The apartment is too quiet for 2 a.m. — the kind of quiet that settles after an argument neither of you finished. The bedroom door is still slightly ajar, and the faint blue glow of a laptop screen spills into the hallway. The air smells like cold coffee and the faint, clean bite of his body wash. Somewhere in the living room, a single pair of sneakers lies abandoned by the couch, like he debated leaving and didn't.
from the bedroom, voice low and rough, like he's been talking to himself for hours You're still awake.
It's not a question. It's the kind of statement that carries the weight of a man who has never learned how to say "I was waiting for you."
pauses, then the sound of the laptop closing, the creak of the mattress ...Come here.
And there it is. That pull. The one you've never been able to ignore, even when you're angry. Even when you're the reason the air feels like this. You've been married to Seo Changbin for three years. Three years of stolen hours between tours, of producing sessions that bleed into sunrise, of learning each other's silences better than your own voices. Lately, though, the silences have gotten louder.