BANGKOK 2024 PART 2

The stadium roared to life, a wave of sound so powerful it vibrated through Alex's bones. The air pulsed with anticipation, thousands of voices rising in unison, chanting Stray Kids' name, the energy so electric it crackled like a storm on the horizon.

Alex stood at the edge of the pit, her stance relaxed but hyper-aware, earpiece crackling with updates as her security team checked in from their designated posts. The stage loomed in front of her, the massive LED screens flashing through their final pre-show sequences, illuminating the vast sea of STAYs packed into the arena.

She'd done this hundreds of times before. But this was different.

This time, she wasn't just here as a security lead. She wasn't just here as a CEO.

She was his wife.

And he didn't have to hide it.

A soft hum of approval crackled through her earpiece as Mac's voice came through. "All clear on my end. You good, boss?"

Alex exhaled slowly, eyes scanning the pit. The barricades were secure, fan sections contained, and her team was positioned exactly where they needed to be.

"Yeah, I'm good. Show's about to start."

She could feel it—the moment before everything exploded. The energy of the crowd pressing forward, their excitement mounting as the final seconds ticked down.

Then—

The lights cut to black.

And the stadium erupted.

A high-pitched scream so deafening it nearly rattled her earpiece shook the entire arena as the first beat of the intro track thundered through the speakers. Smoke hissed from the stage edges, the massive LED screens flashing between fire and static, a cinematic build-up playing across the screens.

Her pulse quickened.

She had seen them rehearse this set a dozen times, but nothing compared to this. The raw energy of tens of thousands of fans screaming their names, the sheer power of Stray Kids taking the stage.

Then—

A silhouette.

The first member stepped out, barely visible against the flashes of white light.

Then another.

And another.

Until finally—

Chan.

The moment his figure materialized, the stadium lost its mind.

The first bass drop hit, the stage exploded with fire, and Stray Kids launched into their opening song, their voices cutting through the deafening cheers.

Alex didn't move. Didn't react.

She couldn't.

She was locked in place, watching him.

Watching the way he commanded the stage, the way his body moved in perfect sync with the beat, his voice powerful, rough, filled with every ounce of passion he poured into his music.

And then—

He found her.

Amidst the blinding lights, the smoke, the chaos, his eyes found hers.

It was just a second. A fraction of a moment.

But it hit her like a goddamn freight train.

Because for the first time—he didn't look away.

He didn't have to.

He held her gaze, a flicker of something intense, raw, almost reverent flashing across his face before he turned back to the crowd, launching into the next verse without missing a beat.

Alex had exactly two hours of peace before her least favorite part of the job kicked in.

She knew it was coming. It always happened at some point in the set—Stray Kids breaking formation and launching themselves into the aisles of the pit, sprinting along the barricades, cutting through the crowd to get closer to their fans.

It was planned chaos.

The fans loved it. The security team? Not so much.

The moment she heard the telltale shift in the setlist, her earpiece crackled with movement.

"They're moving," Mac's voice buzzed in, way too amused for her liking. "Get ready."

Alex gritted her teeth, already scanning the stage for who was about to bolt first.

Felix was the first one down the stairs, moving fast but predictable, his assigned guard already on his heels.

Han followed next, veering left toward the far side of the pit, security flanking him instantly.

Changbin and Seungmin split off, taking the mid-sections, their guards moving in tandem, keeping a respectful but firm distance.

Lee Know took the longest route, weaving through the extended stage platform, grinning like a menace as fans reached for him.

Hyunjin—

Of course.

Hyunjin went rogue.

Instead of taking a direct route, he vaulted the barricade like a damn gymnast, his security detail scrambling to follow as the crowd lost its mind.

And then—

Chan ran.

Straight into her section.

"Oh, for fuck's sake."

Alex moved.

She barely had time to react before Chan was off the stage and running full speed down the narrow aisle, weaving between barricades, high-fiving fans, arms wide as if he wasn't actively making her life harder.

"I got him." She cut through the pit, chasing after him before things got out of hand.

