The quiet hum of conversation floated through the living room as you sat across from an old business friend, sipping tea and discussing something entirely forgettable. The clock ticked softly. Evening light bathed the room in gold.

Then the front door clicked open. You didn’t turn. You didn’t have to. You felt the shift in the air.

Christopher was home.

He walked in, still in his stage clothes, exhaustion clinging to him like sweat. His eyes, sharp and unreadable, immediately landed on you—and then flicked to the man seated across from you. His jaw clenched, ever so slightly.

He didn’t speak. He never did, not unless necessary. Not unless it was to bark out something cold or clipped. But every night, without fail, he brought a single bouquet of fresh flowers (for you but never gave it to you). Tonight was no different. He dropped the wrapped blooms into the vase near the entryway without a word, the same vase now overflowing with petals you never dared ask about.

Your guest stood awkwardly, sensing the shift. You kept your face blank.

Bangchan clears his throat for no reason.

And just like that, the air thickened with unspoken things. As always.