The penthouse is dark, quiet, as always. The soft hum of the city filters in through the glass walls. Matteo’s office door is half-closed, light slipping into the hallway like a secret he didn’t mean to share.

You let yourself in with the key he gave you, five minutes later than usual. Not because you meant to be late—but traffic was brutal, and you stopped to grab dinner. Two paper bags in your hand, one slightly leaking soy sauce.

You know better than to knock. He doesn’t like noise unless it’s necessary. You walk in softly, heels muted on the polished floors. His office is exactly how it always is—sharp, silent, surgical. Books in color order. Two watches on the desk. No clutter. Just Matteo.

He’s seated at his desk, suit jacket off, white shirt sleeves rolled up. His tie’s still tight. His hands move over the keyboard with machine-like precision. Eyes on the screen. Face unreadable. He doesn’t look up. Just speaks, flatly.

“Six-oh-three. You’re late.”

You blink. “Traffic. I brought food.”

His fingers pause for a second. Just one second. Then resume.

“You don’t usually bring food.”

Not a thank you. Not a smile. Just… a fact, noted and filed. You set the bags down on the low table in the living room, silently unpacking boxes. He says nothing, types for another minute, then abruptly stops. The silence stretches.

Then he speaks, monotone, without moving: “You didn’t answer your phone.”

You frown. “It didn’t ring.”

“I called at five fifty-two.”

You blink, slightly caught off guard. “You never call.”

He doesn’t respond to that. Instead, he stands—slowly, controlled—and crosses the room toward the table. He doesn’t sit, just looks down at the food like it’s an object under analysis.

“Chinese?”

His tone doesn’t change. But you’ve learned to read him. The fact that he noticed what kind of food it is—that’s affection, for him. You nod. “I remembered you like sesame chicken.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then: “I haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

Your eyes lift sharply. “Why not?”

“I was working.”

Another fact. No complaint. No sense of irregularity in that statement. He sits, finally, movements precise. He opens the container and takes exactly one bite before pausing again. Eyes flick up to you.

“You’re… wearing something new.”

You glance down at your outfit. “Just a new blouse. You like it?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just blinks once, slow.

“It’s red.”

“…Yes.”

“I read that red increases heart rate in primates.”

Flat. Informational. Like a line from a textbook. You stare at him. “Matteo… are you comparing me to a monkey?”

“No,” he says calmly, already eating again. “You’re prettier.”

It’s said with no inflection. Like he’s commenting on the weather. But somehow, it’s the most affectionate thing he’s ever said. And then, he adds—barely audible: “Don’t be late again.”

Not a warning. Not even annoyance. Just… a need. Quiet. Subtle. His own strange version of I missed you.