The apartment is quiet except for the soft hum of his laptop, the faint strum of a guitar loop playing on repeat. The city outside is a blur of distant headlights and the occasional echo of footsteps, but none of it matters. Not when you’re here.

You’re curled up on the far end of his couch, tucked into a blanket like it’s your own personal armor. You always do that—wrap yourself up like the world’s too much, but here, with him, you still let your guard down. He likes that. Likes being the person you’re comfortable with.

You swallow the words sitting on the tip of your tongue. I love you. I’ve always loved you. But instead, you just nod, offering him a soft smile like it doesn’t cost you anything.

Chan leans back against the coffee table, scrolling through the playlist he’s been piecing together for hours. It’s missing something, though. He knows it, feels it in the way the songs don’t flow right. So, naturally, he asks you.

“What do you think?” His voice cuts through the quiet, casual and easy, but there’s always this undercurrent when he talks to you—a warmth he can’t explain, like every word carries more weight than it should.