Work Text:
The front door clicked open at 7:42 PM, later than usual. Ivan stepped inside, shoulders dropping the moment the familiar scent of garlic and sesame oil hit him. He kicked off his polished shoes with a soft sigh, loosening his tie as he padded into the living room.
“Till? I’m home,” he called, voice warm even though exhaustion tugged at the edges.
From the kitchen came the low clatter of a pan being set down. Till didn’t answer right away—he never did on the first call. Ivan smiled to himself, already knowing the routine. He hung his coat on the hook, the one Till had installed last spring after Ivan kept forgetting where he left it, and made his way toward the light spilling out from the kitchen.
Till stood at the counter, back turned, stirring something in a pot with slow, deliberate movements. His hair was a little messy from the steam, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the faint scar on his left forearm catching the warm overhead light. The table was already set for two: Ivan’s favorite porcelain bowl, the one with the tiny chip on the rim that Till refused to throw away, filled with perfectly steamed rice. Beside it, braised short ribs glistening in sauce, a small dish of kimchi, and spinach seasoned just the way Ivan liked it—light on the garlic.
Ivan’s chest did that familiar little flip. He crossed the room quietly and slipped his arms around Till’s waist from behind, pressing his cheek between his husband’s shoulder blades.
“You cooked my favorites again,” he murmured, voice muffled against the fabric of Till’s shirt. “Did you eat yet? I texted you at lunch but you only replied ‘yeah’ like always.”
Till grunted, not pulling away but not leaning into the hug either. “Obviously I ate. Someone has to keep the house from falling apart while you’re out there smiling at everyone.”
Ivan chuckled softly, the sound vibrating against Till’s back. He gave a gentle squeeze before letting go and moving to wash his hands at the sink. “I missed you today. The meeting ran long, and then Ji-hoon kept asking about the quarterly report. He’s nice, but he talks a lot when he’s nervous.”
Till’s stirring slowed for half a second. He didn’t turn around. “You always say people are nice.”
“Because they usually are,” Ivan said easily, drying his hands on the towel Till had left folded neatly on the counter. He glanced at his phone, the screen still showing the last text he’d sent that afternoon:
don’t forget to rest 🥺 I’ll try to come home early.
Till had replied twenty minutes later with a single period. Ivan smiled at it anyway.
They ate together at the table, the quiet broken only by the soft clink of chopsticks and Ivan’s occasional stories about his day. He told Till about the new intern who spilled coffee all over the conference notes and how he’d helped her reorganize everything without making her feel bad. Till listened, jaw tight, offering nothing more than occasional hums or a flat “mh.”
When Ivan reached across the table to refill Till’s water glass without being asked, Till’s fingers brushed his wrist for a moment longer than necessary. Ivan looked up, eyes soft. “You okay? You seem a little quiet tonight.”
“I’m always quiet,” Till muttered, pulling his hand back and focusing on his food.
Ivan tilted his head, that gentle smile never fading. “Yeah, but this is the extra-quiet kind. Did something happen with the laundry again? I know the dryer’s been acting up.”
Till shook his head once. “Laundry’s fine. Everything’s fine.”
But later that night, when they were in bed, Till pulled Ivan closer than usual. One arm draped heavy over Ivan’s waist, fingers splaying possessively across his stomach under the thin t-shirt. Ivan nestled back against him with a contented sigh, already half-asleep.
“Night, Till,” he whispered. “Love you.”
Till didn’t say it back out loud. He never did on nights like this. Instead, he pressed his face into the nape of Ivan’s neck and breathed in the faint trace of Ivan’s cologne mixed with the day’s stress. His hold tightened just a fraction.
The next morning started the same way it had for the past three years of their marriage. Ivan woke first, as always, slipping out of bed carefully so he wouldn’t disturb Till. He made coffee—black for Till, with just a splash of oat milk for himself—and left a little note on the counter:
Have a good day. I’ll text you at noon. Don’t forget to eat the leftovers 🥺
By the time Ivan was at his desk on the 12th floor, phone in hand, the first text was already sent.
Did you eat breakfast? The ribs from last night heat up really well.
Till’s reply came forty minutes later while Ivan was in the middle of a team huddle.
[yeah.]
Ivan smiled down at his screen, thumbs flying.
