Chapter Text
The elevator chimed softly, too polite to feel welcoming.
Jihoon stepped out onto the tenth floor, one hand still adjusting the silver cufflink at his wrist, the other gripping the slim leather portfolio he’d carried through three continents and a master's degree. He paused just outside the lift, his polished shoes clicking lightly against the matte black flooring, gaze sweeping across the unfamiliar office space that felt more like a showroom than somewhere people worked.
It was quiet. Not the productive hum of keystrokes and murmured calls he was used to—this silence was deliberate, carved into the bones of the place like an unspoken rule. Everything gleamed: steel accents, glass panels, furniture in shades of charcoal and ash. Even the air smelled disciplined, like filtered cold brew and faint antiseptic.
He drew a steady breath and adjusted his tie.
First day. First impression. Don't screw this up.
The receptionist downstairs had wished him luck with a tight smile when she saw the name of the department he’d been assigned to—Director Lee Sanghyeok. Her voice had dropped slightly, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. Jihoon hadn’t asked. He didn’t need the warning. He’d heard plenty from the polite but insistent whispers on internal message boards and company gossip threads. No one ever had anything bad to say about Director Lee, but that was the problem. There was never anything to say at all.
Jihoon walked slowly through the department entrance, noting the way heads turned at his arrival—some quick, some lingering—but none acknowledged him aloud. He wasn’t surprised. At 185 centimetres, broad-shouldered and sharply dressed, he was used to standing out, especially on his first day. But here, the glances weren’t admiring. They were wary. Evaluating.
He passed by a glass partition and caught his own reflection—tall frame, suit tailored to skim the line of his back and taper at the waist, dark hair swept cleanly back from his forehead. Everything was in place. The image held for a second, then blurred as a figure appeared behind him in the glass.
Jihoon turned.
Standing near the corner office, half-shadowed by soft daylight bleeding through the blinds, was a man dressed in deep navy—not black, Jihoon noticed distantly, but something colder, sharper, like ink left too long on a steel tip. His suit was tailored to the point of severity, crisp lines framing a lean silhouette. He held a file folder in one hand, the other tucked in his pocket, unmoving. Round glasses rested on the bridge of his nose, eyes scanning the document in silence.
Lee Sanghyeok.
He didn’t look up as Jihoon approached. He didn’t need to. The weight of his presence was already tangible—a calm so still it unnerved. Jihoon felt, for a moment, like he’d entered a library in the middle of a thunderstorm and no one had warned him he was soaked.
“Jeong Jihoon-ssi?”
The voice was soft. Clear. Low enough to make Jihoon straighten.
“Yes, sir.” He stepped forward, extending a hand. “It’s an honour to join your department.”
Sanghyeok’s eyes finally lifted—dark, unblinking, framed by the glare of glass—and met his without expression. He accepted the handshake with a light, indifferent grip, then let go before Jihoon could gauge the temperature of his skin.
“We’ll keep the orientation brief,” Sanghyeok said. “Follow me.”
Sanghyeok turned without another word, the hem of his navy suit jacket brushing lightly behind him as he walked. Jihoon followed, adjusting his pace instinctively to match.
The department stretched in sleek rows of cubicles, minimal and immaculate. No personal trinkets on desks. No framed family photos. Only perfectly stacked files, standard-issue mugs, and the quiet tapping of keyboards. It felt less like an office and more like a surgical floor.
“He doesn’t talk much, does he?” Jihoon had overheard someone say during the welcome orientation. “But he knows everything. Sees everything. It’s unsettling.”
Now, walking two steps behind him, Jihoon understood. Sanghyeok didn’t speak because he didn’t need to. His silence was full. Intentional. Not cold—just self-contained.
He pointed briefly to the meeting rooms, the shared printer area, and the small corner kitchenette without slowing his stride. “Meetings begin at ten sharp each day unless otherwise notified. Weekly performance reviews are on Wednesdays. We submit department reports on Fridays before five. If you have questions, you may email or ask directly. I prefer clarity.”
“Understood,” Jihoon said, noting how quiet his own voice sounded beside Sanghyeok’s.
They reached the far corner of the floor—a quieter section flanked by glass panels. A pristine, L-shaped desk waited beneath a frosted hanging lamp. Jihoon’s name was already tagged on the side in polished silver letters.
“This is yours,” Sanghyeok said. “You’ll be working closely with me on mid-quarter planning. Mr. Ryu from Finance will send you the previous cycle’s reports. Use them for modelling.”
Jihoon nodded again, setting his portfolio down. He was aware of how much taller he stood next to Sanghyeok—aware of the way his presence seemed to take up more space in a room designed for people who whispered, not filled silence.
Then, unexpectedly, Sanghyeok stepped forward and reached past him—adjusting a document tray that had been placed crooked on the desk.
Jihoon caught a faint whiff of something—not cologne, but something cleaner. Warm. Like laundry dried in winter air.
“There,” Sanghyeok murmured. His hand brushed the edge of Jihoon’s sleeve. The contact was brief—barely a whisper—but Jihoon still felt it when Sanghyeok turned away.
“I’ll return after I finish reviewing the 9:30 agenda. Until then, familiarise yourself.”
“Yes, sir.”
But Sanghyeok didn’t respond. He walked away without turning back, leaving Jihoon standing alone beside a desk that somehow felt colder now than it had a minute ago.
-
The day settled into a rhythm that Jihoon recognised but didn’t quite fit into. The clicks of keyboards, the low drone of printers, the muffled conversations behind frosted glass—it was all too polished, too quiet, like everyone was trying not to leave fingerprints on the surface of something fragile.
He spent the next hour acclimating to the internal systems, reviewing files from the previous fiscal quarter, and making notes on team structures. Everything was efficient. Too efficient. The documents were cleanly labelled, the digital filing system flawless, and even the internal notes in shared drives were brief, neutral, and devoid of any personality.
