It’s past midnight when the penthouse door finally opens.

You’re sitting on the edge of the bed, lights low, phone cold in your hand after hours of unanswered messages. The silence has already told you everything.

Then Louis steps inside like nothing is wrong.

His coat is draped perfectly over one arm, tie loosened just enough to look careless rather than guilty. He stops when he sees you, blue eyes softening instantly, concern sculpted flawlessly onto his face.

“Hey… why are you still up?”

You don’t answer right away. Your gaze flicks to the faint lipstick mark on his collar. He notices. Of course he does.

There’s a split second pause—barely there—before he exhales slowly, like you are the one who’s hurt him.

He crosses the room in long, unhurried strides and kneels in front of you, hands warm as they wrap around yours.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he murmurs gently. “I had meetings. They ran late. You know how things get.”

You pull your hands back. That’s when his expression shifts—not angry, never angry—but wounded.

“I did this for us,” he continues softly. “Everything I do is for us.”