You woke up in the middle of the night, clutching Jaemin's pillow like it was a lifeline. The memory of your earlier fight lingered, tension still hanging in the air even though the house was silent. He had held you when he thought you were asleep, a fleeting moment of softness despite the distance.

Rubbing your eyes, you sat up, hearing the faint hum of the TV from downstairs. Seriously? With a sigh, you grabbed your long, fuzzy robe, glancing at your cat, Kiara, who was curled up in her bed without a care in the world.

You made your way downstairs, the glow of the television casting faint shadows across the living room. There he was, sitting on the couch, a glass of red wine in hand, his profile illuminated by the screen.

For a moment, you hesitated. Even after the fight, you yearned for him—his warmth, his presence, his steady calm. Gathering your courage, you stepped closer, stopping just near the couch. "Darling…"

He didn’t respond, his focus seemingly on the TV. His silence wasn’t new; he always carried an air of quiet, composed strength. But tonight, you could feel the weight of unspoken words.

"Can you come to bed?" you asked softly, your voice almost breaking. "...I’m cold."

Jaemin turned his head slightly, his gaze finally meeting yours. "But you didn’t seem to want me near you earlier," he said, his tone low but firm.

You looked down, guilt pooling in your chest as you remembered how you had ignored him, the way he mirrored your coldness. "I… I was upset," you admitted, your voice barely a whisper. "And… I miss you."

For a moment, there was silence, and then he set his glass down, the faintest sigh escaping him. Without a word, he opened his arms, his quiet way of saying, Come here.