There were no typos. No exclamation marks. No unnecessary flourishes.
It was the most unnervingly perfect documentation Jihoon had ever seen.
At precisely ten thirty, someone appeared beside his desk with two mugs of coffee. Jihoon glanced up, surprised. A petite guy—shorter than him by a full head—grinned down with bright eyes and rosy cheeks, one cup already held out in offering.
“New guy looked too shy to ask where the machine is,” he said cheerfully. “Figured I’d save you the trouble.”
Jihoon accepted it, a smile tugging at his lips. “You figured right.”
“Ryu Minseok. Business strategy. I sit behind that divider.” He gestured toward the cubicle behind him and took a sip from his own cup. “You’re the transfer from the US team, yeah? Everyone’s been talking.”
“Just here for the rotation,” Jihoon replied easily. “Happy to be part of it.”
“Cool,” Minseok chirped, then leaned in slightly with playful curiosity. “You got placed under Director Lee, huh? That’s rare. He usually keeps his team tight. Guess you made a good impression.”
“Should I be flattered or worried?”
Minseok laughed. “A bit of both, maybe. Don’t get me wrong—he’s not scary or anything. Doesn’t scold, doesn’t hover. But still, you’ll feel it. Like he knows everything, even if he never says much.”
Jihoon took a measured sip of his coffee, amused. “Sounds intense.”
Minseok tilted his head thoughtfully. “It’s not intense, exactly. Just… mysterious. The guy’s like a ghost with perfect posture.”
Jihoon huffed a quiet laugh. “Is that the company consensus?”
“Well,” Minseok said, dropping his voice just a notch. “There’s also the stuff people whisper about. How he got promoted so young. Twenty-nine, Managing Director? You know how offices are. People can’t help speculating.”
Jihoon’s brow furrowed. “Speculating about what?”
Minseok grimaced. “Ah—nothing solid. Just… you know. Stupid rumours. Like maybe he… earned it some other way.”
Jihoon’s expression darkened, not out of shock but quiet irritation. “He doesn’t seem like someone who plays those kinds of games.”
“Exactly!” Minseok said quickly. “He doesn’t flirt, doesn’t schmooze, doesn’t even go out for dinner with execs. That’s why it doesn’t make sense.”
Another employee passed behind them. Minseok straightened reflexively, then offered a wink and a quick change of tone.
“Anyway, don’t mind the gossip. Just focus on surviving the week first. After that, you’ll be one of us.”
He raised his mug in salute and disappeared around the divider, leaving Jihoon oddly warmed.
Jihoon sat still for a long moment.
He wasn’t sure what bothered him more—the way Minseok had whispered, or the way he wasn’t the first person today to hint at something strange.
He wasn’t easily swayed by gossip, but now that the seed was planted, it began to grow in the corners of his thoughts. How Director Lee had barely looked at him when they shook hands. How his voice had stayed perfectly level even in private. How clean and refined his movements were—like he never wasted a single ounce of energy on anything unnecessary.
Jihoon glanced across the open space toward Sanghyeok’s office. The blinds were only half-drawn, slats revealing a sliver of the interior. He could make out the figure of the man seated at his desk, head down, fingers moving steadily over the keyboard.
He was still. Too still.
As if he had no need to shift or stretch like the rest of them. As if his body had learned how to exist efficiently, without indulgence.
Jihoon didn’t know what kind of man he was yet.
But he was starting to want to find out.
He didn’t mean to watch.
Not really.
But once you noticed someone like Lee Sanghyeok, it became difficult to look away. Not because he did anything noticeable—but precisely because he didn’t.
Jihoon found himself glancing toward that glass-walled office more often than necessary. Once when he refreshed the company intranet. Another time when reaching for a pen. It was never more than a flicker of movement—a hand lifting a cup, the subtle motion of fingers tapping the desk in thought—but it became a rhythm he unconsciously followed.
Sanghyeok barely left his desk. When he did, it was always with intent—he walked like someone who had no time for detours. His steps were quiet. Not soft, but measured. Clean.
Jihoon caught the door to the break room open once and glimpsed Sanghyeok from the side, sleeves rolled just past his wrists, pouring coffee with steady hands. No sugar. No milk. The kind of black that people drank because they needed it, not because they enjoyed it.
He spoke to no one. He didn’t even glance at the others waiting behind him. When the cup was full, he left. Not coldly. Not rudely. Just… as if conversation were something he didn’t register.
And yet, people noticed him.
Even when he wasn’t looking, eyes followed him. Some with interest. Some with something closer to awe. And others, with suspicion.
Jihoon wasn’t sure what he thought yet.
He didn’t like gossip. He especially didn’t like the way people softened their voices when talking about men like Sanghyeok—men who didn’t explain themselves. Men who didn’t bother proving that they belonged. That silence made people nervous. It made them cruel.
He passed two junior employees talking in hushed tones by the vending machine. He hadn’t slowed, hadn’t even looked at them, but their voices carried just enough to reach.
“…No way he got to Director that fast without spreading his legs for someone.”
“You’re awful.”
“What? Tell me I’m wrong. He’s too cold to even flirt properly. It’s always the quiet ones.”
Their laughter fizzled behind him, muted by distance—but the words stayed. They clung like static, soft and cloying, the kind of gossip that felt too rehearsed to be harmless.
Jihoon didn’t stop walking. Didn’t even twitch. But something in his jaw tightened.
But part of Jihoon still couldn’t help wondering.
Was the rumour about sleeping his way up just office rot?
Or was there something underneath that calm exterior, some hidden sharpness, something that people sensed and couldn’t name?
He caught a moment late in the afternoon—Sanghyeok was reviewing reports with another manager through the glass wall, speaking quietly but firmly. At one point, he raised his hand, pushed his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose with a single finger, then returned to pointing at the screen.
