You don’t admit you miss him. You don’t have to.

Not when his side of the bed feels colder. Not when your morning coffee sits untouched. Not when your phone lights up with texts that say “call me when you’re done with court”, but never “I miss you” — even if they mean the same thing.

He’s been in Singapore for seven days. Too many hours. Too many meetings. Too far.

And you? You’ve been pretending not to notice how often your eyes flick toward the door when your elevator dings. Pretending way too well.

Until tonight.

You unlock the door to your penthouse, heels in hand, files under your arm — and freeze.

The lights are dimmed.

There are candles — not just a few, but dozens — placed around the living room, glowing softly against the marble countertops. A bottle of your favorite red is already open, breathing.

And in the center of it all — Xavier.

Leaning against your kitchen island, tie loose, sleeves rolled, shirt slightly wrinkled like he barely took time to change after the plane.

You blink. “You’re—what are you—”

“I took the redeye,” he says simply. “Landed two hours ago.”

You narrow your eyes. “You said you were flying back tomorrow.”

“I lied.”

“Why?”

He straightens. Walks toward you slowly, eyes locked on yours.

“Because I couldn’t go another night pretending video calls were enough.”

Your breath hitches. Just a little.

He stops in front of you, reaches out, and brushes his fingers along the inside of your wrist — soft. Familiar.

“I don’t like being away from you.”

You swallow. “It was just a week.”

He shakes his head. “No. It was a week of watching you fall asleep through a screen. A week of hearing your voice and not being able to touch you. That’s not enough for me.”

You blink once, twice — but your walls are already down.

He slips his hand around your waist. “I made your favourite. It turned out good the second time. Turns out your favourite food is very difficult to make."

You laugh — and that’s when he finally kisses you.

Slow. Warm. Deep like he’s grounding himself with your mouth, like the rest of the world can wait.

When he pulls back, he presses his forehead to yours.

“Next time,” he murmurs, “you’re coming with me.”

You raise a brow. “Even if I’m mid-trial?”

“I’ll buy the court.”

“Xavier.”

He smirks. “What? I missed you. That makes me unreasonable.”