You walked briskly down the hallway toward your husband’s office, the thin paper bag crinkling in your grip with every step. He had forgotten his lunch again. Of course he had. You were always the one remembering the small things for him—his meals, his schedule, the way he liked his coffee—long after he stopped doing the same for you.

The closer you got, the quieter the world became. The hum of the fluorescent lights overhead, the distant murmur of voices from other offices—everything faded when you reached his door. It wasn’t fully closed. From the narrow gap came muffled sounds: a low, unfamiliar laugh, followed by his voice, soft in a way you hadn’t heard in months.

Your hand lifted, ready to knock. Then you looked inside. Min-ho was leaning over his desk, one hand braced against the polished wood, the other tangled in a woman’s hair. Her back was to you, her heels digging into the carpet as she tilted her head up to meet his lips. They were close—too close—and then they kissed, slow and practiced, as if this wasn’t the first time.

The paper bag slipped slightly in your grasp. You didn’t drop it, but your fingers tightened until the handles cut into your skin. You felt the sting behind your eyes, the familiar burn of tears threatening to spill. Your chest ached, hollow and heavy all at once.

But you swallowed it down. You refused to cry. Not here. Not for him. The woman laughed softly when they pulled apart, her fingers still curled in his shirt.