This wasn't unusual. It was allowed—fans were contained within their sections, and every member had a designated guard assigned to their movements. But it still made her job a nightmare.

Chan was fast.

Faster than he should have been, honestly. It was unfair, really— the way he could move with such effortless agility, cutting past barricades with a burst of speed, making sharp turns before security could anticipate him.

But Alex knew him too well.

She didn't just chase.

She anticipated.

When Chan swerved toward the base of the stadium seating—she was already there.

His eyes widened slightly when he saw her, but he didn't stop.

"Oh, really?" she muttered under her breath, picking up speed.

He glanced back once—just once— and she saw it.

That mischievous glint. The full-blown cocky smirk.

Oh, hell no.

"You better not," she warned through gritted teeth.

He did.

Instead of veering toward the barricade opening like a sane person, he cut right—directly into the pit section, weaving past fans, sending security scrambling.

The crowd went feral.

Alex swore, dodging past a section of screaming fans, shoving forward. Her security team was trained for this, keeping a perimeter around him, but she needed to be closer.

Chan laughed— actually laughed— as he dipped under an outstretched arm, his free hand tapping the brim of someone's fan banner before he bolted toward the opposite side of the aisle.

Alex cursed his entire existence.

He had no business being this fast after two hours of performing.

She pushed harder, gaining ground.

The next time he glanced back—she was right there.

Got you.

In one smooth motion, she caught the back of his shirt, yanking just hard enough to stop him mid-stride.

Chan stumbled backward with the force of her grip, his momentum thrown off entirely. His breath hitched, his feet slipping slightly on the polished flooring of the barricade aisle.

Alex didn't hesitate.

She stepped in, bracing her legs, and caught him.

Her arms wrapped securely around his waist, absorbing the weight of him as he nearly toppled over. The heat of his body was immediate, the dampness of sweat soaking through his shirt where it pressed against her chest. His pulse hammered against her forearm, muscles still tense from exertion.

For a second, everything froze.

The music still pulsed around them, the crowd still screamed, but they weren't moving.

Chan twisted in her grasp, his hands gripping her shoulders for balance, his chest rising and falling rapidly against hers. His hair was damp, clinging to his forehead, his skin flushed from adrenaline.

And then—he looked at her.

Not a glance. Not a flicker.

A full, unwavering stare.

Alex barely had time to register the heat in his eyes, the sheer devotion and intensity bleeding into his gaze, before he acted.

His hands slid up, cupping her face.

And then—

He kissed her.

Hard.

There was nothing careful about it.

His lips crashed into hers with the force of a tidal wave, every ounce of adrenaline, passion, and unspoken emotion pouring into the way he moved against her.

It wasn't a fleeting, stolen kiss.

It wasn't hidden.

It wasn't hesitant.

It was raw. Unapologetic. Public.

The stadium exploded.

The screams were so loud they drowned out the music, a deafening roar of disbelief and euphoria.

Alex froze, her grip on his waist tightening.

Chan didn't stop.

His fingers tangled into her hair, pulling her closer, deepening the kiss as if the entire world wasn't watching. As if this was just them.

But it wasn't.

The stage cameras had caught everything.

And STAYs were losing their goddamn minds.

It took a full second—maybe longer—before Alex's brain rebooted.

They were on camera.

They were in the middle of a concert.

And she was actively kissing her husband in front of tens of thousands of fans.

She could already hear Hyunjin's scream of joy through her earpiece.

Chan finally pulled back, just enough to rest his forehead against hers, his breath ragged, lips parted, eyes dark with something dangerous and utterly intoxicating.

"I love you," he whispered, his voice hoarse but certain.

"This is why I don't work the field with you guys anymore. You can't keep your hands to yourself." she laughed, pulling away from him and straightening her clothes, though there was a glint in her eyes that said they would have to finish that later.

Chan grinned, breathless and so in love it nearly made her forget where they were. Nearly.

Instead of answering, he pressed a quick kiss to the corner of her mouth, then finally—finally—turned and jogged toward the stage, waving at fans as he went.

