a line. It was about acknowledging something he’d refused to look at for too long. The instinct was still there—quiet now, no longer sharp or demanding. An echo rather than a command. He let it exist without answering it. That, too, was a choice. He didn’t have all the answers yet. He didn’t know how the conversation would go, or what Felix would say when finally given the choice he’d never been offered before. But he knew this much: silence wasn’t protecting either of them anymore. For now, that was enough.
“You guys are right,” Chan continued, voice steady even as his hands curled lightly against his knees. “And I have been running away.” He exhaled slowly, eyes dropping for a brief moment before lifting again. “It felt easier. Safer.” For him. For Felix. For the fans. For the group. The words weren’t excuses. Just truth.
“But running away doesn’t mean it goes away,” he added, more to himself than to them. His jaw tightened—not with panic, but with resolve. “I know I can’t keep doing that forever.” He looked between them, really looked, and saw only support and love staring back. This was his pack. No matter what he decided today, they would have supported him and Felix.
“But for right now,” Chan said, straightening slightly, grounding himself in the familiar weight of the room, “can we work on what we came here to do?” A small, crooked smile tugged at his mouth. “Let’s make some music.”
It wasn’t avoidance anymore. It was choosing to stay present. To breathe. To hold onto something steady while he gathered the courage for what came next. For now, that was enough.
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Weeks went by, and Chan still hadn’t found more than a few minutes to talk to Felix. The new album consumed almost every second, on top of schedules, meetings, practice, and promotion. Even in the quiet moments, it was never long enough. Felix moved through the room, always near the others, always present. Chan couldn’t bring himself to pull him aside, not yet.
Every spare second reminded him of what he hadn’t said. The words he’d rehearsed stayed locked behind restraint. Each time he imagined Felix’s face or heard the warmth in his voice, his chest tightened. Jealousy crept in quietly. Watching Felix lean against someone else, knead their lap without thinking, offer that easy, unselfconscious warmth—it burned. Chan trusted them. Trusted Felix. But it didn’t make it any easier. The schedules didn’t pause. Studio night sessions, endless edits, and recordings—they demanded everything. Chan loved the boys. Loved the work they did. Loved the music. But the one person who mattered the most to Chan remained just out of reach. Each day, he promised himself he would find the moment, tonight, tomorrow, the next time there was a half-hour break. But the words stayed locked in his chest, heavy with all they carried. Changbin and Jisung gave him quiet, understanding looks. They knew there just wasn’t enough time.
Finally, Chan had had enough. He was done waiting. Done letting schedules, responsibilities, and fear dictate when…or if, he would speak to Felix. He was going to make the time, whether there was any or not. When Changbin, Chan, and Jisung decided who would record the members singing their parts for the newest song, Chan volunteered immediately to do Felix’s. His voice was calm, measured, but his chest thrummed with anticipation—nervousness, and something sharper he didn’t want to name.
Changbin and Jisung exchanged a glance, then nodded. “Don’t worry about the others. We’ve got them,” Changbin said gently, resting a hand on Chan’s shoulder. “Between Sungie and I, we’ll divide them up. No worries.”
Jisung smiled softly. “This is your time now. Make it count, Hyung.”
Both of them understood without a word. Their small gestures, Changbin’s hand on his shoulder, Jisung’s encouraging smile, said it all. Chan felt the subtle tightening in his jaw, the way his hands flexed at his sides, the way his eyes lingered on the space Felix usually occupied. Every passing second felt like it could slip away, but now, he wouldn’t wait any longer. For the first time in what felt like forever, the possibility didn’t scare him. Not entirely. There was still a flutter of nerves. What if Felix didn’t feel the same? A knot of fear tightened in his stomach—what if he’d waited too long? But beneath it all, determination burned sharper, steadier than he expected. This time, he wouldn’t run. This was his moment.
The next day, Chan walked into the recording studio. Felix sat in front of the equipment, eyes scanning the sheet of lyrics, concentration etched in the slight furrow of his brow. The soft glow of the monitors highlighted every careful movement as he worked through tricky runs and phrasing. Chan knew this song would challenge all of them. But once they nailed it, the track would be one of the best yet. Right now, Felix was focused, precise, completely absorbed—and entirely unaware of the storm in Chan.
