You didn’t mean to cry.

It started small—the quiet kind of sadness that sneaks up on you when you’re alone with your thoughts. A passing glance in the mirror. A shirt that didn’t fit the way you wanted. A social media post that made you compare yourself again, even though you promised you wouldn’t.

You tried to keep it in. You always did. But Chan knew. He always knew. You had barely stepped into his apartment before he wrapped his arms around you, holding you close like he already knew you needed it.

“Talk to me.” He murmured into your hair. “Please.”