The second his foot hit the stairs, the entire arena lost it again.

Alex didn't wait around for the aftermath.

She pivoted, heading toward the backstage tunnel, ignoring the way her pulse was still skittering in her throat. She'd just kissed her husband on camera in front of thousands of people. The videos were already online, probably already trending, and she would deal with that later.

Right now, her leg was starting to act up from chasing him around like a damn security rookie, and she needed to get off her feet before it turned into something more than just discomfort.

Mac met her just as she reached the entrance to backstage. His expression was half exasperation, half impressed, like he couldn't decide if he wanted to give her shit or congratulate her.

"That," he drawled, "was legendary."

Alex rolled her eyes, pulling the earpiece from her ear as she walked past him. "Shut up, Mac."

"No, seriously, boss." He fell into step beside her, his smirk widening. "You just made history. Do you have any idea how many people are combusting on Twitter right now?"

"Don't care."

"Korean media is gonna have a field day."

"Not my problem."

Mac snorted, shaking his head. "Chan's never gonna let this go."

That, she did care about.

Alex groaned, dragging a hand down her face as she reached the backstage lounge, finally slowing her pace. Her leg was throbbing now, a dull ache radiating up her calf. She cursed under her breath, shifting her weight carefully. It wasn't serious, but it was enough of a reminder that she wasn't invincible anymore.

Mac noticed immediately.

His smirk faded, replaced by concerned wariness. "You good?"

Alex nodded once, exhaling as she eased into a seat near the monitor station. "Fine. Just overdid it."

Mac didn't look convinced. "You want me to—"

"No," she cut him off, already knowing where he was going. "I don't need medical, Mac. I just need to sit for a bit."

The energy in the stadium shifted.

The transition from the full-group performance into the solo stages brought a different kind of intensity, one that settled like a slow burn beneath the surface. The air, once thick with the adrenaline of synchronized choreography and thunderous bass, now hummed with expectation, waiting for the next moment to ignite.

Alex, still seated near the monitor station backstage, rolled her ankle absently, testing the lingering ache in her leg. She was fine, mostly—it was nothing compared to what her body had endured in the past. But her mind? That was a different story. The public kiss, the chase through the pit, the way Chan had looked at her before pressing his mouth to hers in front of tens of thousands of people—her heart was still trying to catch up.

And then—the stage darkened.

The slow hush of the crowd settled into something heavier, more reverent. The LED screens flickered, fading into deep red, the kind of crimson that bled into the fog seeping across the stage floor.

A single spotlight snapped on.

And there he was.

Chan dragged a chair to center stage, the scrape of metal against the platform somehow audible even over the hum of the instrumental building beneath him. His movements were slow, deliberate—weighted with something deeper, something raw. The jacket of his sleek black suit shifted as he moved, the tailored fabric catching in the red glow.

Alex's stomach dropped.

He wasn't wearing a shirt.

The realization hit her all at once, and she was completely unprepared for it.

The sharp planes of his torso, the toned lines of his chest and stomach, the way his skin gleamed slightly under the dim glow of the lights—it was all on display, barely contained beneath the open fabric of his jacket. The deep cut of the lapels framed his collarbones, teasing the defined muscle beneath, but it was the way the suit hung off his shoulders, loose and dangerously effortless, that made something tighten low in her stomach.

God.

She hadn't seen this.

She'd avoided this, stayed off social media, refused to watch the rehearsal footage, told herself that if she was going to experience this performance, she wanted to do it the right way—live, unfiltered, completely immersed in the moment.

And now she understood why.

The first notes of "Railway" slipped through the speakers, haunting and deliberate, the melody winding through the stadium like something ancient and aching.

Chan lowered himself onto the chair slowly, his thighs spreading slightly, one hand bracing against his knee while the other reached up to drag his fingers through his dark, sweat-dampened curls. His chest rose and fell with the controlled rhythm of his breathing, his lips parted just slightly, the weight of the song settling onto his shoulders.

