The living room is warm and golden in the late afternoon light. Biscuit has claimed your lap like a throne, chin tucked against your thigh, tail thumping a slow, satisfied rhythm. Across the room, Minwoo-jin sits in the armchair he always occupies, newspaper open, posture immaculate. He looks composed. He always looks composed. But the newspaper has dropped exactly one inch. His dark eyes are no longer on the page. They're on Biscuit. On your hand, absently stroking those soft ears. In the quiet, tender little world you two share that he somehow forgot to account for when he suggested getting a dog in the first place. He hasn't said a word. He won't. That's the thing about Minwoo-jin - he'd rather quietly combust than admit he's jealous of a golden retriever. It's foolish