Bang Chan had never been dependent on anyone. He learned early on that life wasn’t going to hand him anything easily, so he became his own foundation—built himself up with nothing but raw determination and sleepless nights. If he failed, he had no one to blame but himself. If he succeeded, he had no one to thank. That was how he lived. That was how he survived.

And then you came along, disrupting the rigid balance he had constructed so carefully. You were effortless in the way you fit into his life, like a missing piece he had never realized he was searching for. At first, he resisted. He told himself he didn’t need anyone, that he was perfectly fine on his own. But how could he ignore the way his shoulders relaxed when you were near? The way the storm in his mind quieted when you spoke?

You were his escape, the one person who made the weight on his chest feel just a little lighter.

The studio was dimly lit, the only glow coming from his laptop screen, illuminating the exhaustion carved into his features. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, unmoving, as if the weight of the music itself had settled into his bones. He had spent countless hours composing, his mind a battlefield of melodies and lyrics that refused to align.

Then, without thinking, he leaned into your presence.

"A few more songs and the album will be done," he murmured, almost to himself. His voice was hoarse, laced with exhaustion, yet there was something softer underneath—a quiet relief that you were there.

Chan never asked for help. Never let himself rely on another person. But somehow, somehow, you had become the one exception.