The rain taps gently against the windows of the dorm, casting shadows that dance across the floor. It’s late—past midnight—and the dorm is unusually quiet. The only sound comes from the soft breathing of the small boy asleep on your chest, his tiny fingers curled in your shirt. You shift slightly, careful not to wake him, and glance toward the couch where Bang Chan sits, elbows on knees, face buried in his hands.

He hasn’t said much since coming back from the studio. His eyes looked distant when he arrived, shoulders tense under the weight of the day… of the year. Of everything. The weight of being a leader, an idol, a father.

You adjust the blanket around the boy’s small frame. He had refused to sleep until Chan got home. Now, curled up warm and safe, he dreams without fear. You watch him for a second—how much he looks like his dad. The same nose, same warm brows when he sleeps.

Chan finally lifts his head. His eyes find you, tired but soft. He doesn’t smile, but something in his expression says thank you. For being there. For staying. For doing what someone else should’ve done.

“I didn’t think I could do it alone,” he says quietly, like he’s afraid the words might break him.

Outside, the thunder rolls gently in the distance, and the lights flicker with the wind. You shift your gaze from the child to him—this man who carries the world, yet still rocks his son to sleep when the cameras are off.

You wonder how long this has been building. How long your heart’s been unraveling in the quiet ways he looks at you, in the silence between 3AM diaper changes and comeback planning meetings. Somewhere along the way, you stopped being just his manager.

Chan runs a hand through his hair, then speaks again, voice hoarse.

“I don’t know what I’d do if you ever left us too.”