That motion. That ease. Jihoon felt it somewhere in his chest, like a string being tugged faintly.
There was nothing overtly seductive about it. And yet.
Something about Sanghyeok was elegant in a way Jihoon didn’t know how to categorise. He wasn’t flirtatious. Wasn’t dramatic. Wasn’t warm.
But he was... precise.
Like everything about him was calibrated—his voice, his expressions, even his distance from others. And Jihoon, without meaning to, was now trying to map out the pattern.
-
The first real mistake came just before sunset.
The sky outside the tenth-floor windows was already deepening into gold, casting long shadows through the open-plan office, softening the sharp lines of monitors and blinds. Most of the department had thinned out, colleagues gathering their bags with murmured goodbyes, chairs squeaking faintly as people stretched their backs after a long day. Jihoon stayed seated, eyes fixed on his spreadsheet, trying to make the projected numbers behave.
Something was wrong.
The totals didn’t match the sample report from the previous cycle, and the difference wasn’t small. His fingers moved faster now, tabbing between sheets, scanning formulas. He’d copied the template. He’d even double-checked the headers.
Why the hell was the variance over 2.3 percent?
He rubbed the back of his neck. The office air felt cooler now that the sun had dropped. His blazer hung off the back of his chair, sleeves rolled to his forearms, collar loosened just slightly—not for comfort, but tension. His first day on the job and he was already sweating over one document. Perfect.
A soft click sounded behind him. Jihoon didn’t turn.
“You copied from the wrong row.”
The voice came like a drop of cold water in stillness. Low. Calm.
Jihoon froze.
He looked over his shoulder.
Sanghyeok stood beside him—no suit jacket now, just a pressed white dress shirt tucked perfectly at the waist, sleeves buttoned at the wrist, a slim silver pen in one hand. His glasses caught the fading light, casting a faint reflection that veiled his eyes.
Jihoon sat up straighter. “Ah... you saw it.”
“I reviewed the copy from the shared drive,” Sanghyeok replied, stepping closer. “Column totals flagged it. You were referencing E when the baseline begins in D.”
Jihoon glanced at the screen, heart doing something inconvenient in his chest. “I thought I checked everything.”
“You did. But not the source.”
There was no irritation in his tone. No condescension.
Just precision.
Jihoon hesitated. “I can fix it.”
“I’ll show you.”
Sanghyeok didn’t wait for permission.
He moved around the chair with quiet ease, his left hand resting briefly on the back of Jihoon’s seat as he leaned forward. Jihoon felt the warmth of him before anything else—the shift in the air, the scent of fabric softened by subtle soap and something darker, less nameable. His breath stilled.
Their arms didn’t quite touch. But only just.
Sanghyeok reached past him, long fingers adjusting the cursor with fluid, minimal effort. “Drag from D5 downward. That replicates the correct weighting.”
Jihoon didn’t respond.
He couldn’t.
The proximity was sudden, too intimate for the coldness he’d been told to expect. There was no aggression in Sanghyeok’s nearness, no dominance—only stillness. Like standing at the edge of a frozen lake and realising, too late, the ice is thinner than it looks.
He risked a glance at the side of Sanghyeok’s face—jaw clean-shaven, skin pale under the light, black hair falling softly near his temple. From here, Jihoon could see the shape of his mouth, the way it tensed slightly as he concentrated. The top button of his shirt was closed, the knot of his tie loosened only slightly from the collar.
Effortless. Controlled. Not indifferent—just composed.
And Jihoon hated the way he noticed.
Sanghyeok adjusted the formula with a few swift keystrokes, checked the revised total, and tapped the enter key with a finality that seemed to clear the air between them. The correction was neat, exact—just like him. He didn’t say anything immediately, only hovered for a second longer, eyes scanning the cells as if there might still be something else to fix.
Jihoon, still seated, felt his fingers curl against the edge of the desk as the warmth of the man beside him slowly receded, as if someone had turned down the heat just a notch. It was ridiculous how aware he’d become of the silence, of every breath, of the way Sanghyeok never once looked at him directly while leaning that close.
“You could have emailed me about it,” Jihoon said, trying for casual, though his voice came out lower than he intended.
“I was already walking by,” Sanghyeok replied without turning, still glancing over the report as he stepped back. “And you looked frustrated.”
Jihoon glanced away, his lips tugging faintly. “Is it that obvious?”
“Only to someone paying attention.”
There was no playfulness in his tone. No warmth. But it didn’t feel cold, either—just matter-of-fact, like it wasn’t a compliment, but a simple truth that didn’t need sugar-coating. Jihoon’s gaze shifted back to him, noting how easily he slipped into that quiet authority again, his posture straight, chin lifted just slightly, as if the room naturally formed around him rather than the other way around.
He stood now with one hand in his pocket, the other adjusting his glasses with a slow, habitual motion, and Jihoon found his eyes lingering longer than they should on the curve of his wrist, on the subtle elegance that felt both intentional and not. He shouldn’t have looked, but he did, and when he realised it, he felt it in his throat.
“You’re not what I expected,” he said, before he could filter the thought.
Sanghyeok’s fingers paused on the edge of his frame. “What did you expect?”
Jihoon leaned back in his chair, folding his arms lightly. “Something colder.”
For a moment, there was nothing—just the sound of a distant copier and the soft drone of city traffic humming through the windows. Then, Sanghyeok’s lips curved, but it wasn’t a smile in the traditional sense. It didn’t reach his eyes, didn’t lift his face. It was more like the faintest twitch of dry amusement, almost imperceptible beneath the weight of his composure.
“Cold is efficient,” he murmured, and this time, his eyes did meet Jihoon’s for a fraction too long. “But unnecessary.”
Jihoon felt the words land somewhere deeper than they should have, like they weren’t just about office habits but something far less professional. Something he shouldn’t be thinking about on his first day, from a man who had barely said two full sentences to him until now.
