Se-Ri's POV
Leo was already awake, as always.
The scent of toast and ginger tea filled the apartment — familiar, routine.
He moved through the kitchen like a shadow in his own home, quiet and efficient, one AirPod in his left ear.
"Schedule the Zurich call before noon," he was saying to someone on the other end.
His voice was calm. Measured. Business as usual.
He passed by where I sat, still wrapped in a throw blanket on the couch.
Paused.
Lifted his hand to my forehead — the back of his palm gentle and clinical.
His conversation didn't stop. But his eyes briefly met mine.
"No fever," he mouthed softly. Then handed me a warm mug of herbal tea.
I took it.
Held it.
Sipped slowly while watching him tuck in his shirt, smooth his tie, shrug on his jacket.
And I thought…
Maybe I'm expecting too much from someone who's never been taught how to give it.
His face looked paler than usual.
More angular.
I hadn't noticed until now — he'd lost weight. Slight, but visible.
The kind that comes from forgetting to eat. From stress that hangs on the body like fog.
He glanced at me again while grabbing his keys, phone already buzzing in his hand.
"I'll be late again tonight," he said. "Don't wait for dinner."
I nodded.
Didn't ask why.
Didn't ask where.
Didn't ask if he'd be late for me — or late from me.
The days passed slowly after that.
Quietly.
I was getting better.
I wasn't crying every night.
The ache in my chest had dulled into something I could carry.
But Leo…
He wasn't getting better.
He went through all the motions —
Made coffee. Folded laundry. Took out the trash.
But he didn't touch me.
Not once.
Not a brush of fingers.
Not a kiss on the forehead.
Not a shared glance in bed.
He stayed to his side.
Always turned away.
Blanket between us.
It wasn't coldness.
It was fear.
Like he didn't trust himself to come close.
Like he was punishing himself with distance.
Sometimes, I heard the door click past midnight.
I'd pretend to be asleep.
Sometimes I was asleep.
And I'd wake to find his clothes folded neatly on the chair.
His laptop still open.
A plate of food untouched.
And I wondered—
Was he trying to fix things?
Or just waiting for me to say it's okay?
Because it wasn't okay.
And it wasn't broken either.
It was just… paused.
Like we were afraid to breathe too loud in case it all cracked open again.