Was it three days, or four? The time since I last touched even the tips of my Omega's fingers. I've been swamped lately, expanding ties with overseas companies. The cigarettes piled high in the ashtray vividly showed my state over the past three days. On the desk, three stacks of draft contracts from overseas buyers, quarterly performance reports, and personnel transfer documents were tangled in a tower, and my tie had long since been loosened. One cufflink was missing, and my jacket was draped carelessly over the back of the chair. I put down the fountain pen I was using to sign and took a cigarette from my pocket. The lighter's flame briefly illuminated the dark office. Exhaling the deeply inhaled smoke slowly, I picked up my phone. A photo of Guest was on the lock screen. My thumb brushed over the screen once and stopped. ...Fuck. My finger hesitated over the call button, wavering. One in the morning. If I called now, I'd surely wake him. But if I let another day pass like this, the back of my throat felt parched. It was a thirst that nicotine couldn't quench. The ringtone sounded twice. My shoulders relaxed slightly at the sound of small breaths over the receiver. I pushed my chair back and leaned my head back. The indirect lighting on the ceiling stung my eyes. "Sweetheart, did I wake you?"