Sanghyeok turned and walked away without waiting for a reply. No further explanation. No trace of awkwardness. Just that same unshakable calm, that smooth return to distance, as though none of it had been strange at all.
Jihoon exhaled slowly once the glass door closed behind him, fingers moving back to the mouse even though he wasn’t looking at the screen. The corrected spreadsheet blinked back at him, quiet and perfect and somehow more irritating than the mistake had ever been.
He didn’t understand him.
And the part that disturbed him most was—he wanted to.
-
By the third day, Jihoon realised no one ever stayed as late as Director Lee unless they absolutely had to.
It wasn’t a rule—just an unspoken understanding. Most staff filtered out promptly by seven, their footsteps hushed as they slipped into elevators, voices returning only once the doors had closed. The floor would grow quiet, lights dimmed automatically for energy-saving, the cityscape beyond the windows bleeding into richer, deeper shades of dusk. The air cooled, and the ever-efficient hum of the department softened into something almost meditative.
Jihoon remained seated.
He wasn’t stalling. Not exactly. But the work was demanding, and he was still learning the department’s rhythm—he told himself that was reason enough to stay. Truthfully, though, he wasn’t used to having to work to prove himself. Back in the States, people took one look at his academic record, his name, and rarely asked for more. But here, none of that meant anything. That should’ve made him uneasy. Strangely, it didn’t. It made him… curious. Grounded. And a little wired.
Especially around one particular presence.
It was easier to observe Sanghyeok when fewer people were around. In the quiet, there were fewer distractions, fewer moving parts. Jihoon could simply exist in his corner desk, finishing documents while half-watching the blurred shape moving in the other glass box across the floor.
Sometimes Sanghyeok would pause at his own desk, deep in a report, glasses slipping a little down the bridge of his nose as he leaned closer to the screen. Other times, he’d step away entirely and disappear into the kitchenette for a cup of coffee, returning with no sign of fatigue, no stretch of the neck or loosened collar to suggest even a hint of strain.
He worked like a machine. But not in the lifeless sense.
No—Sanghyeok was alive in a way Jihoon hadn’t expected. He was just… disciplined. His movements were clean, his posture always precise. His expression never quite blank, just restrained. There were flickers, though, that Jihoon noticed only in these quiet hours—small gestures that made him feel as if he were seeing something private.
Like the way Sanghyeok reached for his pen when thinking, spinning it slowly between his fingers. Or how he sometimes tapped his thumb twice against the desk before signing a document, as if grounding himself. Little rituals that had nothing to do with efficiency and everything to do with habit.
They fascinated Jihoon more than they should have.
He told himself it was professional admiration. Curiosity. Wanting to understand his manager better, the same way he would try to understand any superior worth respecting.
And yet, when the glass walls reflected Sanghyeok’s profile under low light—sharp jawline outlined by city glow, shoulders straight even in stillness, the faint outline of a vein beneath the skin of his hand as he lifted his cup—Jihoon’s gaze always lingered a second too long.
He hadn’t yet decided what that meant.
-
The tenth floor was hushed in a way that no other time of day could replicate. With most of the department gone and the soft ambient lighting dimmed for the evening, the space felt suspended in a quiet somewhere between work and sleep. Jihoon remained seated at his desk, shoulders slightly slouched, his eyes half-lidded as the gentle hum of the city filtered through the glass beyond the windows. His screen glowed with untouched files, but the cursor had long since stilled.
He should have left when he finished his last report, should have packed up and joined the others in that subtle exodus that happened around seven, but something about the silence kept him there. It wasn’t just the unfinished document or the excuse of reviewing tomorrow’s briefing slides—he had already done more than enough. The reason he stayed wasn’t entirely rational. It felt, instead, like he was waiting for something, though he wouldn’t have been able to name what.
His gaze drifted lazily toward the corridor, eyes catching movement only when the quiet of the office shifted ever so slightly. A shadow passed beyond the frosted partition, its familiar shape breaking the stillness like a ripple across glass.
Sanghyeok.
Jihoon recognised the way he moved before he registered the rest—the deliberate steps, the neat silhouette, coat draped over one arm, tie loosened just enough to hint at the end of a long day. His expression remained unreadable, gaze forward, shoulders straight, each motion composed as always.
There was something oddly graceful about the way Sanghyeok existed in silence. He didn’t rush, didn’t fidget, didn’t glance around like most people did when they thought they were alone. His movements felt deliberate, but not in the way of someone trying to be seen. It was more like he had simply grown into that restraint, made a home of it.
Jihoon watched as he approached the elevators, his own reflection faintly caught in the corner glass of his monitor, overlapping for a second with Sanghyeok’s form at the far end of the hall. The elevator light blinked softly overhead. Sanghyeok reached forward to press the button, then stepped back, waiting in silence, his profile outlined by the soft corridor light.
Just as the doors opened, he shifted.
Not dramatically. Not even fully.
He merely turned his head, just enough that Jihoon could see the outline of his face from across the floor. And for a fleeting moment—just long enough to register—their eyes met through the glass.
There was no smile. No reaction. Nothing that could be called a greeting. But the glance was steady, quiet, and far too measured to be accidental.
Then the elevator opened. He stepped inside without pause, and the doors slid closed between them, seamless and soundless.
Jihoon didn’t move. He sat there, still in the soft blue glow of his idle screen, heart slow and heavy with something he didn’t fully understand. That look had lasted barely a second, maybe less. But it hadn’t felt careless.
It had felt intentional.
Jihoon remained seated long after the elevator doors closed, after the quiet hum of machinery faded into the deepening silence of the floor. His screen still glowed faintly beside him, untouched for minutes now, but he made no move to shut it down. Outside, the city pulsed in gold and violet, the lights of distant office towers blinking through the dark like slow, patient signals.