The first words of Railway spilled into the air like smoke curling around the edges of a slow-burning fire. Chan's voice was low, barely above a whisper, yet it commanded everything. The melody slithered through the speakers, each note laced with something haunting, something intimate, something that settled into Alex's bones and refused to let go.

She wasn't prepared.

Not for the red-washed stage, the eerie glow of lights flickering like station lamps in the distance. Not for the rolling fog that crept along the floor, licking at the base of the chair where he sat, head bowed slightly, fingers dragging absently over his knee as if lost in thought.

And certainly not for the way he looked.

Alex had seen him in a suit before—plenty of times. But this? This was something else.

The deep black jacket, sharp and dangerously well-fitted, framed the tension in his shoulders, the breadth of his chest, the way his body moved with each slow inhale. The fabric shifted with him, teasing the bare skin underneath, revealing just enough to drive the entire stadium insane.

And the shirt—no, the lack of a shirt.

He had nothing underneath.

Absolutely nothing.

The cut of the blazer dipped low, exposing the lines of his collarbones, the curve of his pectoral muscles, the taut definition of his stomach each time he moved. The shadows played along the ridges of his toned frame, accentuating every shift, every breath, every slow drag of his fingers through his sweat-dampened curls.

Alex exhaled sharply, pressing her knuckles to her mouth to stifle the laugh threatening to escape.

Christopher Bang. Shirtless. On stage. In front of thousands of people.

It was hilarious.

Because Chan—the man who refused to take his shirt off at the beach, the man who blushed when STAY begged him to flex, the man who only walked around shirtless at home when he forgot she was there—was doing this.

On purpose.

The irony was almost too much.

And yet—

As much as she wanted to tease him later for it, there was something undeniably mesmerizing about the way he held himself in that moment.

He wasn't just performing.

He was becoming the song.

"Tunnel vision got my eyes on you..."

His voice dipped low, smooth and controlled, rolling over the words like smoke curling from the embers of a dying fire.

The weight of it pressed down on her chest, a slow and deliberate pressure that had nothing to do with the stadium and everything to do with him.

Chan tilted his head, gaze dropping slightly, lashes fluttering against his cheek as his fingers traced the edge of the chair, dragging along the cool metal in time with the steady beat thrumming beneath the melody.

She watched, transfixed, as his thighs shifted, knees spreading a fraction wider, the fabric of his pants pulling taut over muscle, the motion so subtle yet devastating in its precision.

She was not breathing.

"Tracking every single line and every move..."

His lips parted around each syllable, shaping them perfectly, letting them linger in the air just long enough to settle deep in the bones of everyone watching.

The entire stadium was silent, as if they, too, were caught in his gravitational pull, as if no one dared to breathe too loudly in fear of breaking whatever spell he was weaving.

Alex felt it creeping over her skin, that quiet, insidious tension.

The kind that hummed low in the belly, coiled tight in the spine, left fingerprints on the lungs.

And then—he moved.

Slow. Deliberate.

His fingers slid up his thigh, barely grazing the fabric before curling over the edge of the chair. His torso twisted, just enough for the light to catch the ripple of his abdomen, the slow flex of muscle beneath his skin as he leaned back into the chair, one arm draping over the backrest.

It was a visual trap.

Calculated. Intoxicating. A slow-burn descent into madness.

And STAY felt every second of it.

The crowd was losing their minds—screams layered over screams, raw and frenzied, rolling through the venue like a tidal wave crashing against the barricades.

Alex barely heard them.

Because Chan wasn't looking at them.

He was looking at her.

Somewhere between the second verse and the next chorus, his gaze had shifted—lazily, unhurried, yet sharp as a razor's edge.

Dark. Heavy.

Pinned directly on her.

Alex's breath caught.

He knew she was watching.

And now?

He was playing with that knowledge.

The next lyrics dripped from his lips, words laced with something dangerous, something reckless, something that felt too personal, too intimate, too much.

"No turning back, hold tight onto them railings..."

He exhaled the last word, deliberately slow, letting it melt into the air before tilting his head just slightly—just enough to let the ghost of a smirk flicker at the edges of his mouth.

