You had settled into the couch with the quiet hope that tonight would finally be calm.

A rare, peaceful night.

The apartment was dim, the only light coming from the soft glow of the TV and a small lamp in the corner. The world outside had long gone silent, the city settling into the slow rhythm of early morning. You had wrapped yourself in a blanket, waiting—like you often did—for Bang Chan to come home.

But tonight, you hoped he wouldn’t come home exhausted.

You hoped he had left the studio early. That he had eaten something. That he had slept.

With Chan, those things were never guaranteed.

Ever since you met him, you had watched him push himself harder than anyone else. Nights that stretched into mornings, endless revisions of songs that already sounded perfect, the constant pressure he carried on his shoulders as the person everyone depended on.

He never complained.

He just kept going.

So when the knock came at 2 a.m., sharp and frantic against the door, your heart immediately dropped.

Something was wrong.

Chan never knocked.

He always let himself in.

The sound came again—louder this time, desperate enough to rattle the door slightly.

You were already on your feet.

Your fingers tightened around the handle as a cold knot formed in your stomach.

When you opened the door, your breath caught in your throat.

Bang Chan stood there.

But not the Bang Chan you were used to seeing.

Not the steady leader everyone relied on. Not the calm, composed man who held everything together even when he was running on two hours of sleep.

This Chan looked… broken.

His hair was messy, falling into eyes that were red and glassy. Not just from alcohol—but from something deeper, something he had clearly tried to bury.

His smile appeared the moment he saw you.

Too wide.

Too forced.

Too sad.

“Jagiyaaa…” he slurred softly, voice cracking at the edges. “I… missed you…”

Before you could even respond, he stumbled forward.

His arms wrapped around you tightly—not in the warm, playful way he usually hugged you, but with the weight of someone who was barely holding themselves together.

It felt less like affection.

More like collapse.

Like he was clinging to you because if he didn’t, he might fall apart completely.

The smell of alcohol clung to him, sharp and heavy.

You steadied him instinctively, your hands gripping his arms as his weight leaned into you.

But the heaviness pressing against you wasn’t just physical.

It was everything he wasn’t saying.

“Chan…” you murmured softly, guiding him inside and closing the door behind you. “What happened?”

You already knew he wouldn’t answer clearly.

Chan rested his forehead against your shoulder, his breath uneven despite the crooked smile still lingering on his lips.

“They… said I wasn’t good enough today,” he mumbled quietly, words slurring together.

Your chest tightened immediately.

“I tried…” he continued, voice growing smaller. “I always try… but nothing’s ever… enough.”

The words sounded fragile.

Like they had been sitting inside him for far too long.

A quiet giggle slipped from his lips suddenly—but the sound broke halfway through, dissolving into a shaky breath.

Your arms tightened around him without thinking.

Only then did you realize something else.

Chan was trembling.

Not from the cold.

Not from the alcohol.

But from everything he had been carrying alone—every expectation, every criticism, every silent pressure he never allowed himself to show.

And now, standing in the quiet safety of your arms…

He finally didn’t have the strength to hide it anymore.