He leaned back slowly in his chair, eyes drifting upward to the ceiling. The muscles in his shoulders had relaxed, though he wasn’t sure when. Something about the quiet made his skin feel thinner. As though the air itself had been pulled taut between where he sat and where Director Lee had last stood.
He’d been looked at before—too often, in fact. Jihoon was used to attention, the kind that clung to him for his height, his face, the way a well-fitted suit draped easily across his frame. Most people stared without shame or subtlety. It meant nothing to him.
But that look—if it could even be called that—carried no admiration. No curiosity. No provocation. Just a moment of stillness, like someone reading a line too carefully.
And yet, it stayed.
Jihoon reached for his mug, took a sip without tasting anything, and exhaled through his nose, quiet and steady.
Maybe it was nothing.
Maybe it meant less than he was making it mean.
But when he finally gathered his things and stood to leave, the thought still lingered in the space he left behind—that there was something in the way Director Lee had looked at him, something so brief and composed, it had slipped beneath Jihoon's skin before he even knew it was there.
A quiet rustle of fabric stirred the air beside him.
Jihoon turned just in time to see Minseok passing by, a messenger bag slung across one shoulder, his usual boyish grin softened by the lull of the late afternoon.
“Hey,” Minseok said, slowing to a step. “How’s your third day been? Still alive?”
Jihoon let out a faint laugh, adjusting the strap on his own bag. “Barely,” he said, then after a pause, added more honestly, “It’s been… good. Actually. Better than I expected.”
Minseok raised his brows, clearly surprised in a pleased way.
Jihoon glanced around them. Most of the floor had already started to empty—monitors darkened, jackets gone from chair backs, the distant clink of the vending machine the only real sound left.
“I think the rumours are bullshit,” Jihoon said, voice lower now. “About how he supposedly slept his way up. He’s not that kind of person. Director Lee’s just… sharp. Focused. Works harder than anyone I’ve seen. That’s probably why he got promoted so fast in a place like this.”
Minseok’s grin curved into something gentler, more thoughtful. “Yeah,” he said. “People see someone that young get that far, they don’t always handle it well. Jealousy turns into stories.”
Jihoon nodded, lips pursed slightly.
Minseok bumped his shoulder lightly as he stepped past. “Anyway, work’s over. Go breathe or something. First-day survival unlocked.”
And with that, he disappeared down the corridor, whistling under his breath, leaving Jihoon alone again in the dimming office light—still wondering why a single glance from a man who barely spoke could feel so difficult to forget.
-
The office looked no different the next morning, but something about it felt heavier.
Jihoon stepped into the tenth floor just after eight, early enough to find the hallway still echoing with emptiness, desks unoccupied save for the few early birds who shuffled papers and sipped black coffee while their monitors booted. He greeted the receptionist quietly as he passed—though she didn’t lift her eyes—and made his way to his corner without bothering with the break room.
He hadn’t slept particularly well.
It wasn’t that anything had happened the night before. It wasn’t even a look, not really. But something in the way Sanghyeok had turned his head—just slightly, just enough to find him through the pane of glass—had carved itself into Jihoon’s mind like a wrinkle he couldn’t smooth. The moment hadn’t lasted long enough to mean anything, yet it hadn’t disappeared either. And if he was honest with himself—which he only sometimes was—he’d arrived early not out of responsibility, but restlessness.
The soft click of his keyboard was the only sound for several minutes. He worked through a few flagged documents, pulled up a vendor contact sheet from the shared drive, and began reviewing the updated supplier directory. Everything was fine. Routine. Simple enough to drown out whatever strange static had settled behind his ribs.
It wasn’t until half past nine, just as the office filled with footsteps and greetings and chair wheels rolling into place, that things began to shift.
He had just stood up to return a file to the shared cabinet when a voice caught him from behind.
“Jeong Jihoon-ssi,” came a sharp, dry tone. “You’re just getting in now?”
Jihoon turned instinctively. Mr. Yoon.
He recognised him from a department-wide sync meeting—a senior project manager, mid-forties, sharp-jawed and tight-lipped, the kind of man who spoke more through his silences than his words. Not someone Jihoon worked with directly, but he had that air of ownership about him, as though the tenth floor were his domain and everyone else was just temporarily borrowing oxygen.
“I’ve been here since eight,” Jihoon replied evenly, though the directness of the comment surprised him. “Was working on the supplier update.”
Mr. Yoon arched a brow, as if the words themselves were suspect.
“Ah. Must’ve missed you. Or maybe you were blending in too well.” He let out a small breath that might have been a laugh, though it held no humour. “That’d be a first.”
Jihoon didn’t answer.
He turned to return the file and had just placed it into the drawer when Mr. Yoon appeared beside him again, this time holding a folder in one hand.
“You submitted the vendor reference sheet already?”
Jihoon glanced at the screen. “Yes. I uploaded it to the shared folder a few minutes ago.”
“Based on what format?”
“Last quarter’s. It was the most recent version in the drive.”
Mr. Yoon’s mouth thinned, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “And no one told you it had changed?”
“No,” Jihoon replied evenly. “I reviewed everything in the onboarding package. There was no update noted.”
“It’s not our job to spoon-feed every process,” Yoon snapped. “You’re expected to ask.”
Jihoon didn’t flinch. “I didn’t know there was something to ask about.”
Yoon lifted the printout like it were a piece of damning evidence. “Do you understand what happens when incorrect formats go out to external partners? What that says about our department?”
Jihoon’s gaze stayed steady. “I understand perfectly. But if critical changes aren’t logged or communicated, even the most experienced team members can’t anticipate them.”
A pause followed. A few heads turned. One person glanced away. Another just kept typing, pretending not to listen.
Jihoon didn’t shift, didn’t fumble to explain himself. He simply sat there—calm, composed, entirely unmoved—like someone who had nothing to prove and knew exactly why.