Miss you already. The office feels too bright without you grumbling in the background.
No reply for another hour. When it came, it was typical Till:
[stop texting me while working.]
Ivan laughed under his breath, earning a curious glance from the coworker across the aisle. He waved it off with that easy, warm smile he wore like a second skin. “Just my husband being cute.”
The days blurred a little after that. Projects expanded. Deadlines crept closer. Ivan stayed late twice that week, once for a client call that ran over and once because a junior team member had panicked over a presentation and Ivan had stayed to walk her through it step by step. Each time he came home, the house smelled like dinner waiting, lights dimmed just right, Till’s silhouette moving quietly through the rooms.
One Thursday, Ivan pushed open the door at 8:15, tie already half-undone, hair slightly mussed from running his hands through it during a long strategy session. He found Till on the couch, arms crossed, staring at the TV even though the volume was barely audible.
“I’m home,” Ivan said softly, toeing off his shoes. He crossed the room and dropped a kiss on the top of Till’s head before heading to the kitchen to wash up. “Sorry I’m late again. Mina needed help with the slides. She’s really trying her best, you know? I told her she did great.”
Till didn’t look away from the screen. “You always tell people they did great.”
Ivan paused, hands under the running water. He glanced back over his shoulder, expression open and concerned. “Because they usually do. Is that… bothering you?”
“No.”
But when Ivan sat down to eat, Till moved his chair a little closer than necessary. Their knees bumped under the table. Ivan didn’t comment on it, just leaned his shoulder against Till’s for a moment while he chewed, humming happily at the flavor of the stew.
“You’re the best cook,” Ivan murmured between bites. “I don’t know how you manage everything so perfectly while I’m gone all day.”
Till shrugged one shoulder, but his hand found Ivan’s thigh under the table and stayed there, thumb rubbing slow circles through the fabric of his slacks. Ivan covered that hand with his own, squeezing gently.
The imbalance grew so gradually that Ivan barely noticed. His texts kept coming—sweet, consistent, full of little hearts and worried questions about whether Till had rested or taken a walk or remembered to water the plants on the balcony. Till’s replies stayed short, sometimes hours apart, but the fridge was always stocked with Ivan’s favorites, the laundry folded with military precision, and the bed made with the exact number of pillows Ivan liked.
At work, people gravitated toward Ivan. It was natural. He listened when someone vented about their commute, offered quiet advice when a colleague was stuck on a report, and never made anyone feel small for asking questions. During lunch breaks, a small group often gathered around his desk, laughing at his gentle jokes or thanking him for staying late to help.
“You’re seriously the nicest person here, Ivan,” one of the account managers said one afternoon, leaning against his cubicle wall with a grateful smile. “I don’t know what we’d do without you.”
Ivan laughed softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m just doing my part. We’re all in this together, right?”
Till heard about it indirectly a few nights later.
Ivan had come home earlier than usual, cheeks still flushed from the walk from the station, and was recounting the day while changing out of his work clothes in the bedroom. “—and then Mr. Park pulled me aside after the meeting and said the team really relies on my coordination skills. It felt nice, you know? Like I’m actually contributing.”
Till was folding one of Ivan’s dress shirts at the foot of the bed. His hands stilled. “Contributing,” he repeated flatly.
“Yeah.” Ivan pulled on a soft hoodie, the oversized one that used to be Till’s before Ivan claimed it. He smiled as he tugged the sleeves over his hands. “Everyone’s been so supportive lately. It makes the long hours worth it.”
Till said nothing. He finished folding the shirt and placed it in the drawer with more force than necessary. When Ivan crawled into bed that night and curled against his side like always, Till didn’t push him away. But his arm around Ivan’s shoulders felt heavier, more deliberate.
The following week brought more of the same. Ivan’s phone buzzed constantly with work messages even after he got home. He answered them with the same patient tone he used for everything, typing replies while leaning against Till on the couch. Till’s jaw tightened every time Ivan’s screen lit up with another name—Ji-hoon, Mina, Mr. Park.
One evening, Ivan was on a quick call in the living room, voice gentle as he reassured a panicked coworker. “Hey, it’s okay. We can fix this tomorrow. You’re not alone in this, alright? Get some rest tonight.”
