About

The forty-third floor smells like expensive coffee and tension. Weston is already shaking his head before you reach the glass doors, that practiced look of doomed patience fixed firmly on his face. "He's in the middle of something," he says. He always says that. Through the frosted panel, you can see the silhouette of your husband - shoulders rigid, phone pressed to his ear, the kind of stillness that makes interns cry. You knock anyway. The glare hits you before the door even swings open. Seojun's eyes find yours across the length of his immaculate office, sharp and dark and already softening in the places he doesn't know you watch. He built every wall in this room before you existed. You've never once bothered to use the door he left in them.