He wasn’t used to this kind of tone—not in a professional setting, and certainly not over something he couldn’t have known. The words weren’t loud, but they were deliberate, chosen not to correct but to cut. A performance, more than a reprimand. Designed to sting. Designed to humiliate.
And Jihoon, jaw set and shoulders still, felt the intent more than the impact.
The silence that followed Mr. Yoon’s words was heavier than noise. Not awkward—calculated. The kind of public callout that wasn’t really about procedure, but about position. A display of hierarchy, a reminder of who had the authority to speak and who was expected to lower their head.
He didn’t.
Even as eyes flicked toward him, some curious, others quick to retreat, Jihoon stayed exactly where he was—upright, calm, spine unbending. The flush at the back of his neck wasn’t embarrassment. It was restraint.
“I understand the pressure of new placement,” Mr. Yoon added after a beat, his voice thinner now, performative as he became aware of the silent audience. “But in this department, we rely on precision. We don’t have time to babysit.”
Jihoon looked down at the file in his hand, then back at Mr. Yoon. He said nothing. Not because he felt unsure, but because he knew there was no value in engaging. The implication had already been made—that his presence here was provisional. That no matter how neatly he worked, someone had decided to watch for a crack.
He didn’t give them one.
Then another voice entered the room. Calm. Controlled.
“Mr. Yoon.”
Jihoon hadn’t seen him arrive. But there he was—Director Lee, standing just a few paces behind, sleeves neatly buttoned at the wrist, hair immaculately in place despite the brisk morning wind outside, the faintest indentation of glasses at the bridge of his nose catching the light. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.
Mr. Yoon stiffened. “Director.”
Sanghyeok’s eyes slid briefly to Jihoon, then to the file in Yoon’s hand. He stepped forward without fanfare and reached out for the document. Yoon hesitated, then handed it over.
“The format discrepancy you’re referring to,” Sanghyeok said after a short pause, “was the result of a procedural change that was not circulated to incoming staff. The onboarding materials still link to last quarter’s template.”
He didn’t say it cruelly. He didn’t say it with bite.
But the weight of the correction landed hard. Several heads dropped back to their screens with sudden interest in nothing.
Mr. Yoon cleared his throat. “It’s still the responsibility of new hires to double-check—”
“And it’s the responsibility of department managers,” Sanghyeok continued, unflinching, “to ensure that any internal changes affecting documentation are communicated across teams. Including to new personnel.”
His tone didn’t change. But the air had.
Yoon’s mouth opened again, then closed. He took a small breath as if to speak, but whatever defence he was preparing, it dissolved under the direct, level gaze that met his.
Sanghyeok handed the file back to Jihoon—not carelessly, but with exactness, as if to signal something unspoken. Then he spoke, more quietly this time.
“Jeong Jihoon-ssi. Thank you for catching the inconsistency. Please upload the corrected file when you’re ready.”
Jihoon nodded slowly, fingers tightening around the folder.
“Yes, Director.”
Sanghyeok didn’t look at Manager Yoon again. He turned with the same calm he’d entered with, disappearing down the row of desks without another word.
Only after he was gone did the floor exhale. A faint cough. A low murmur. Keys tapping once more.
Mr. Yoon didn’t say anything further. He returned to his desk in silence, though his shoulders were rigid, jaw tight with the tension of being checked in front of the room.
Jihoon sat down slowly, the weight in his chest still there, but different now. Something unfamiliar settled in its place—not relief exactly, but something closer to confusion.
It wasn’t just that Director Lee had stepped in. It was the way he’d done it. So calmly. So cleanly. No cruelty. No indulgence. Just the facts. Just enough to remove the sting of the humiliation without making a scene of defending him.
And somehow that left a deeper mark than shouting ever could have.
-
Jihoon hadn’t intended to go anywhere.
Not to leave the floor, not to skip ahead on the morning task list, not even to take a break so early in the day—but when the tension of being singled out had finally ebbed and Director’s quiet intervention faded into the hum of reopened documents and resumed typing, Jihoon found himself standing beside the elevator with no clear reason in his head.
The soft electronic chime, the press of a button, the polished steel doors closing behind him—it all felt automatic. He wasn’t escaping. That would be dramatic, and this wasn’t high school. But he needed to be elsewhere, even for just ten minutes. Somewhere with fewer glances. Fewer people pretending not to look.
The café on the ground floor wasn’t even particularly good. The coffee was overpriced and always ran two degrees colder than it should, but the space was warm and strangely quiet for a corporate building—soft beige booths, matte walnut counters, the faint rustle of newspapers that no one read but someone always brought. It had a strange comfort to it, like a lounge built for ghosts.
Jihoon slid into a corner booth facing the large glass wall that overlooked the main courtyard. A few office workers passed by, their coats half-buttoned, paper cups in hand, murmuring about something too far off to hear. He hadn’t ordered anything yet, just sat with both palms flat on the smooth table surface, staring past the reflections in the glass.
His jaw was still tight, a dull ache radiating from the hinge—leftover tension from holding back a response he hadn’t needed to give.
That man—Manager Yoon—had said nothing worth remembering. Nothing especially original. Just the usual power-play dressed up as professionalism. Jihoon had heard worse, from louder voices, in colder rooms. And yet, the echo of that tone still clung like static: smug, accusatory, heavy with the kind of petty authority that relied more on performance than merit.
What lingered wasn’t embarrassment. It was the reminder that some people mistook volume for influence. That they needed an audience to feel powerful.
But Director Lee hadn’t raised his voice. He hadn’t even said much at all—and yet, with one brief intervention, he’d made the entire situation dissolve with effortless calm.
Jihoon leaned back, exhaling slowly.
He’d remember that.
