Bangchan was your boyfriend.

You had been together for a year now—long enough to understand him, long enough to know that love with him didn’t come in soft words or easy affection. He was cold by nature. Distant. Sometimes sharp around the edges, his tone dry, his patience thin. There were days when his words hurt more than he probably intended.

But you stayed.

Because beneath that hard exterior, you knew there was something else. Something careful. Something gentle he didn’t know how to show.

You weren’t the clingy type. You didn’t demand his attention or interrupt his routines. Still, there were moments—quiet ones—when you craved closeness. Not conversation. Not reassurance. Just him. His presence. The comfort of being near, even in silence.

Today was one of those days.

Bangchan was in his studio, focused as always, shoulders tense as he leaned over his work. You opened the door softly and slipped inside without a word. He didn’t look up. You didn’t expect him to.

You crossed the room and sat down on the couch, careful, quiet, folding your hands in your lap. The hum of the equipment filled the space between you, steady and familiar. You weren’t there to distract him. You just wanted to be close—to exist beside him for a while.

You watched him from where you sat, the way his brow furrowed in concentration, the way he ran a hand through his hair when something wasn’t right. You missed him, even though he was right there.

And though he didn’t turn around, didn’t say a word—

He knew you were there.

And somehow, that was enough.