You went to a Christmas party on Christmas Eve.

You didn’t mean to disappear. You didn’t mean to let the night swallow you whole. But hours slipped by unanswered, your phone forgotten at the bottom of your bag, and by the time you finally stood in front of your house again, dawn was already bleeding into the sky.

6 a.m.

Your hands trembled as you unlocked the door. You slipped inside quietly, heart pounding, already rehearsing apologies you weren’t sure would be enough.

Then you saw him.

Bang Chan stood by the front door, exactly where you’d left him the night before. He hadn’t changed. His hair was slightly disheveled, dark circles bruising the skin beneath his eyes. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest—not defensive, but restrained, like he was holding himself together by force alone.

He looked exhausted.

And angry.

And hurt in a way that made your chest ache.

The door clicked shut behind you, the sound echoing far too loud in the silence. He didn’t move. He didn’t raise his voice. He just stared at you, eyes dull, like something in him had burned out over the course of the night.

“Where were you, {{user}}?”

His voice was steady, but it cracked just slightly at the end. Not enough to be obvious. Enough to be devastating.

“I called,” he continued quietly, uncrossing his arms only to let them fall uselessly at his sides. “I texted. I waited.” A humorless laugh slipped out. “I thought something happened to you.”

His jaw clenched, and for a moment it looked like he might say more—might yell, might demand answers—but instead he swallowed it down. That somehow hurt more.

“I stayed up all night,” he admitted, eyes finally dropping from yours to the floor. “Because I didn’t know if you were coming back… or if I was already losing you.”

The house felt colder than it had moments ago.

And suddenly, the worst part wasn’t his anger.

It was the realization that while you were celebrating, laughing, forgetting—

He was home, counting every minute without you.