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Han had been awake for twenty-three hours.
Technically, he had slept.
For about forty-seven minutes...
He had closed his eyes around four in the morning while double-checking Shuaibo's Valentine’s Day itinerary, only to wake up at 4:51 with his cheek glued to a printout of the venue schematics.
So, by his logic, that counted.
He leaned against the backstage vanity, staring bitterly at his reflection, and decided the concealer had been a complete waste of time. The dark circles beneath his eyes remained stubbornly purple, and his hair was actively resisting the hairspray he’d used twenty minutes ago. Worse still was his suit. The charcoal jacket swallowed his wrists, and he’d had to double-fold the hem of his trousers just to avoid tripping.
He looked less like a professional talent manager and more like an over-enthusiastic high school intern who had borrowed his father's clothes five minutes before an interview.
Which, Han supposed, wasn't far off.
He raised his clipboard and scanned today's schedule:
• Encore: In progress.
• Post-show interview: Cancelled.
• Staff greeting: 10 minutes.
• Departure: 8:40 p.m.
• Van: Waiting at Entrance B.
Everything was running with clockwork precision.
Except for the tiny, suspicious bulge currently hidden beneath his oversized jacket.
Checking over both shoulders to ensure no senior staff were around, Han carefully unbuttoned his coat and pulled it out.
It was undeniably adorable.
It wasn't some huge, extravagant gift, but a simple, classic heart-shaped box—just large enough to fit comfortably in both of his hands. Wrapped in glossy crimson paper, it had a neat checkered pattern tucked into one corner and "For You" written across the front in delicate script. The little ribbon tied around it sat slightly crooked near the top left corner—a casualty of his trembling hands and fraying patience.
He’d set out to buy something discreet. Something small and simple that wouldn't scream, “I have spent three months hopelessly in love with the artist I am assigned to assist!”
Then he’d seen this neat little box in the display window, and his heart had simply surrendered to impulse.
He tucked the box carefully back into the folds of his coat, adjusting his grip. It was fine. He was organized, he was responsible, and he could hand off a Valentine's gift without dying of embarrassment.
Probably.
The distant roar of the crowd thundered through the heavy backstage doors as the lights dimmed on stage.
The encore was over.
Han straightened his tie. He straightened it again. He checked his reflection one last time—yep, the concealer was still useless.
“Great,” he muttered, smoothing down his lapels.
Moments later, the heavy double doors swung open. Dancers filed in first, laughing and tossing sweat towels to the crew, followed by audio technicians and security.
And then Shuaibo stepped into the hallway.
Han’s breath caught in his throat.
Shuaibo was breathtaking on stage—that was simply a fact. But there was something unfair about catching him in the quiet aftermath of a show. His black performance attire clung to him, his dark brown hair was lightly damp at the temples, and stray flecks of silver body glitter still caught the harsh fluorescent lights above. The intense, sharp idol persona had evaporated, replaced by that soft, effortless smile that made thousands of fans lose their minds nightly.
Han hated how quickly his pulse spiked. He hated even more when Shuaibo’s eyes locked straight onto him.
“Han.”
The smooth, quiet voice pulled Han out of his daze. He stepped forward instantly, clutching his clipboard like a shield.
“Welcome back,” Han said, keeping his tone brisk. “The media exit is cancelled, so you can head straight to changing. Entrance B, van leaves at 8:40 p.m. I’ve verified tomorrow's call time twice, but I’ll confirm with main management before we roll out—”
Shuaibo didn't look at the schedule. He tilted his head, scanning Han's face. “You look exhausted.”
Han raised the clipboard half an inch. “I’m completely operational.”
“You have shadows under your eyes.”
“Lighting is poor back here.”
“Did you sleep at all?”
Han hesitated. The beat of silence was a dead giveaway. “Forty-seven minutes,” he mumbled.
Shuaibo’s brows knitted together. “Han—”
“I had to double-check the transit routes!”
“The transit team handles that.”
