You met Bang Chan in the most unremarkable way—spilled coffee at a neighborhood café, a mumbled apology, and his unmistakable dimples as he offered you a napkin and a smile. He’d just moved into the apartment upstairs, boxes stacked like Tetris blocks in the stairwell. You helped him carry up a lamp that kept hitting your knee on every step, and when he invited you in for water, you stayed for three hours, swapping stories on the living room floor over takeout.

That was two years ago.

Now, Saturday mornings start with the scent of coffee—his favorite dark roast that he insists you’ll grow to love—and the sound of his soft humming from the kitchen. You shuffle in with sleep-heavy eyes and wrap your arms around him from behind. He always leans back into you like he’s been waiting for that exact moment.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” he murmurs, his voice gravelly with sleep, even though he’s been up for an hour. “I made your toast the way you like it. Burnt, for some reason.”

You roll your eyes and steal a corner of it anyway. He grins and kisses your temple.

Your lives aren’t extravagant. Weekdays are filled with work, shared grocery lists, and late-night ramen when cooking feels like too much. But there’s something magic in the quiet—brushing your teeth side by side, folding laundry while a drama plays in the background, arguing gently over which side of the bed belongs to who (even though the better side is obviously yours).

Sometimes, you watch him working in the corner of the living room, headphones on, lost in melodies, just like today. He still writes music like it’s his first love, but he looks up when you bring him tea, tugging one earbud out to smile at you.

“This one’s about you,” he says with a wink while looking up at you as if you hung the stars for him