When he hung up, he turned to Till with that bright, tired smile. “Sorry about that. She was really stressed.”
Till was standing by the window, arms crossed, staring out at the city lights. He didn’t turn around. “You talk to them like that all the time.”
“Like what?” Ivan asked, setting his phone down and walking over. He slipped his arms around Till from behind again, resting his chin on Till’s shoulder. “Like a normal person?”
“Like they’re the only ones who matter.”
Ivan blinked, pulling back slightly to look at him. “Till… that’s not true. You matter most. You know that.”
Till’s shoulders tensed under Ivan’s hands. He didn’t say anything else, just reached back to grip Ivan’s wrist lightly, holding him in place for a long moment before letting go.
The touches at home grew more frequent, almost insistent. When Ivan tried to help with the dishes after dinner, Till would crowd him against the counter, taking the sponge from his hands with a gruff “I’ve got it.” His body stayed close, chest brushing Ivan’s back as he worked. Ivan would lean into it happily, tilting his head to press a kiss to Till’s jaw.
“You’re clingy tonight,” Ivan teased softly, eyes crinkling with affection.
“Shut up,” Till muttered, but he didn’t step away. If anything, he pressed closer, one hand settling on Ivan’s hip and staying there until the last plate was dried.
Ivan never questioned it. He just soaked up the attention, melting a little more each time Till’s quiet possessiveness showed itself in the way he pulled Ivan onto his lap on the couch without warning, or the way he’d tug Ivan back to bed in the mornings for five extra minutes of silence, face buried in Ivan’s hair.
But the distance was there, subtle and growing. Ivan’s laughter at work came easier because he was surrounded by people who needed his warmth. At home, he was still soft, still affectionate, but sometimes his eyes would drift to his phone mid-conversation, or he’d stifle a yawn while telling Till about his day.
Till noticed every single time.
One Friday, Ivan walked through the door at nearly nine o’clock, suit jacket slung over one arm, hair falling into his eyes. He was smiling, though—always smiling.
“Till, you’re still up?” he said brightly, dropping his things by the door. “I brought those pastries you like from the café near the office. The ones with the red bean filling. Ji-hoon recommended them and I thought—”
He stopped when he saw Till sitting at the dining table, arms crossed tightly over his chest, the remnants of dinner cleared away hours ago. The lights were low. The TV was off. Till’s expression was unreadable, but his shoulders were rigid.
Ivan’s smile faltered for the first time in weeks. He stepped closer, concern softening his features. “Till… are you upset?”
Till didn’t answer right away. He stared at the table for a long beat, then stood up slowly, the chair scraping against the floor. He moved into Ivan’s space without hesitation, close enough that Ivan had to tilt his head back slightly to meet his eyes.
“You’re always like that now,” Till said, voice low and rough around the edges.
Ivan’s brow furrowed gently. “Like what?”
“Smiling at everyone. Helping everyone. Letting them take pieces of your time like it’s nothing.” Till’s hand came up, not rough, but firm, fingers curling around the fabric of Ivan’s shirt at his waist. “You forget you’re mine too.”
The words landed quietly, without heat or accusation. Just truth, heavy and honest.
Ivan went still. The cheerful energy drained from his face in an instant, replaced by something softer, more vulnerable. His lips parted, but no sound came out at first. He searched Till’s face, really looked, and saw the quiet tension that had been building for weeks—the way Till’s eyes lingered on him a little too long, the way his touches had grown more insistent, the short replies that hid everything he wasn’t saying.
“Oh,” Ivan whispered. Understanding clicked into place, gentle and immediate. “Till…”
He didn’t pull away. Instead, he stepped even closer, one hand coming up to rest lightly against Till’s chest, feeling the steady, slightly faster beat beneath his palm. His other hand found the sleeve of Till’s shirt and curled into it, holding on with that familiar, careful gentleness.
“I’m sorry,” Ivan said, voice barely above a whisper, full of genuine regret. “I didn’t mean to make you feel far away. I thought… I was just trying to be helpful. But I should’ve noticed how much time I was giving away.”
Till’s jaw worked. He looked like he wanted to say more, to push back with something grumpy and deflecting, but the fight wasn’t there. Not really. His hand on Ivan’s waist tightened, then relaxed, thumb brushing over the spot where Ivan’s shirt had ridden up slightly.
