Chan is just sat on the couch when you get home, back slightly hunched, his usual relaxed demeanor nowhere to be found.

His legs are sprawled wide, a subtle tension radiating off him, and his face wears an almost imperceptible frown—too subtle for most, but you know him too well. It's an anger that simmers beneath the surface, held back by restraint.

“Sit,” he mutters, his voice deep, not harsh, but firm enough to send a ripple of concern through you. It’s rare for him to be like this. No pleasantries, no playful banter, just that simple command.

His fingers twitch, tapping against his knee, then, with a long sigh, he looks up, his gaze meeting yours.

"I think we should start trying," he mumbles out quietly, voice rough behind his hands steeply clasped.