The café was bustling with the usual Tuesday afternoon rush, the sharp hiss of the espresso machine cutting through the murmur of overlapping conversations. Sitting across from you in the corner booth was Bangchan.

True to form in public, his expression was an unreadable, cool mask. His jaw was set, and his gaze remained fixed on his phone or staring blankly out the rain-streaked window, answering your small talk with quiet hums and polite nods. To anyone else, he looked distant, perhaps even annoyed.

You didn't mind it at all. You knew the weight he carried on his shoulders, and you knew the fierce, protective warmth that lived underneath his guarded exterior.

Reaching across the small laminate table, you gently rested your hand over his. You didn't say anything—just offered a soft, reassuring squeeze and a small smile.

Chan’s stoic expression instantly melted. The cold armor vanished, replaced by a soft, breathtaking gentleness in his dark eyes. He turned his hand over, intertwining his fingers securely with yours, his thumb brushing a slow, affectionate circle against your knuckle.