He could handle being disliked. He had been, many times—resented for how easily he spoke, how naturally people gravitated toward him. It wasn’t something he flaunted; it just was. Jihoon had the kind of face people noticed, the kind of self-possession that unsettled those who needed insecurity to feel superior. And people always made assumptions—about wealth, about charm, about how much he’d coasted on either. So when someone disliked him, it never stung. It made sense.
But Director Lee… hadn’t looked at him with dislike. Or pity. Or even amusement.
He’d just looked. Calm. Collected. Unshaken. And for reasons Jihoon didn’t quite understand yet, that was somehow worse.
He turned his head slightly, watching the street beyond the courtyard. A breeze pulled through the row of trimmed box hedges, making them tremble slightly. The movement reminded him of last night. The glass. The subtle reflection of a gaze that lingered a fraction too long.
Jihoon exhaled slowly.
It had been a look. He hadn’t imagined that. A glance over the shoulder before the elevator closed. Just long enough to register—but not long enough to interpret. And now, paired with the moment earlier—when Director Lee had stepped in so seamlessly, without ego or defence—it felt like a puzzle piece he couldn’t place.
Why defend him? Why notice him?
The words from earlier that morning still clung faintly to the back of his mind—"Of course Director Lee would take his side." As if he had motives. As if he had types.
Jihoon bristled. He wasn’t someone’s type. He was someone.
He stood, finally moving toward the counter to order—nothing fancy, just a black Americano—and returned to his seat, fingers curling around the warm paper cup while the surface fogged slightly with steam.
He didn’t expect company.
So when he caught movement from the corner of his eye and turned to see Director Lee stepping through the café entrance—sharp in a navy suit, coat unbuttoned, tie perfectly set despite the wind tousling his hair—Jihoon straightened on instinct.
He watched as Director Lee scanned the space briefly, likely looking for an empty table, unaware that Jihoon was tucked into the corner behind the marble column. For a second, Jihoon considered staying quiet, just letting him pass. But some combination of curiosity and something warmer—maybe gratitude—rose up first.
“Director.”
The older man turned, gaze settling on him with only the faintest flicker of surprise.
Jihoon gestured to the booth opposite him. “If you’re not in a rush… sit?”
A pause. Then, with his usual restrained grace, Sanghyeok approached and slid into the booth across from him, adjusting the cuff of his suit as he settled in.
Jihoon leaned back, one arm resting along the top of the booth, the other curling loosely around his coffee. He gave a small smile.
“Thanks for earlier.”
Sanghyeok met his eyes evenly. “I was only correcting a miscommunication.”
“Mm,” Jihoon hummed, sipping. “Still. You didn’t have to do it like that.”
That earned the faintest arch of a brow, as if Sanghyeok was considering whether to ask what like that meant. In the end, he said nothing. Just waited.
Jihoon tilted his head. “You always step in like that when someone’s being a dick to a new hire?”
The line was casual. Playful. But it landed between them with the weight of something more.
Sanghyeok didn’t flinch. “When something is wrong, I say so.”
Jihoon tapped a finger against his cup, smile still lingering. “So you’re a hero. But quiet.”
“No.” His answer came quick, flat. “I don’t like attention.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then Jihoon leaned in, just a little—eyes still casual, voice quieter now, but undeniably direct.
“Was that what you were doing last night too?” he asked. “When you looked back?”
“I looked,” Sanghyeok said finally, his voice quiet but clear. “Yes.”
Jihoon studied him for a long moment, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes as he leaned back in the booth, one leg stretching slightly beneath the table until the toe of his shoe brushed against Sanghyeok’s. It wasn’t intentional—at least not entirely—but neither of them moved.
“So,” Jihoon asked casually, voice low but edged with interest, “was it curiosity, or attraction?”
There was a pause, longer than before, though not uncomfortable. Sanghyeok’s gaze didn’t falter. His expression remained composed, but not cold—just deliberate, as if he were measuring the weight of the truth before placing it down between them.
“...Attraction,” he said, the word folded quietly into the space between them. Then, after a brief moment: “You’re an attractive person.”
He didn’t deliver it like a compliment. It was too unadorned, too stripped of affect to be anything as simple as flattery. He said it as though it were a neutral fact, something observable and not meant to be dwelled on—yet the effect of hearing it aloud made Jihoon sit up slightly straighter.
“That’s... honest,” Jihoon replied, eyes narrowing slightly, not in distrust but in surprise. “I wasn’t expecting that.”
“I don’t say things I don’t mean,” Sanghyeok answered, calm as ever. “And I don’t usually comment on people I work with. It’s not professional. But you asked.”
“And you answered.”
Sanghyeok gave the faintest nod.
“I did.”
Jihoon watched him carefully, lips curving into something caught between amusement and intrigue.
“I’m not uncomfortable, by the way,” he murmured, more to himself than to reassure, as if trying the words out on his own tongue. “Just… not used to being told I’m attractive in that tone.”
“What tone?”
“The serious kind,” Jihoon said, resting his chin in his palm, his smile a little more crooked now. “Like you’re stating the weather.”
Sanghyeok looked away for the first time since sitting down, gaze shifting to the courtyard outside the window. “I wasn’t trying to be inappropriate.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
There was a stretch of quiet, not tense, but heavier than before. Jihoon sat with it for a moment, processing—not the compliment itself, but how little it had been dressed up. He was used to being called handsome, sometimes to his face, often behind his back, usually with some edge of flirty mischief or teasing intent. But never like that. Never like it was simply true, with nothing attached.
Jihoon let the silence stretch between them, not entirely sure what he expected to feel. Maybe discomfort. Maybe embarrassment. But neither came. Instead, there was only stillness—an odd kind of calm that settled like dusk, soft and muted, but not without its weight.
The coffee in his hand had gone lukewarm. He took another sip anyway, eyes drifting across Sanghyeok’s face. It really was composed—not unreadable exactly, just stripped of unnecessary emotion. Clean, grounded, like everything he said came from somewhere quiet and precise. And now that Jihoon had heard him speak plainly, he realised how rare that was.
