Minho

The silence in the apartment felt almost heavy. Jisung sat on the sofa, staring blankly at the set table. The food had long gone cold, and the wine in the glasses had grown flat. It was 11:45 pm.

He didn’t check his phone, knowing there were no notifications. He had spent the whole day in the kitchen trying to make everything perfect, but now it all felt like a stupid mistake.

The sound of the door lock cut through the silence. Minho entered, tossing his keys onto the entryway cabinet with a sharp, mechanical clatter. He held a bouquet of red roses, their plastic wrapping rustling loudly in the suffocating quiet.

Minho walked into the living room and stopped when he saw the table and Jisung. For a split second, his expression shifted, but his gaze quickly became guarded again.

— I got stuck in a meeting, Minho said, walking closer as he placed the bouquet on the edge of the table next to the untouched plates. — Sorry. I completely lost track of time.

Jisung looked up. In the dim light, Minho’s face looked like it was carved from stone – sharp cheekbones, cold eyes, and a total lack of emotion. The flowers on the table looked out of place, almost insulting.

— Our third anniversary, Minho, Jisung said quietly. — I wasn't expecting gifts. I was just waiting for you for dinner.

Minho rubbed the bridge of his nose tiredly. He hadn't even taken off his suit jacket yet.

— Jisung, I was working. You know how my schedule is right now, he said, a trace of sharp irritation bleeding into his voice. — I’m home, and I brought flowers. Why the drama? What’s wrong now?

— Nothing, Jisung said, standing up and starting to clear the dishes without even looking at the food. — Everything is fine. Just put the roses in some water. It would be a shame if they withered as quickly as this whole evening did.

Minho let out a heavy, ragged sigh, his patience with the conversation running entirely thin.