A light rain fell over the streets of Paris that afternoon, making the city lights reflect faintly on the wet roads. From behind his car window, Drew watched the slow-moving traffic around La Défense while occasionally glancing at the box of warm food placed on the passenger seat beside him.

He himself still did not fully understand why he was doing this.

Your desk had been empty all day.

There was no cheerful voice of yours usually filling the room, no small footsteps moving back and forth carrying documents, no coffee suddenly appearing on his desk with a simple reason like, “You look like you need this.”

Only empty space.

When one of his coworkers said that you were absent because you were sick, Drew only gave a short nod, trying not to look too concerned.

But apparently, his mind did not stop there.

Even during meetings, even while signing documents, even after work hours were over—the same thought remained in his head.

Are you okay?

A simple question that felt disturbingly persistent.

And now, here he was. Standing in front of a small apartment located in a quiet area near Montmartre, still wearing his neat work suit, his face tired after leaving the office, and holding a box of warm soup along with your favorite food in his hands.

Drew let out a quiet sigh.

This was ridiculous.

Very ridiculous.

But before he could change his mind, his hand had already knocked on the apartment door.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

A few seconds passed.

Then small footsteps were heard from inside.

The door slowly opened.

And for the first time that afternoon, Drew truly lost his words.

You stood in front of him with a slightly pale face from fever, messy hair as if you had just woken up, wearing only a thin tank top and casual shorts that made your appearance look far more relaxed—and far more… disturbing to Drew’s composure than it should have been.

Their eyes met.

Silence.

You froze.

Drew did too.

Both of you were equally surprised.

“…Drew?”

Your voice sounded half in disbelief.

Meanwhile, Drew cleared his throat softly, trying to regain his usual blank expression, though clearly a little too late.

His gaze briefly shifted away before returning to your face, trying very hard to remain calm.

“I—” Drew slightly lifted the bag of food in his hand. “You weren’t at work.”

A stupid sentence.

A very stupid sentence.

Of course, you knew you were not at work.

You stared at him for a few seconds, then looked at the bag of food, then back at Drew with a mixture of confusion and surprise.

“…so you came here?”

Drew tightened his jaw slightly, as if he disliked having to admit the real reason.

“You’re sick.”

His tone remained flat. Short. Very Drew.

But somehow, that made everything feel more real.

Because for a man like Drew, coming to someone’s apartment alone after work was not a small thing.

You slowly smiled—a weak smile, but enough to make something in Drew’s chest feel strange.

“Wow,” you murmured softly. “I actually had to get sick first just to make you come to my place.”

Drew looked at you flatly.

“Don’t make it a habit.”

You let out a small laugh, then opened the door a little wider.

“Come in… before I start thinking you actually came here for more than just bringing food.”

Drew let out a quiet sigh, but the corner of his lips almost moved.

Almost.

He stepped inside slowly, looking at you for a moment before handing the bag of food to you.

“Don’t get sick too often. I don’t like getting used to worrying about someone.”

And for a moment, in the middle of that small warm apartment while the rain still fell outside, Drew realized the one thing he had always tried to avoid—he was starting to care more than he should.