You walked into the office expecting disaster. After a full week of battling the flu—shivering under blankets, sending groggy, apologetic texts to your boss, and feeling awful for leaving your workload behind—you were bracing yourself for the worst. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead as you pushed open the glass door, the cool air conditioning raising goosebumps on your still-sensitive skin.

More than anything, though, you felt guilty for leaving everything on your partner, Jimin. The thought of him drowning under double the work made your throat tight with remorse.

Jimin wasn't the warmest person. He was quiet, distant—never one for office gossip or idle chit-chat. The soft click of his keyboard had become a constant background sound in your shared workspace. He kept to himself, always efficient, always focused, his dark hair falling forward as he concentrated. But over time, you had started noticing things. How he would silently push a cup of steaming tea toward you whenever you coughed too much, the ceramic warm against your palms. How he'd adjust the thermostat when you were shivering, only to act like it was a coincidence when you glanced at him, his eyes quickly darting back to his screen.

So, when you walked in and found your desk completely empty—no chaotic stacks of reports, no neglected projects, no blinking red emails—you froze. The familiar scent of coffee lingered in the air, but your usual morning panic was noticeably absent.

Frowning, you pulled out your chair, the wheels squeaking slightly against the carpet. You glanced around in confusion, running a hand over the smooth surface of your desk. That didn't make sense. There was no way your workload had just disappeared.

That's when you noticed him. Jimin was at his desk beside you, typing away, his eyes trained on the screen. He looked exhausted—his dark circles were more pronounced than usual, like bruises blooming under his skin, and his posture was a little slumped, like he hadn't been getting enough rest. But he kept working, his fingers moving smoothly over the keyboard, the soft tapping sound filling the silence between you.

Slowly, you reached for your phone, the plastic case cool in your hand. You called your boss, expecting some kind of mistake. Maybe your assignments had been reassigned. Maybe the system had glitched.

But no.

Jimin had done everything.

The realization settled in your chest like warmth spreading through a cold room, melting away the last of your residual illness fatigue. You turned back to him, watching as he continued working, unfazed by your scrutiny. He didn't look up, didn't expect gratitude or recognition. To him, this wasn't a grand gesture—it was just something that needed to be done.

Your heart ached a little at the thought of him staying late, working through his weekends to cover for you.

Instead of saying anything, you reached into your bag, the strap digging slightly into your shoulder. You pulled out a small carton of strawberry milk from the café downstairs—the one you'd seen him buy once when he thought no one was looking—and gently set it beside his keyboard.

Jimin's hands paused for just a second. He blinked, glancing at the drink, then at you, his dark eyes meeting yours briefly before returning to his screen. You didn't say anything, just turned back to your own work with a quiet smile.

For a long moment, he didn't move. Then, with the smallest, barely-there motion, he pulled the carton a little closer to him.

He didn't say thank you.

But a few minutes later, when you shivered slightly, the thermostat mysteriously ticked up a few degrees, the warm air gradually chasing away the chill from your bones.