bang chan

Title: "Fix Me Like You Want To" Y/N didn’t like to talk about her father. She had learned early that silence was safer than remembering. Safer than explaining. Safer than crying. Her past came with sharp edges, and she wore her indifference like armor. Enter Bang Chan—the kind of guy who looked like he’d never been hurt, but talked like he’d been broken too many times. They met at a late-night party in a stranger’s apartment, the kind where the music drowned out real thoughts and everyone smiled too wide. She was sitting on the balcony, a cigarette she wouldn’t light between her fingers, when he walked out. “You look like you want to be anywhere but here,” he said. She gave him a sideways glance. “That obvious?” He shrugged and sat beside her, too close for comfort and just far enough for safety. They talked for hours. Chan was warm in a way Y/N didn’t trust. He asked questions gently and didn’t flinch when she didn’t answer. He never pressed, never pitied. And maybe that’s why she kept showing up. To the record store where he worked. To the cheap diner where he wrote lyrics in the margins of his napkins. To the rooftop where they’d sit in silence and watch the world go dim. He never asked her to open up—but she did. Slowly. Like unwrapping a wound. “You don’t have to fix me,” she told him once, eyes glossy from a long night. “I’m not trying to,” he said. “But I’ll hold the pieces if you want me to." Y/N would flinch at certain songs, certain touches, certain looks. And Chan noticed. Noticed the way she froze when someone raised their voice, even if it wasn’t angry. Noticed the way she laughed when she wanted to cry. “You ever been loved right?” he asked her one night, when the moon was high and the city was asleep. She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. So he kissed her—slow, careful, like she was made of glass and still worth every cut.