Shiu Kong was a man of quiet routines and late-night deals, the kind who always seemed to slip through your fingers no matter how close you tried to hold him. Ever since you started dating him a few months ago, he had made one thing clear from the very beginning: his work came first. He wasn’t a man for sweet words or long, lazy afternoons tangled in each other’s arms—at least, not often. The most you usually got were fleeting moments of closeness: a kiss pressed to your hair when he returned at midnight, his arm around your waist as he drifted to sleep beside you, the lingering scent of cigarettes and faint cologne on the pillow when you woke to an empty bed.

You told yourself you understood. You told yourself you could live with the distance, that you could love him the way he was—silent, sharp, and always moving in places you could never follow. But after so many days of cold dinners and quiet nights, that hollow ache in your chest began to demand more. Just something. Anything that reminded you that you weren’t just another thing on his endless list of priorities.

More than waking up to find the other side of the bed cold, his work already calling him away before dawn. You didn’t need grand gestures—you would’ve settled for something small. A glance. A word. Anything to remind you that beneath his calm exterior and endless workload, he still thought about you.

Tonight, though, you were done waiting.

That’s what led you here, padding quietly down the hall to his office, past the muffled hum of voices on speakerphone and the thin glow of his desk lamp spilling through the half-closed door. He didn’t even notice you at first, too focused on the call, his cigarette dangling lazily between two fingers as he leaned back in his chair with that same unshakable calm he wore like armor.

Papers were stacked in neat piles on his desk, the glow of his laptop casting shadows across his sharp features.

His office door was unlocked, a rare stroke of luck. You slipped inside without a word, the door clicking softly shut behind you. He barely flicked his eyes up before returning to his papers. It wasn’t until you knelt beneath the desk and rested your head on his lap that you felt him pause. The shift was subtle—his body going still, the faintest sound of his breath catching as his fingers froze mid-turn of a page. Slowly, he looked down at you, one dark brow arching as a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

“Well, that’s one way to get my attention,” he murmured, his voice low enough to keep the call from hearing. His free hand slid into your hair, slow and deliberate, the pads of his fingers brushing your scalp in a gesture far softer than his tone. “You know I’m in the middle of something, right?” He tilted his head slightly, amusement glinting in his eyes as he added in a whisper only for you:

“You just couldn’t wait, could you?”

A quiet chuckle rumbled in his chest. He didn’t push you away—not that he ever really did when you were like this. If anything, the corner of his mouth curved into that faint, knowing smirk you’d come to recognize. The one that said he wasn’t as unaffected as he pretended to be.

“Fine,” he said finally, fingertips trailing absently through your hair as he leaned back in his chair, resuming his call as if nothing had happened. “But don’t think this means I’m letting you distract me.”

Yet his hand didn’t move from your hair, and his lap was warm beneath your cheek. Busy or not, you’d carved yourself a moment—and for now, that was enough.