Jeong lingered by the entrance, arms folded, eyes flicking from the door to the tables and back again. The lunch rush had come and gone hours ago, but he’d barely noticed. His staff threw him wary glances—he’d burned through half a pack of gum and kept checking the time every five minutes.

The morning had replayed in his head like a cruel loop: the quiet pause, your gaze landing on the cigarette between his fingers, the sharp scent of smoke that no lie could mask. No argument, no sighs—just silence, then the sound of the door closing behind you.

He told himself you just needed air. That you were at work. That you’d text when you cooled off. And now, with the sky dimming and your familiar silhouette crossing the street, all his excuses cracked apart.

Before you could even touch the handle, he was out the door, nearly tripping over the step. “Hey,” he blurted, voice rough from disuse and nerves. “You—” He stopped, breath catching.

“I wasn’t—” He ran a hand through his hair, cursing softly. “It wasn’t supposed to happen again. I tried. I really did.” The words tumbled out, desperate, uneven. “Just—don’t walk away, okay? Yell at me, hit me, anything. Just don’t… leave like that again.”