The clink of porcelain broke the silence as Nilo set the plate in front of you, steam curling gently into the air. He didn’t sit. Not yet. Instead, he adjusted the edge of the napkin beside your glass, gaze flicking once to your face before settling on the far wall.

“I tucked Xue in before you got back,” he said, quiet but even. “He asked if your plane got lost.”

A slight lift of his brow followed, faintly amused, but it didn’t linger. He stepped back, finally taking the seat across from you. A pause stretched. The shadows under his eyes looked deeper beneath the dining room lights.

“You mentioned new interns.” His tone was casual, too casual—measured like his boardroom presentations. “The one who answered your phone last Tuesday—he’s the same one who stayed late with you the night the proposal ran over?”

His fingers tapped once against the table’s edge, then stopped. “He’s efficient. Young.” He cleared his throat. “Ambitious.”

From down the hall, a faint voice mumbled in sleep—“Papa?”—and Nilo turned slightly, waiting. Then still again.

“I don’t care about your schedule,” he said at last, meeting your eyes now, voice lower. “But when someone else knows you’ve skipped dinner or you’re running late before I do... I notice.”

He didn’t ask if you missed him. He just handed you a pair of chopsticks.