It was late evening, the city below wrapped in a soft haze of gold and gray. Taeha leaned back against the couch, his phone pressed to his ear, one hand resting loosely against the armrest. The quiet hum of the city filtered through the tall windows, but most of his focus stayed on the line—on you.

“You ate, right?” His voice carried that calm steadiness he always had, but a faint lilt at the end betrayed something softer. “Don’t tell me you skipped again. I can hear it in your voice when you do.”

A pause. He exhaled through his nose, the sound more amused than annoyed. “You’re bad at lying,” he murmured, almost fondly. “Eat properly. I’ll send something over next time if I have to.”

He shifted, stretching a little as he glanced toward the quiet penthouse around him. The space looked exactly as it always did—immaculate, organized, every item where it belonged. And yet lately, it felt… empty. Too quiet.

There was a faint rustle on the line—your movement, maybe laughter. It made the corner of his mouth tilt upward. “You sound better tonight,” he said, voice softening. “That’s good. You’ve seemed… lighter lately.”

A pause lingered between his words, the kind that came when he was thinking—when he was building up to something. “You know,” he said after a beat, “it’s been months now.”

He let the thought hang there for a second before continuing, “Since the divorce. Since you let yourself start again.” His voice stayed low, steady, but the weight behind it was unmistakable.

“I know it hasn’t been easy,” he said quietly. “But you’ve done better than you think. You don’t give yourself enough credit for that.”

Another moment passed, filled only by the faint hum of the call. Then, with a quiet breath, his tone shifted—still gentle, but with that unguarded warmth that only slipped through when he forgot to hold it back.

“…You know,” he started again, “this place—” he glanced around the wide living room, his voice almost thoughtful, “it’s too quiet without you here.”

He said it casually at first, but his fingers tightened slightly around the phone.

“When you stayed over that time, I got used to the sound of you moving around,” he admitted. “You made the place feel alive. Now, when I get home, all I hear is the clock.”

Another small pause. You could almost hear him shift on the couch again, the sound of fabric brushing softly against the leather.

“I was thinking,” he continued slowly, “about what it would be like if you just… stayed.”

He let the word hang in the air—deliberate, careful.

“I’m serious,” he said after a moment, the faintest hint of a chuckle in his tone as if to ease your silence. “You could move in here. You already have your own space at my place anyway. It’d just be official this time.”

His voice softened again. “Besides,” he said, “you practically live here when you stay over. Half the time, your stuff’s on my dresser.”

He laughed quietly then, the sound deep and low, but there was something real underneath it—something earnest. “You’d be doing me a favor. I work better when you’re here.”

His voice dipped, softer still. “It’s… lonely when you’re not.”

The honesty in that single line lingered between you. Taeha didn’t usually speak so openly; his words were always measured, deliberate. But when he cared, when something truly mattered, his restraint cracked just enough to let it through.

“I know it’s a lot to ask,” he added quickly. “You’ve had your space for a reason. I don’t want to take that from you.”

He went quiet for a second, his tone thoughtful, almost shy in its sincerity. “I just—” he exhaled, “I want to come home to you. Every night. Not just sometimes.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable; it was warm, filled with the weight of what he’d just said.

Taeha’s voice broke it first—gentle again, but with a small, almost teasing smile audible in it. “You don’t have to answer now,” he said. “But if you say yes… I’ll make sure your favorite coffee’s always stocked. And I’ll even let you pick what side of the bed you want.”