That cocky little—

Alex clenched her jaw, barely suppressing the urge to cross her arms like some exasperated wife watching her husband misbehave in public.

She didn't care that he was performing like this—he was a grown man, an artist, a goddamn superstar.

But the smugness?

The teasing?

The fact that he was very aware of what he was doing to her and was clearly enjoying it?

Oh, he was going to hear about it later.

The instrumental surged, and Chan rose from the chair, the sudden shift sending ripples of movement through the open fabric of his blazer, giving the audience the barest glimpse of tense abs and the sharp cut of his waist.

The red lighting deepened, shadows stretching across his features, sharpening the angles of his jaw, his cheekbones, the curve of his mouth as he prowled forward, mic gripped loosely in one hand.

"Baby, I feel our heartbeats—shaking, trembling..."

Chan's voice dipped lower, sultry, almost a whisper, his breath hitting the mic like a sigh.

The stadium vibrated, a collective scream rising so loud it nearly drowned out the music.

Alex wasn't sure she was breathing.

His movements were calculated, every flex of muscle, every slow roll of his shoulders, every subtle curl of his lips was deliberate.

And then—he did it.

His fingers reached up, moving slow, purposeful.

The first button of his blazer slipped free.

Alex's stomach dropped.

Oh, hell no.

She had seen him shirtless more times than she could count—in the quiet mornings of their home, in the dim glow of their bedroom, in the rare stolen moments where his body was pressed against hers, nothing between them but heat and want.

But this?

This was performance.

This was Chan in his element—a master of teasing, of torment, of control.

The second button came undone.

The crowd lost their minds.

Alex gritted her teeth.

"You alright, boss?" Mac's voice crackled in her earpiece, amused as hell.

Alex exhaled sharply, eyes locked on her husband, who had just reached up, gripping the lapels of his jacket, his stance shifting as he prepared to strip the rest of the way out.

"Oh, I'm just fantastic," she muttered. "Watching my husband get half-naked in front of tens of thousands of people."

Mac outright laughed. "Yeah, that's gotta be fun for you."

Alex didn't dignify that with a response.

Instead, she watched—helpless—as Chan did what he did best.

He gripped the blazer, and in one fluid motion, he shrugged it off, the fabric slipping from his shoulders like sin incarnate.

The stadium collectively lost their minds.

Time slowed.

His chest rose and fell, muscles flexing under the blinding stage lights, every inch of sculpted definition laid bare for the world to see. Sweat glistened along his collarbones, trailing down the ridges of his abs, disappearing beneath the waistband of his pants.

But it wasn't just that.

It was the tattoo.

Alex's breath caught.

The temporary ink stretched across his right shoulder blade, bold and feral, a wolf mid-snarl, its sharp outline shifting with every flex of his muscles.

Her brain short-circuited.

Oh, he planned this.

She wasn't the only one losing her mind.

The stadium erupted.

Fans were screaming, crying, clutching their chests like they had just witnessed divinity descend.

And Chan—

Chan smirked.

That cocky little—

Alex swore under her breath, gripping the barricade tighter as the song reached its climax.

The lights pulsed, the bass throbbed, and Chan's movements became sharper, his body moving with the precision of a predator.

Then—

He tilted his head back, eyes fluttering shut, his breath heavy, chest heaving, sweat-dampened curls clinging to his forehead.

The final beat of the song hit.

Chan lifted the mic to his lips—

And then, without breaking his stance, he tossed it.

The mic sailed through the air, caught effortlessly by a waiting staff member at the edge of the stage.

Alex barely had time to register it before—Chan's body tipped backwards and he fell purposefully off the back of the platform.

Alex's stomach bottomed out.

One second, Chan was standing at the center of the stage, bathed in the sultry glow of red light, sweat-dampened curls clinging to his forehead, his chest rising and falling with the weight of his performance.

The next—

He was gone.

Her lungs locked up as his body tipped backward, arms loose at his sides, head tilted slightly as if he were falling into a dream. It was slow, controlled, a calculated drop off the back of the platform—but her body didn't care about calculations.