His chest tightened. Years of longing, restraint, and waiting pressed in all at once. He forced himself to breathe slowly, stepping quietly, reminding himself this was about music first, conversation second. Yet just being near Felix made the wait feel unbearably urgent. The gentle scent that came from Felix lingered in the air, almost beckoning him closer. Chan stepped nearer, slow and careful, as if any sudden movement might break the fragile rhythm Felix had settled into. He told himself it was just the studio, just another recording session—but his body knew better, responding before his mind could rein it in. When Felix finally glanced up, a bright smile spread across his face, warm and open, and something inside Chan shifted. The tight coil of tension he’d been carrying for weeks loosened just a little, replaced by a quiet sense of peace that settled deep in his chest. For a moment, everything else… the schedules, the rules, the fear, fell away.
Chan smiled back, softer than he meant to, then cleared his throat, grounding himself before the silence could say too much. “Are you ready to do this, Lix? Ready to get this recoding done?”
Felix nodded, eyes bright as he tapped the lyric sheet. “Yeah. It looks like it might be the best song we’ve ever done. I did have one question about this part here.” He gestured to a specific line, fingers brushing the page as he leaned slightly closer.
The distance between them shrank, and Chan felt it immediately—the way Felix’s focus shifted effortlessly from the music to him, trusting and open. For a brief second, their eyes met, and to his surprise, there was something there he couldn’t quite name yet. Not uncertainty. Not confusion. Something softer. Something that made his chest tighten in a way that felt both terrifying and familiar.
Chan forced himself to look back down at the lyrics, anchoring himself to the page even as his awareness stayed locked on Felix—the warmth at his side, the quiet hum of his presence, the steady rhythm of his breathing. This wasn’t supposed to feel different. And yet it did. The room felt smaller, quieter, as if the world had narrowed to just the space between them, heavy with everything he hadn’t said. All the moments he’d let slip by pressed in on him now, and he knew—deep down—that this one mattered more than the rest.
Chan leaned in slightly, pointing at the line Felix had indicated. “This part here,” he said, keeping his voice steady, professional, even as his pulse betrayed him. “I want it softer. Not weaker—just… more controlled. Like you’re holding something back.”
Felix hummed thoughtfully, nodding as he followed along—and then, without thinking, he shifted closer, brushing against Chan as he leaned in to study the lyrics more carefully. The contact was brief. Innocent. Unintentional. Still, it hit Chan like a spark to dry tinder.
“So less power?” Felix asked, voice gentle. “More feeling?”
“Exactly,” Chan replied, a little too quickly. The irony wasn’t lost on him—asking Felix to restrain himself while every ounce of his own restraint was being tested. Being this close, breathing in Felix’s warm, familiar scent… it was almost too much. His alpha stirred, restless, whispering one word he tried not to admit. Mine.
Chan clenched his jaw, fingers tightening against the console as he forced himself to focus on the sliders, the numbers, the sound—anything that wasn’t the pull of Felix at his side. He could feel Felix’s eyes on him, patient and quiet, not intrusive or expectant. Just… there. That gentle attentiveness always made Chan feel seen, even when he was trying not to be. And that made it harder to hold back.
“Like this?” Felix asked softly, testing the line under his breath. His voice, low, careful, restrained, hit Chan straight in the chest. It was exactly what he’d meant, and it was just as good as he had imagined it would be. Maybe even hotter.
“…Yeah,” Chan managed, fingers curling slightly against the edge of the console. “Just like that.”
Felix glanced up, eyes warm and curious, noticing the strain in Chan’s tone. “You okay, Hyung?” The question was simple, gentle—and it nearly undid him.
Chan inhaled slowly, steadying himself. “Yeah,” he said, forcing a smile. “Just… thinking about how good this track’s going to be once it’s done.”
Nodding in agreement, Felix accepted the answer easily, too easily, as he moved into the recording booth and slipped on the headphones. The gentle swish of fabric, the subtle shift of his weight, the soft exhale as he settled in—all of it lingered in the air, wrapping around Chan like a tether.
His scent curled in the space between them, warm and familiar, teasing every nerve. That was when Chan knew, with absolute clarity, that this was the moment he had been waiting for. Not the confession itself, not yet, but the first stretch of space where it could happen.
He couldn’t speak now, not with the recording about to get underway. But soon, very soon. Right now, he was going to have to face the hardest test in his career, and he would have to survive the next few hours without letting the tension snap or giving himself away. Every second being close to Felix tested his restraint, and every second made the pull sharper, nearly unbearable. Chan exhaled slowly, straightening his shoulders and forcing his hands to steady themselves on the console. Focus. Music first. The rest would have to wait.