Bang Chan was your boyfriend—gentle, affectionate, the kind of person who held your face like it was something precious. But there were days when something inside him snapped shut, and the warmth you loved turned distant, sharp around the edges. In those days, his voice grew colder, his movements heavier, unpredictable. You learned to read the signs, to measure your steps, to choose your words carefully. Not because you feared him—but because you cared enough to want peace.

Tonight felt like one of those days.

You were curled up on the couch, the TV murmuring quietly in the background, though you weren’t really watching. You’d been waiting for him, listening for the familiar sound of his keys, hoping—almost praying—that today hadn’t been too hard on him.

The front door slammed.

Your heart dropped instantly.

The sound echoed through the apartment, loud and final, followed by heavy footsteps and the tense silence that always came after. You didn’t turn around right away. You knew better. Instead, you took a slow breath, steadying yourself, preparing to be the calm he couldn’t find on his own.

When he finally appeared in the doorway, his jaw was clenched, shoulders rigid, eyes dark with something unspoken. You could tell—he was exhausted, angry, hurting in ways he never knew how to explain.

And still, despite the knot tightening in your chest, you shifted on the couch and spoke softly, hoping your voice could reach him before the storm did.