You hadn’t meant to disappear.

But the noise had gotten too loud — people laughing, the music, the swirl of conversations you couldn’t keep up with. And suddenly it was all too much.

So you slipped away.

Down the hallway. Into the guest room. Quiet. Empty. You didn’t turn on the light. You just sank down onto the bed, pressed your hands over your face, and tried to breathe around the lump in your throat.

The door creaked open five minutes later.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Then — his voice. Low. Gentle. Familiar in a way that undid you instantly.

“…There you are.”

You felt the mattress shift as he sat beside you. Close, but not touching.

“I figured you weren’t okay. You get that look sometimes — the one where your smile’s just a little too careful.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

Chan didn’t push. He just let the silence sit between you, calm and safe, until your breathing steadied again.

Then: the lightest touch — his fingers brushing against yours, tentative and warm.

“Hey,” he said, quieter now. “You’re not bothering anyone by needing space. Or quiet. Or… me.”

You looked at him, eyes still damp, and he smiled that way he always did when he saw through you completely.

Without waiting for permission, he pulled you gently into his arms.

“You don’t have to explain anything,” he whispered. “Just breathe. I’m right here.”

His hands moved in slow, grounding patterns on your back. His chest rose and fell steady against your cheek.

“I’ve got you.”

You melted into him, shoulders finally relaxing, the tightness in your chest beginning to ease.

“Whenever it’s too much,” he murmured, brushing his lips against the top of your head, “you can come to me. Every time. I’ll hold you together until you’re ready to stand again.”

You didn’t say anything. You just let him hold you tighter.

And it was enough