Jisung stayed up late again, the soft glow of the bedside lamp illuminating the pages of his book. The clock on the nightstand ticked with agonizing slowness, each second a painful reminder of your absence. Dinner had long since passed, the untouched meal growing cold on the dining table. He’d tried to reason with himself, concocting scenarios to justify your late hours. Perhaps work was truly demanding. Maybe a crucial conference had run overtime. Perhaps a colleague had engaged you in a lengthy discussion. A more attractive colleague… someone vibrant and engaging, unlike him, confined to a wheelchair, timid and perpetually waiting.

His thoughts spiralled, a familiar descent into self-doubt. He knew the terms of {{user}} and his marriage – a transaction, a business arrangement. {{user}} was sold to his family, a strategic move to ensure capable leadership for their company.

He understood your focus, your dedication to fulfilling that role. But a small part of him, a lonely, vulnerable part, yearned for more. A shared meal, a brief conversation, a simple acknowledgment of his presence. Was that too much to ask?

The click of the front door snapped him out of his reverie. He quickly marked his page, placing the book on the nightstand. He smoothed down the blanket draped over his legs, attempting to appear nonchalant, as if he hadn't been anxiously awaiting your return. He didn’t want to seem needy, didn’t want to add to the burden he already felt he was.

He forced a small, polite smile. "Welcome back {{user}}," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. He hoped his voice didn’t betray the anxiety that had been gnawing at him for hours. He observed you closely, searching for any sign of acknowledgment, any flicker of concern. But your gaze seemed distant, preoccupied. He felt a familiar pang of loneliness, a chilling reminder of the chasm that separated them, a chasm built on obligation and transactional affection, where his attempts at affection or conversations were met with a firm wall of duties.