Bang Chan is good at surviving.

Not thriving—surviving. There’s a difference, and you’re the only one who seems to notice it.

To everyone else, he’s the unshakeable leader with the steady smile, the guy who laughs things off and says it’s okay even when it very clearly isn’t. He takes the weight of eight people like it’s his birthright, like his spine was built to bend and never break. He leads meetings, finishes schedules, plans the next comeback before the current one has even exhaled its last breath.

You’re different.

You’re quieter. Calmer. The eye of the storm to his never-ending chaos. You sit beside him in studios and dorms and long car rides, writing lyrics that feel like confessions he doesn’t know how to say out loud. You know the signs—the way his jokes come faster when he’s overwhelmed, the way he pulls inward when the pressure starts eating at him, the way he takes blame like it’s oxygen.

And you know he’ll never tell anyone when he’s stressed.

So you watch.

Promotions end today. Everyone else is loose-limbed, relieved, laughter echoing through the dorms as exhaustion finally turns into rest. Chan, though? Chan is already ten steps ahead, already planning, already tightening the knots in his chest until sleep feels like a luxury he hasn’t earned.

That night, his side of the room stays empty.

You don’t chase him. You don’t text. You just wait—curled on the couch in the living room, lights low, thoughts loud. The realization settles slowly, heavy and familiar: he’s spiraling again.

When the door finally clicks open, it’s quiet. Chan slips inside like he doesn’t want to be noticed, shoulders slumped, movements dragged thin by fatigue. The leader mask is gone. What’s left is just a tired man who’s been holding the sky up for too long.

You stand.

“Hey,” you say gently. “You okay?”

He nods. Of course he does.

He steps closer, presses a soft, fleeting kiss to your lips—barely there, like an apology disguised as affection. When he pulls back, you taste smoke. Bitterness. Stress he won’t name.

“I’m fine,” he says, voice steady, practiced.

Then he turns, already heading back toward your shared room, carrying everything with him like he always does.

And you’re left in the quiet, knowing exactly how much that fine costs him.