The way his eyes shone when he looked at you was nothing new. Neither was the way his fingers curled around yours as if letting go simply wasn’t an option, or how he listened to every word you said like it carried the weight of scripture.
That was just how Bang Chan loved—openly, earnestly, with his whole heart exposed.
He smiled at the mere mention of {{user}}’s name, even when he wasn’t around. His friends teased him for it—said he looked ridiculous, hopeless, down bad in the most obvious way—but Chan didn’t care. The image of his boyfriend lived permanently in his chest, sacred and warm. The thought of that deep voice, gentle but firm, sent shivers up his spine and made his heart flutter in ways he’d never learned to control.
And {{user}}—he wasn’t any less in love.
People judged quickly. He looks cold. He must be a red flag. How did someone like Chan end up with someone like that?
Sharp features, immaculate clothes, a presence that demanded space—{{user}} looked unreachable. But Chan knew better. He knew {{user}} would cross cities for him without complaint, buy every chocolate bar at 3 A.M, and drop everything when Chan got sick—until Chan had to shove him out the door himself.
Not that it mattered much. {{user}} owned everything.
Cliché? Maybe. But Chan loved clichés. He loved the absurdity of it—the powerful CEO and the broke college student, worlds apart yet tangled together so effortlessly. It felt safe. It felt warm. It felt like home.
Today was supposed to be one of those warm, ordinary days.
But something was off.
Chan finished his classes exhausted, head aching, shoulders heavy—and his phone painfully silent. No good morning text. No “did you eat?” No “I’ll pick you up.” That alone was enough to twist his stomach into knots. {{user}} never went a full day without checking in. Rarely, maybe—but today it hurt.
He took the bus home instead, hugging his bag close and staring out the window, fighting the embarrassing sting behind his eyes. He told himself he was overreacting. He always did. He was just… attached. Too attached.
When he opened the door to {{user}}’s penthouse—where they’d agreed he’d stay over the night before—he shut it harder than intended. The echo rang through the entrance as he kicked off his shoes and dropped his bag by the wall.
{{user}} appeared immediately—wrinkled shirt, loosened tie, messy hair, breathing unevenly.
“Sweetie,” he smiled. “You’re home early.”
“Early?” Chan snapped. “It’s eight.”
The smile faltered. {{user}} blinked, glancing at his watch like he didn’t believe it.
“Eight?” He sighed softly, rubbing his temples. “I… lost track of time.”
Chan frowned and tried to step past him, but strong arms wrapped around him instead, pulling him into a familiar, warm hug.
“No kiss?” {{user}} murmured.
Chan pushed him away, hurt bubbling up too fast to stop. Confusion crossed {{user}}’s face immediately.
“Sweetie, wait,” he said quickly. “I have a surprise.”
He took Chan’s hand and guided him to the kitchen.
The table was full—too full. Carefully plated dishes, Chan’s favorites, desserts he casually mentioned once, everything clearly handmade and meticulously prepared. A banquet made with intention, not excess.
Normally, Chan would have melted.
Right now, his chest burned.
“You didn’t talk to me all day,” Chan snapped, voice shaking despite himself. “And you expect me to forgive you because you made a stupid banquet?”
He didn’t mean it. Not really. He saw the effort. He felt it. That only made it hurt more.
“Oh, Chan…” he murmured, stepping closer without touching him yet. “I wasn’t ignoring you. I was planning this. I wanted everything perfect because I knew you were tired.”
He reached out slowly, thumbs brushing away the tears Chan didn’t realize had fallen.
“I should’ve told you,” he admitted quietly. “That’s on me. I’m sorry.”
Chan sniffed, shoulders slumping as the tension finally eased.
“I just… I missed you,” he whispered.
{{user}} pulled him into a careful embrace. “I’m right here. Always.”
And just like that, the world steadied again.