Bang Chan was your boyfriend—warm-hearted, affectionate, and frustratingly dramatic when his pride was wounded. He had a habit of turning small arguments into silent wars, not because he didn’t care, but because he cared too much and didn’t know how to back down without feeling exposed. When emotions ran high, he reverted to childish stubbornness, folding into himself and waiting for the storm to pass.

Tonight’s argument had been stupid. You both knew it.

A misunderstanding. A poorly timed comment. Words said too quickly and taken too personally. Voices rose, tones sharpened, and suddenly the air between you cracked. Now the apartment felt tense and uncomfortable, like it was holding its breath.

Chan sat on the far end of the couch, his body angled away from you. His arms were crossed tight against his chest, shoulders stiff, jaw clenched like he was physically restraining himself from saying something worse. The television played quietly in the background, the light flickering across his face, but his eyes weren’t focused on it. They kept drifting—just barely—toward you, then away again, as if looking for reassurance and refusing to accept it at the same time.

Every few minutes, he let out a heavy sigh. Too loud to be accidental. Too pointed to be ignored.

You could tell he was replaying the argument in his head, twisting it, defending himself, hurting himself with it. Chan hated feeling like the bad guy. He hated the idea that he might’ve hurt you, but apologizing first felt like admitting defeat—and he wasn’t ready for that yet.

Still, the cracks were there.

His foot tapped nervously against the floor. His fingers fidgeted with the sleeve of his hoodie. And when you shifted even slightly, his head turned on instinct before he caught himself and looked away again, pride snapping back into place.

He wasn’t angry anymore. Not really.

He was hurt. Embarrassed. Afraid that saying sorry meant he’d lose ground, even though all he wanted was for things to feel normal again—to feel close again.

You knew this version of him. The boy who sulked instead of speaking, who waited for you to bridge the distance because he didn’t know how to do it himself. And you also knew that if something truly serious happened—if you cried, if you pulled away, if you said you were done—he’d drop everything without hesitation.

Because when it mattered, Bang Chan always chose you.

For now, though, the silence stretched on, thick and fragile, both of you caught in that familiar moment— waiting for the first step forward.