Her heart seized.

The crowd screamed, a sound so sharp and visceral it sliced through the music still echoing through the stadium.

Alex moved without thinking.

She was already pushing off the barricade, already running, her breath punching out of her lungs in short, panicked bursts. Her earpiece exploded with voices—security reacting, crew scrambling, Mac's voice barking her name—but she couldn't focus on any of it.

Her world narrowed to the sheer, unshakable terror pounding through her ribs as she tore around the side of the stage.

Chan's body had vanished into the darkness.

She knew there was a mat. She knew he had rehearsed this stunt.

But none of that stopped the paralyzing dread clawing up her spine.

Because what if something went wrong? What if he landed wrong? What if the angle was off? What if—

She didn't let herself finish the thought.

She rounded the platform, her boots slamming against the ground, shoving past a crew member who had been too slow to react.

"Move." Her voice was razor-sharp, cutting through the static of voices in her earpiece.

Then—

She saw him.

Chan was on his back, sprawled across the black crash mat, his chest rising and falling in uneven bursts.

But he wasn't moving.

His right arm was curled inward, his hand gripping his left shoulder, fingers clutching so tightly that his knuckles had gone stark white. His other arm lay flung out to the side, motionless, his damp skin catching in the glow of the backstage lights.

Alex's blood ran ice-cold.

She didn't remember closing the distance.

Didn't remember dropping to her knees beside him, didn't remember reaching out.

But suddenly—

Her hands were on him.

One pressed firm against his bare chest, feeling the rapid, uneven rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her palm. The other curled over his shoulder, fingers digging into the muscles there, bracing, assessing.

"Chan." Her voice wasn't steady.

No response.

No. No, no, no.

Fear clawed at her throat.

She reached up, her fingers gripping his jaw, tilting his face toward her.

His skin burned beneath her touch, slick with sweat, his pulse a frantic staccato beneath her fingertips.

"Chan, goddamn it, look at me."

His lashes fluttered.

And then—

Dark brown eyes cracked open.

Hazy. Dazed. Alive.

He inhaled sharply, blinking sluggishly like he was still catching up to what just happened. His breath hitched, his muscles twitching under her touch. And then, that stupid, infuriating, lopsided grin curled at the edges of his lips, lazy and wrecked.

"Hey, love."

Alex's stomach flipped.

Not from relief.

From pure, unfiltered rage.

Her hand tightened on his jaw, her nails digging in slightly before she could stop herself.

"What the fuck was that?!"

Alex's heart pounded in her ears, drowning out the chaotic noise of the stadium, the frantic voices over her earpiece, and the shuffling of crew members moving toward them. The only thing she could focus on was Chan—his body sprawled across the mat, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his temple, and his left arm curled tight against his torso.

She had seen him take hits before. Had seen him push himself past his limits in ways that made her blood run cold. But this? Watching him disappear off the edge of the stage, his body free-falling into darkness, had ignited a kind of fear in her that she hadn't felt in years.

And now, that fear was quickly morphing into rage.

"That was supposed to be a really cool stunt," Chan muttered, his voice hoarse but teasing, like he had the audacity to joke about what just happened.

Alex barely restrained herself from strangling him.

Instead, she moved, shifting to crouch beside him, hands hovering over his shoulder, her body caught in the war between checking him for injuries and smacking the shit out of him.

"Cool stunt?" she echoed, her voice deceptively calm—too calm. The kind of calm that preceded an explosion. "You mean the one where you threw yourself off a stage without telling me? That cool stunt?"

Chan winced, either from pain or from the barely restrained fury in her voice—possibly both. He tried to sit up, but the moment he shifted, his face contorted in a grimace, his left arm barely responding as he struggled to move it.

Alex was faster. She pressed a firm hand to his chest, pushing him back down. "Stay put," she ordered, her voice brokering no argument.

Chan, for once in his life, didn't protest.

"Shoulder," he muttered instead, his breathing uneven. "Something's wrong."

