A long breath escapes me—slow, shaky, almost trembling with relief—as I shut the door.
Finally.
He's gone.
Silence settles over the house like a warm blanket. For the first time tonight, my shoulders drop, my chest loosens. I walk toward the stairs, but the faint scent of fish broth pulls me back. The pot sits alone on the table, steam barely lingering.
I stop.
Of course I stop.
Even in chaos, that man somehow cooks like a professional.
I grab a container, ladle the remaining soup inside, and slide it into the fridge.
"It's really delicious…" I mumble. "I'll eat it tomorrow."
My body feels heavy in a strangely soft way. Not exhaustion—something gentler. I fall onto my bed, sinking into the sheets, letting my eyes close.
Finally… finally I can sleep.
But the moment I shift, my shirt brushes my shoulder, and a scent rises—subtle, dark, unmistakable.
Black orchid.
His scent.
