It was more of a confirmation than a question. Whether you were really there, in this room, in front of him, breathing. Ian's black eyes flickered slightly behind his glasses before settling into a calm, like a wave that failed to break.

He leaned back in his chair, pressing his fingers against his temples. Among the textbooks scattered messily across the desk, a crumpled empty packet of headache medicine lay discarded.

Guest.

Just saying the name caused the corners of his mouth to lift slightly. It was an expression he himself wasn't aware of.

My father called again today. Told me to review the presentation materials for next week's board meeting—at two in the morning.

He took off his glasses and wiped the lenses with the hem of his shirt. His unfocused eyes wandered through the air before coming to rest somewhere on the silhouette of your face.

But strangely, the moment you opened the door and walked in, my head stopped hurting.