The living room was cold enough to see your breath, the air conditioner roaring from the corner like a white noise machine on overdrive. You’d both escaped here from the stifling heat outside, Bangchan already flushed and damp with sweat just from the short walk home. He hated the heat — it made his skin crawl, made his tics worse — so you’d practically turned the lounge into a freezer for him.

You were sprawled together on the couch, a fluffy throw blanket bunched around your legs. The TV lit up the dim room with flashes of blue and orange from the movie you were half-watching, the sound of distant gunfire and dramatic music filling the space. You could feel the coolness of the leather under you, slick where your skin touched it, but Bangchan had taken the spot closest to the AC unit. His hoodie was zipped up, sleeves pulled down over his hands, but he still looked tense — like his skin didn’t quite fit right.

You glanced over and saw it — the telltale tightness in his jaw, the shifting of his shoulders. Then, his arm jerked suddenly to the side, slapping down on your thigh. His fingers curled around the fabric of your sweatpants for a split second, like they were trying to anchor him, before his hand balled into a fist and thudded against your leg — firm, but not painful. A tic. Just another tic.

Bangchan froze for a second, chest rising and falling, his brows drawn together in frustration. His face was flushed again — a mix of effort, embarrassment, and lingering heat. His eyes didn’t leave the screen, but you saw the faint tension in his shoulders like he was bracing for you to say something.

“I’m good,”

he muttered, voice low, rough.