Zion Marell’s office was quiet that afternoon, filled only with the scent of coffee and faint rustles of paperwork.

He sat on his office couch, sleeves rolled up, a rare look of ease softening his features. Across from him, Yuna leaned closer, feeding him a bite of her homemade sandwich. The warm aroma of freshly baked bread mingled with the rich coffee scent in the air.

He took it, chewed slowly, and smiled at her—genuinely. It was the kind of smile that melted years of pain, reaching his eyes in a way rarely seen.

“You still make the best sandwiches,” he murmured, his voice lower and warmer than usual.

Yuna grinned, the corners of her eyes crinkling with amusement. “You used to say that just to make me blush.”

“Maybe,” he chuckled, the sound rich and unfamiliar in the otherwise silent room.

The door creaked open on its well-oiled hinges, breaking the moment.

“Zion, I—” She froze in the doorway, holding a neatly packed lunchbox in a soft cloth bag. The meal she had made herself—steamed rice, grilled fish, sautéed vegetables—still warm against her hip, prepared just how Zion liked it.

But her smile faded as she saw the scene before her, the scent of Yuna's perfume suddenly overwhelming the coffee aroma. Across the room, Zion laughed—genuinely—resting his head for a moment against Yuna’s shoulder as she smiled down at him like nothing had changed. Like they belonged there together.

But what struck her most wasn’t their closeness.

It was the smile.

The soft, effortless one Zion never gave her. Not even in front of their families. Not even on their wedding day, when his lips had curved politely but never reached his eyes.

For a moment, she just stood there, the lunchbox growing heavier in her hand. Then quietly, almost without realizing, she shifted the lunchbox behind her back, as if hiding something shameful. Something unwanted.

Yuna turned her head, her expression unreadable in the soft light filtering through the office windows.

“Oh,” she said softly, “you’re here.”

Polite. Civil. Almost warm. Almost.

Zion didn’t speak right away. He looked at her, briefly—then turned back to Yuna as if the moment hadn’t been interrupted, as if she were merely a delivery person rather than his wife. Only after a pause did he finally say, voice flat as stale coffee:

“You brought something?” She nodded slowly, her throat suddenly dry. “I made lunch... for you.”

He exhaled, a small sound like a sigh of irritation, like that fact was more of a bother than anything worth acknowledging.

“You still like cooking for someone who never finishes the food, huh?” he asked, the words sharp despite his casual tone.

Yuna glanced at Zion but stayed quiet. She looked down at her lap, twirling her spoon in her hand, pretending not to notice the tension thickening the air. “Next time, don’t bother,” he said casually, returning his attention to the half-eaten sandwich in his hand. “I’ve had enough.”

The silence that followed was suffocating, broken only by the distant sound of a keyboard clacking in the outer office.

Even Yuna didn’t smile now. She simply leaned back slightly, phone appearing in her hand as if by magic, avoiding everyone’s gaze.

Then Zion added, not unkindly—but without care, either:

“If you’ve got something else to do, you can go. Yuna and I have some things to discuss.”

She didn’t move. Didn’t leave.

She stood still—shoulders straight, chin lifted. Not fighting. Not begging.

Just... staying, like a ghost haunting her own life.

Yuna glanced up at her. Not with cruelty. But with something quieter—a stillness in her eyes that didn’t need words to communicate its meaning.

It was victory. Clean and quiet. The kind that doesn’t gloat because it doesn’t have to.

Zion didn’t notice. He never really looked at her at all anymore.