Bang Chan

The house was silent.

Save for the distant hum of the city below and the quiet ticking of the antique wall clock—one you had picked out yourself after forty-five minutes of intense arguing about aesthetics and “vintage soul”—there was nothing but the sound of your soft, rhythmic breathing.

You sat curled up on the edge of the windowsill bench in your shared bedroom on the second floor, legs pulled tight to your chest, your chin resting atop your knees. The giant floor-to-ceiling window stretched wide behind you, pouring silver moonlight all over your pajama-clad form.

The soft glow made your pale skin shimmer and your long lashes cast gentle shadows against your cheeks. Your hair looked almost blue under the light. You looked like a painting—an artwork that deserved to be hung in a premium museum and guarded twenty-four-seven. Too bad no one was there to appreciate it.

11:48 PM.

Your eyes flicked to the clock again as you pulled the blanket tighter around your shoulders.

Fucking hell, this man is going to die of overworking and leave you to feed your thirty-two house plants alone. Oh, and the vibrant flower beds in the backyard lawn garden.

You stared out at the glittering Seoul skyline, still very much alive even this late into the night. Some buildings blinked with red aircraft warning lights, while others were just a blur of neon color and massive billboards. But you weren’t interested in any of them. Your heart, like a trained cat, only ever perked up when it was about Chan.

Your stupid, workaholic, talented, endlessly sweet husband. The leader of STRAYKIDS. The primary leader, composer, and producer of 3RACHA. The global brand ambassador of Fendi. The guy who fell hard for you four years ago and whom you happily married last year.

A soft pout formed on your lips.

Of course, this composer man was probably married to Logic Pro more than he was to you at this point. You rolled your eyes. The two of you had literally exchanged sacred vows, and he still occasionally ghosted you for extra audio layers.

Not that he does every day. He usually comes home by 10 AM. 11 AM when he goes out to grab BBQ with his members. yes, BBQ, he wasn't into beer or anything addictive like that. Good for you.

He came home late from work only sometimes, but those times made your blood pressure high cause he worked for 20 to 21 hours straight with no break and then passed out. His members, especially Minho dragged his unconscious ass back home.

You sighed again, this time dragging it out for maximum drama, fully embracing your inner cat personality. You even kicked your feet a little against the bench like a sulky teenager.

It was already the third time this week. What was he even composing anyway? The entire OST for the next ten years of K-dramas?

Then—click.

You stiffened instantly.

The faint sound of the front door unlocking downstairs echoed cleanly throughout the quiet house.

You turned your head slightly, blinking into the hallway darkness. Then at the clock on the wall.

12:03 AM. Huh. He came home earlier than he had all the last times when he came home at 3 or 4 in the morning.

You turned back around quickly.

Nope. You were absolutely not going to greet him at the door like some needy little wife. You were definitely not going to show him that you had stayed up specifically for him.

You stayed perched right at the window, your blanket wrapped tightly around you like a moonlit burrito, your eyes trained straight ahead like you weren’t sulking at all.

You didn’t even hear his footsteps. You just felt them.

A slow, exhausted shuffle approached the bench. And then—

Two strong arms slipped smoothly around your waist, locking you in a firm, protective embrace. God, him and his daily gym routines.

You could feel a polythene bag hanging on his right arm, pressing against your side. Yup. He definitely bought something cause he knew how you'll be when he comes home.

“I'm home....” A heavy chin rested comfortably on your bare shoulder. “Are you mad?”