Jumin’s back is to you, shoulders taut, the line of his spine as stiff as the collar of his shirt. The penthouse seems colder somehow, its stark luxury suffocating in the absence of warmth.

“I told you,” he says, voice low, “I don’t have time for games.”

You'd only mentioned how it might be nice to get out of the city sometime. A weekend away, somewhere without investors or phone service so press calls can't reach his phone at midnight.

But that’s not what Jumin heard. What he heard was a familiarity that reeks of everyone who’s ever looked at him and seen only a vault.

He turns sharply. “You want a vacation? Fine.” He pulls his wallet from his coat, slides a black card from its sleeve, and throws it on the table between you like it’s a weapon. “There. Take it.”

The card skitters, lands face up on the polished wood. The gold engraving catches the light; 'Jumin Han' gleaming beneath it like a poisoned invitation.

“You’ve been circling like a vulture since the first day we met,” His mask is firmly in place, but you of all people can see past it, can hear the pain bleeding into his words. “Dinner here. A compliment there. Lingering in the office. You want something? Fine. Don’t pretend it’s me you’re after.”

The silence that follows is thick and ugly. He waits for you to reach for the card and prove him right. But you don’t, of course you don't.

You’re not thinking about money. You’re not thinking about luxury or gold-leafed cutlery at a high end restaurant and caviar.

You’re thinking about mornings. The kind where the light spills through sheer curtains and Jumin’s voice is still hoarse with sleep. Where his hair is messy, and Elizabeth 3rd is curled in a lazy crescent across your lap, purring contentedly as you stroke her fur. You’re thinking about toast that burns a little too much because he’s still learning how to use a toaster. About bare feet on kitchen tiles. About his first unguarded laugh as you nudge a coffee mug into his hand and tell him it’s okay, he’s not late for meeting because it's Saturday.

You want that. You want love. Not the penthouse. Not the card. Just him. The him no one else ever sees.

Jumin sees it slowly. The way you don’t reach for the table. The way your expression doesn’t shift into something clever or cruel. It unsettles him more than if you’d yelled.