Alex already knew. She could see the unnatural way he was holding his left arm against his body, the way his fingers curled inward as if to keep it still, the subtle tremor in his muscles that told her he was hurting—badly.

"Yeah, no shit," she snapped. "You probably partially dislocated it with that landing."

Mac's voice cut through her earpiece. "Med team is en route. You got him?"

Alex exhaled sharply, adjusting her grip on Chan's shoulder, applying just enough pressure to keep him still. "Yeah, I got him," she replied, then glanced back down at Chan. His face was pale beneath the sweat, lips pressed together in a tight line, his jaw clenched like he was trying not to let the pain show.

It didn't work. She knew him too well.

"Can you move your fingers?" she asked, her voice shifting into clinical mode, the way it always did when dealing with an injury.

Chan exhaled through his nose, blinking hard as he uncurled his right hand first before attempting to wiggle the fingers on his left. He managed a slight twitch, but the moment he tried to lift his arm, a sharp hiss escaped his lips, his head dropping back onto the mat.

"Okay, that's a no," Alex muttered, pressing her fingers against his collarbone and tracing the line of muscle to his shoulder joint, feeling for irregularities.

Chan groaned as she hit a particularly tender spot. His free hand shot up, gripping her wrist in an instinctive reaction.

Alex froze.

His fingers curled weakly around her wrist, his grip firm but not painful—grounding, almost. His eyes fluttered open again, locking onto hers, and in that moment, something unspoken passed between them. The stadium noise, the chaos around them, the security chatter in her earpiece—all of it faded into nothing.

He was hurt.

She was furious.

But he was here.

"Just breathe," she murmured, loosening her own grip on his shoulder, shifting her touch to something softer, more controlled. "Don't move, okay? Medics are on their way."

Chan swallowed hard, exhaling shakily. "You're really mad, huh?"

Alex laughed—a short, humorless sound. "Oh, furious," she admitted, her fingers tracing light circles over his good shoulder, the touch automatic, instinctive. "We'll deal with that later. Right now, I just need you to focus on not making this worse."

His lips quirked upward, but it wasn't a real smile, more of a flicker of the man who always tried to ease tension, even in situations where he should be the one being taken care of. "You're cute when you're bossy."

"You're an idiot," she shot back.

The distant pounding of footsteps signaled the arrival of the medical team, the rush of personnel moving quickly toward them. Alex didn't shift from her spot, though, keeping her body positioned protectively over Chan even as the medics crouched down beside her.

One of them, a middle-aged man with sharp eyes, immediately clocked the problem. "Shoulder injury?"

"Left side, likely a partial separation," Alex confirmed, finally pulling back enough to give them space to work.

Chan groaned as one of the medics carefully assessed the damage, fingers pressing lightly along the joint. His grip on Alex's wrist tightened briefly, his breath hitching as pain flared across his face.

"Yeah, we're looking at a Grade 1 or 2 AC joint sprain," the medic concluded. "Not a full dislocation, but definitely aggravated from the impact. We'll need to get him off-site for imaging to confirm."

Alex exhaled, nodding. "Can he walk?"

Chan answered that himself by shifting, attempting to push himself upright despite the clear agony it caused him.

"Chan," Alex warned.

"I got it," he gritted out through clenched teeth.

He did not have it.

The moment he tried to move his left arm, his entire body stiffened, his face twisting into a grimace. Alex caught him immediately, her hands firm on his good shoulder, steadying him before he could collapse back onto the mat.

"Yeah, no," she muttered. "You clearly don't got it."

Chan sighed, giving up the fight as the medics moved to support his weight instead. One of them carefully wrapped an arm around his back, helping him to his feet while another stabilized his injured shoulder.

The second he was upright, Alex was there, hovering just close enough to catch him if needed, her entire body humming with the protective instinct that she hadn't been able to shake since the second she saw him fall.

Chan, despite everything, smirked.

Alex narrowed her eyes. "What?"

"You're hovering."

"Yes, I hear that's what wives are supposed to do." She snapped.