“You talk too much at work,” he muttered finally, the words lacking their usual bite.
Ivan’s mouth curved into a small, tired smile. He leaned his forehead against Till’s shoulder, breathing him in. “I’ll talk less then. I promise.”
“Don’t be stupid,” Till grumbled, but his free arm came up anyway, wrapping around Ivan’s back and pulling him flush against his body. The hug was tight, almost reluctant in its intensity, like Till was annoyed at himself for needing it so badly.
Ivan didn’t let go. He stayed there, arms sliding fully around Till’s middle, face tucked into the crook of his neck. His body relaxed completely, all the residual tension from the long day melting away in the solid warmth of his husband.
They stood like that for a long time, the apartment quiet except for the faint hum of the refrigerator and their breathing slowly syncing up.
Eventually, Ivan shifted just enough to press a soft kiss to the side of Till’s neck. “I love coming home to you. More than anything. You’re my favorite part of every day, even when I’m late and tired and distracted.”
Till sighed, the sound long and heavy, like he was giving in against his will. His hand rubbed up and down Ivan’s spine in slow, grounding strokes. “Don’t get used to this,” he said, voice gruff and low.
Ivan huffed a quiet laugh against his skin, the sound warm and fond. He nuzzled closer, one leg slipping between Till’s as if he could melt right into him. “Too late.”
Till didn’t argue. He just held on tighter, chin resting on top of Ivan’s head, the jealousy and quiet frustration easing into something steadier—protective, grounding, undeniably theirs.
The next morning, Ivan’s first text from the office was shorter than usual.
Thinking about you. Coming home on time tonight. Can’t wait to see you.
Till read it while standing at the kitchen counter, coffee in hand. He stared at the screen for a long moment, thumb hovering. Then he typed back, slow and deliberate.
[Good. Dinner will be ready.]
He paused, then added one more word before hitting send.
[…miss you too.]
It wasn’t much. But for Till, it was everything.
And Ivan, sitting at his desk with his phone in his lap, smiled so softly that the coworker passing by paused to ask if everything was okay.
“Everything’s perfect,” Ivan said, eyes crinkling with quiet happiness. He slipped his phone away and turned back to his work, lighter than he’d felt in weeks.
He had someone waiting at home who needed his warmth just as much as everyone else did—maybe more. And this time, he wouldn’t forget it.
The days that followed settled into a new kind of rhythm. Ivan still smiled at work, still helped where he could, but he started setting firmer boundaries with his time. Meetings wrapped up closer to schedule. He left his phone on silent during dinner. When coworkers asked for extra help after hours, he offered to handle it first thing the next morning instead.
At home, he made sure to initiate the closeness Till seemed to crave but would never ask for outright. He’d crawl into Till’s lap while they watched TV, resting his head on his chest and letting Till’s hand settle in his hair. He’d linger in the kitchen after dinner, hips bumping as they cleaned up together, stealing kisses between stacking plates.
Till remained grumpy on the surface—complaining when Ivan talked too long on a work call, rolling his eyes when Ivan left another sappy note on the counter—but his actions told a different story. He started packing Ivan’s lunch with little notes of his own, scribbled in his messy handwriting:
[eat all of it or don’t stay late again.]
He waited up every night, even when Ivan was only ten minutes late. And when they went to bed, his hold was steady, warm, and no longer hiding how much he needed Ivan close.
One quiet Sunday afternoon, they were on the balcony together. Ivan leaned against the railing, Till standing right behind him with arms looped loosely around his waist. The city stretched out below them, busy and loud, but up here it felt distant.
Ivan tilted his head back against Till’s shoulder. “You know I’m yours, right? Not just when I’m home. All the time.”
Till was quiet for a moment, chin resting on Ivan’s hair. Then he pressed a rare, lingering kiss to the top of his head.
“Yeah,” he said gruffly. “I know.”
But his arms tightened anyway, just a little, as if to make sure.
Ivan smiled, eyes closing against the late afternoon sun. He was exactly where he belonged—soft, open, and fully present for the man who had built their home with quiet, stubborn love.
And Till, for all his grumbling and short replies, held him like he’d never let go.