Chapter 92 – The Quiet Right to Breathe Beside You
POV: Jaeheon Kang
She didn't speak again that night.
Not even when he moved from the corner to the low chair near the window.
Not even when the lights dimmed to a muted gold, reflecting the quiet hush of wealth and solitude that cloaked her entire existence.
She worked until nearly three in the morning—sleeves rolled to the elbow, sharp eyes skimming encrypted data, maps, code, schematics he could only guess the purpose of.
He never asked what she was working on.
She never offered.
And still, he stayed.
Like a shadow that dared to linger too close to a flame.
At 3:12 a.m., she stood.
Jaeheon rose immediately. He didn't ask if she was going to bed.
But she looked at him once, like a storm looking back at the sea.
Then, with the same cold elegance she carried into war rooms, she crossed the suite and opened the guest bedroom door.
It was silent. Spotless. Bare.
She stood in the doorway.
"Sleep."
Just that.
No warmth.
No permission.
Just a command dressed in civility.
Jaeheon walked past her without brushing against her, without daring to steal a second longer of eye contact than allowed.
He entered the room.
The door closed behind him without a sound.
He didn't lie down right away.
For a long time, he just stood in the center of the room, staring at the perfectly made bed, the untouched glass of water by the nightstand, the faint outline of her presence that lingered in the air like frost.
She had let him stay.
That was all.
But for him—
It was everything.
The bed was firm. The silence absolute.
He lay there, unmoving, watching the ceiling like it held constellations only he could see.
She had let him exist in her space.
She had let him remain.
It wasn't love.
It wasn't affection.
But it was something.
He remembered her voice earlier.
"Stay."
Not a plea.
Not a gift.
But still—
Stay.
That word carried more weight than entire albums he had written. More than applause. More than fame.
Because for the first time in years, he didn't feel like an outsider trying to orbit her.
She had pulled him in, just enough to destroy him from the inside.
At 5:47 a.m., just before dawn, the sound of footsteps drew his attention.
He didn't move.
He heard the front door open. Close again.
She was leaving.
No goodbye. No message. No note.
But she had left him in her home.
And that meant more than any "good morning" ever could.
He rose once the sun slipped through the edge of the blackout curtains.
Folded the sheets back with exact care.
Fixed the glass of water he never drank.
Then walked into the living room.
Her presence still clung to the space.
Her scent. Her silence.
On the table was a single black envelope. Thin. Elegant. No name written on it.
He picked it up.
Inside was a blank card. And on the back—her handwriting.
Don't answer the door for anyone but me.
That was it.
No signature.
No explanation.
But it was enough to root him to the floor.
Because for the first time since loving her, she was keeping him.
He sat at her dining table with his lyric book open.
And began to write.
You didn't say my name.
You didn't look back.
But you let me breathe the air you live in.
And for a man like me—
That's the closest thing to heaven I'll ever touch.
He didn't know when she'd return.
He didn't ask.
All he knew was this—
He had been allowed to stay.
And that meant, perhaps for the first time—
She wasn't pushing him away.
Not completely.
Not yet.
And for now, that was more than enough.