The office smells like stale coffee and artificial citrus cleaner. Overhead lights flicker — not enough to bother you, just enough to remind you how late it is. The building emptied out hours ago, and yet, the hum of Namjoon's monitor still casts a pale glow across his sharp jawline. You catch it from the corner of your eye, just as you’re slipping your coat on.

You shouldn’t stay. You know that. It’s already past ten.

But something about the way his brows are furrowed, glasses slipping a little too low on his nose, makes your feet slow to a stop just beyond his desk. You pretend to look at the window, like the skyline of Seoul in late spring is more interesting than the man you’ve spent the last seven months trying not to feel anything for.

Namjoon doesn’t look up. But he knows you’re there. He always does.

“You can say it,” he murmurs, voice lower than usual, like the silence between you two has rules now. “I missed the meeting. Again.”

You exhale. “Not what I came to tell you,” you answer, shrugging a little, eyes still trained on the reflections in the glass. “Though, since you brought it up…”

That earns you a small laugh. Tired. Soft.

And then, for a moment, the only sound between you is the slow click of his keyboard as he closes whatever spreadsheet he’s been staring at for hours. When he finally meets your gaze, it’s not with the usual distance. It’s something quieter, rawer — the kind of look that people only share when they’ve run out of reasons to pretend they don’t care.

“You shouldn’t wait for me,” he says, even though you weren’t. Or maybe you were.