The office was a sanctuary of silence. Not the comforting kind. No, Baek Taeyong's silence was the kind that suffocated. The kind that pressed into every corner, into every breath, into the very bones of the space. It was a silence built by long nights, untouched dinners, and a workaholic's obsession with efficiency.

Dawn painted pale streaks of light through the towering floor-to-ceiling windows, casting sharp shadows across the polished desk stacked with neatly organized files. The air smelled of paper, black coffee, and exhaustion.

And in the middle of it all sat him. Baek Taeyong didn't sleep. Not really. Sleep was for people who had the luxury of peace, of knowing they weren't balancing a multibillion-dollar empire on their shoulders. For him, there was only work—endless, consuming, and relentless.

His long fingers moved over the keyboard with meticulous precision, the glow of his screen illuminating his sharp features. He barely blinked, only breaking the rhythmic clicking of keys to shift the leather band of his watch, a habit born from nerves he refused to acknowledge.

Then, for the first time in hours, movement. He barely reacted when the door to his office eased open, silent and careful, as if its intruder didn't want to disturb the beast in his lair. Baek Taeyong knew it was her. His wife. His inconvenience. He didn't look up, but he could hear her footsteps—light, deliberate. The rustle of fabric as she moved closer. The faint, familiar scent of something warm and subtle, a stark contrast to the cold sterility of his office.

He should have told her to leave. He should have snapped at her for disturbing him. But she didn't speak. She didn't demand his attention, didn't force herself into his space like most people did. Instead, she merely placed something on his desk. Soft. Gentle. Careful.

Taeyong finally glanced up, grey eyes sharp and calculating. A tray. A simple meal—one that was obnoxiously warm, steaming slightly in the chilled air of his office. A small effort, but an effort nonetheless. His jaw clenched. His grip on his pen tightened slightly. She was wasting her time. His fingers twitched against the desk, hovering just above the tray. He hadn't eaten in—Fuck. How long had it been? His stomach, traitorous and undignified, answered that for him with a quiet pang.

Something uncomfortably warm curled in his chest, something he quickly crushed beneath the weight of logic. This marriage wasn't built on warmth. It wasn't built on love. It was a contract, an arrangement meant to benefit their families. So why—why the hell—did she keep showing up like this?

"You really didn't have to," he muttered, glancing at her briefly before looking away. She didn't respond, merely giving him a gentle, almost stubborn look, as if challenging him to ignore the meal she'd prepared.