“I wanted it to be flawless.”
A soft, fond sigh escaped Shuaibo’s lips. “You’re going to work yourself into a fever.”
“It’s my job to make sure everything goes right for you.”
“I know,” Shuaibo replied gently, stepping a fraction closer. “And you do an incredible job.”
The simple praise hit Han harder than it had any right to. Warmth rushed to his cheeks, making him painfully aware of the small cardboard heart currently tucked beneath his ribs.
Now or never, Han. Don't overthink it.
Han unbuttoned his oversized jacket and reached inside.
He pulled out the neat, classic red heart-shaped box. Holding it out with both hands, his red-framed glasses sitting slightly crooked, he thrust the box forward.
“Priority delivery for you,” Han announced, his voice cracking slightly on the last word.
Shuaibo looked down at the heart box, then at Han’s blushing face and wide, nervous eyes.
“A priority delivery, huh?” Shuaibo asked softly.
Han felt his ears burning under the quiet backstage lights. “I—uh spent a long time picking it out,” Han stammered, pulling at his collar. “I mean, not too long! Just... three days.”
“It’s very pretty,” Shuaibo said, a gentle, fond smile melting onto his face. “Is it really for me?”
Han swallowed hard, holding his breath as Shuaibo reached out, his long fingers gently resting over the top edge of the red heart. Neither of them let go right away.
“Yeah... Actually I—I like you,” Han blurted out, the words spilling over before he could stop them. “I really like you. Not just as your manager, or because I’m your fan. I like you.”
Shuaibo’s breath hitched slightly, his eyes widening in surprise as a soft pink flush dusted his cheeks. He looked down at the heart box between their hands, then back up into Han’s face. A warm, radiant smile spread across his features, reaching all the way to his eyes.
“I love it,” Shuaibo murmured, his fingers gently pulling the box into his own hands. “And I love the confession.”
Han's brain went entirely blank, leaving him staring like a cat taken aback.
Shuaibo glanced away for a second, looking delightfully flustered. “I didn't expect you to actually say it.”
“You... didn't?”
“No.”
“I thought I was being painfully obvious!”
“Well, I noticed you staring at me during rehearsals,” Shuaibo murmured, a playful sparkle returning to his eyes. “A lot.”
Han promptly buried his face in his hands. “Oh, God.”
That drew a real laugh from Shuaibo—soft, warm, and entirely off-camera.
When Han peeked through his fingers, the latter was watching him, fondness overflowing in his gaze.
Han looked from the crooked bow to Shuaibo’s soft smile. “You’re... really keeping it?”
“Of course I am.”
Shuaibo held the small red heart gently in one hand, unwrapping the top seal with the other. He reached inside and pulled out a dark chocolate truffle. Without hesitation, he leaned forward and held it out toward Han.
“Here. You earned half of this.”
Han blinked, leaning back an inch. “Wait, it’s your gift—”
“And I’m sharing it with my manager,” Shuaibo insisted, a faint, teasing dimple showing near his cheek. He nudged the sweet a little closer to Han’s face. “Come on, open up.”
Han’s face burned hot, but he gave in, leaning forward to take the truffle straight from Shuaibo’s fingers. His lips briefly brushed against the latter’s warm fingertips, sending a tiny shock straight down his spine.
As Han chewed, Shuaibo popped a second chocolate into his own mouth, his eyes crinkling in quiet satisfaction.
A staff member called out from down the hall, letting them know the van was fully loaded. Shuaibo turned toward the voice, then looked back over his shoulder at Han, extending his free hand.
“Come on,” Shuaibo smiled. “Walk me to the car.”
Han took his hand, letting Shuaibo lead the way down the corridor, the small red heart and its crooked bow held safely between them.
Han glanced down at his clipboard one last time.
The schedule still read 8:40 p.m. — departure.
For once, Han didn't care if they were running a few minutes late.
--🩷
I made a Han fanart in the style of the original Vocaloid MV to go with this!😆
