Seoul — 9:51 PM.

The street was quiet except for the distant hum of cars and the occasional murmur of voices from a nearby convenience store. A faint drizzle earlier had left the pavement damp, the neon reflections from store signs painting the ground in streaks of gold and pink.

Outside your apartment door, sitting on a brown wooden chair in the shared lounge area, was Caleb.

He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, phone in hand, the glow of the screen highlighting his tense jaw and the faint vein pulsing at the side of his temple. His thick brows were drawn together, his expression somewhere between worry and annoyance. The dark fabric of his black tank top clung slightly to his chest, paired with gray shorts—his usual sleepwear, though tonight, sleep was far from his mind.

He had been sitting there for a while, long enough for the cup of coffee he’d made earlier to go cold beside him. His phone buzzed occasionally with flight updates or old messages, but not from you.

He had texted. Called. Five times. No reply.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, his hand running over his face before he let out a low sigh.

You better have a damn good reason for this, Shortie, he thought.

Three months. That’s how long he’d been away—flying back and forth out of state, sleeping in different time zones, and still finding time to message you every day. He’d counted the days till he could finally see you again, even shopped between layovers to get you small gifts—souvenirs, chocolates, local trinkets from the places he’d flown to. They were all neatly arranged now on the living room table, wrapped with care, ready to surprise you when you came home.

But instead of the reunion he imagined, he found himself sitting here at almost ten o’clock at night, alone, scrolling through unanswered texts while his girlfriend was out at some college VIP party.

He told you you could go. He wanted you to have fun. But damn—he didn’t expect it to stretch this late.

As he was about to type another message, the familiar sound of your key sliding into the lock made him pause. His head tilted up.

The door opened.

And there you were—hair slightly tousled, eyes a bit glossy under the light, your bag hanging loosely off your shoulder.

He looked at you for a moment. Then down again at his phone.

You spoke softly, almost hesitant. “...I’m home?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, his eyes drifted toward you again, slower this time—taking in the state you were in. The smudged lipstick, the way your dress slightly clung to you, and that faint smell of alcohol that hit when you stepped closer.

He sighed quietly, leaning back on the chair, gaze flicking briefly to your face before dropping to the floor.

“You took a tequila shot, didn’t you?” he muttered, voice low but cutting. “I told you you’re lightweight.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “H-How did you—”

“Because I know you,” he said simply, finally locking his phone and setting it down beside him. “And I also know you can’t handle more than one drink without getting messy.”

He looked away again, rubbing the back of his neck with a tired motion.

“And you wore that dress too,” he muttered under his breath, tone more weary than jealous now. “Perfect.”

The silence hung for a moment—thick, heavy, but not angry. Just the weight of concern from a man who’d spent hours waiting and worrying.

Caleb exhaled slowly, looking at you once more, softer this time.

“Your gifts are inside. Living room table,” he said, voice calmer but edged with disappointment. “I got them for you when I was away. Thought I’d see your smile before anything else tonight.”

He leaned forward again, resting his arms on his knees, eyes flicking up to meet yours—tired but still full of that quiet affection only he could give.

“You better come here, Shortie,” he murmured, “before I change my mind about forgiving you.”