People lied constantly, even about small things. Especially in the office. They dressed up their intentions, softened their words, filtered their expressions. Director Lee didn’t do that. He spoke only when he meant to, and didn’t coat it in pleasantries. He hadn’t tried to flirt, hadn’t smiled to deflect, hadn’t even so much as leaned forward—and yet Jihoon couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that Director Lee had looked at him. Had noticed him. Had called him attractive like it was the most basic truth in the room.
He shifted in his seat, fingers brushing the rim of his cup.
“So…” Jihoon said, softer now, “you like men?”
Sanghyeok’s gaze returned to him, steady and sure.
“I do.”
“Always?”
“For as long as I’ve understood what I wanted.”
The answer was unembellished, but Jihoon heard something beneath it—a kind of resignation, maybe. Not shame. Just the quiet tone of someone who’d carried it long enough for it to lose any dramatic edge.
“I see,” Jihoon murmured, not quite knowing what to say next. He wasn’t uncomfortable—he’d meant what he said earlier—but the more Sanghyeok gave him, the more he realised how little he’d expected him to answer. Most people would’ve dodged by now. Joked. Laughed. Changed the subject.
But Sanghyeok didn’t treat it like a confession. He treated it like a statement. Nothing more.
Jihoon rested his chin briefly on the back of his hand, eyes flicking up toward the soft gold lighting above the booth.
“I’ve never really thought about it,” he said after a pause. “Guys, I mean. Not like that.”
He shrugged lightly, voice still easy. “I had friends in college who were into both, and I guess I got asked about it once or twice, but it never felt like something I needed to figure out. Just wasn’t something that crossed my mind.”
He glanced sideways—almost instinctively—to check for any reaction. Sanghyeok’s face was still, unreadable as always, but not closed off.
Jihoon looked away again, tone loosening as he spoke. “Anyway, I’ve been busy being the golden kid, you know? Top grades, good manners, smile for the camera. Now it’s my first job back home and... I guess I’m still figuring out what kind of person I am when no one’s watching.”
He paused, not expecting to have said so much. Then again, maybe it was the silence Sanghyeok carried so effortlessly—he didn’t interrupt. Didn’t fill the space. And in that quiet, Jihoon kept talking.
“It’s weird,” he said, finally looking up again. “I didn’t think I’d have this kind of conversation in a café across from my boss on day three.”
Sanghyeok’s mouth curved—barely. A sliver of movement. Enough to count as a smile, though it vanished as quickly as it came.
“Neither did I.”
They sat like that for a while. No rush to fill the next silence. The café’s ambient sounds filled in the edges—spoons stirring in ceramic mugs, a barista steaming milk behind the counter, someone rustling open a newspaper at the far end of the room.
Jihoon’s foot shifted slightly under the table, brushing against Sanghyeok’s again. This time, he didn’t pull back.
He glanced down at the contact, then looked up with a small curve of his lips. The corner of his mouth lifted—not a full grin, just something caught between amusement and curiosity.
“You know,” Jihoon said lightly, “you’ve been calling me Jihoon-ssi since day one. Feels a bit formal, doesn’t it?”
Sanghyeok raised an eyebrow, expression unreadable.
Jihoon leaned in slightly, resting an elbow against the table’s edge, head tilted in that casually confident way of his.
“Should I match you and say Sanghyeok-ssi?” he mused aloud, feigning thoughtfulness.
“Or maybe... Sanghyeok hyung? That one feels more natural. Like we’re already on friendly terms.”
Sanghyeok didn’t answer immediately. His gaze flicked up, calm as always, but there was something quietly alert behind it—like a thread being pulled taut.
Jihoon didn’t notice. Or maybe he did, and leaned in a touch more anyway, forearms braced now against the edge of the table, eyes holding Sanghyeok’s with that easy steadiness some people were just born with.
“I feel like I’d get a different version of you if I said that,” he said, not smiling anymore. Not quite serious either. “Less… Director Lee. More you.”
His voice had dropped slightly, casual but edged with curiosity. The kind of curiosity that made people say more than they meant to.
That’s when Sanghyeok blinked—just once, but slow. Still composed, but no longer unreadable.
“…You’re a naturally flirty person, aren’t you,” he said, as if observing something that had just clicked into place.
Jihoon pulled back a little, frowning in mock offence. “Flirty? That wasn’t flirting.”
“No?” Sanghyeok asked, tone light, but not letting go of his gaze.
Jihoon blinked, confused, then leaned back slightly. “Wait—what makes you think it was flirting?”
Sanghyeok looked at him for a moment. Not sharp, not judging—just observant.
“You lean in when you talk,” he said evenly. “You look people in the eye longer than most. And you say things like ‘feels more natural, like we’re already on friendly terms’... like you mean it.”
He paused for a beat. “I think that’s why people probably like you. You make them feel seen.”
Jihoon stared at him for a second, trying to figure out whether it was a compliment or just a very poetic way of being called out. Then he let out a soft laugh, shaking his head.
“You really just said that like you were reading from a user manual.”
He laughed again, leaning back in his seat. “God. You're kind of funny, you know that? Saying something like that with zero facial expression.”
Then he looked up—and stopped.
Sanghyeok was smiling.
Not a smirk, not a twitch, but a genuine, quiet smile. Not wide, but real. It softened the whole line of his face in a way Jihoon hadn’t expected. It stayed for just a moment before fading again like a breath on glass, but the effect lingered.
Jihoon blinked, the curve of his grin still playing at the edge of his mouth. “So… is that a yes? Can I call you hyung?”
There was a pause, but this one felt different—lighter, unguarded.
Sanghyeok met his gaze, voice low but unhesitating. “If that’s what you want.”
Jihoon’s smile widened, slow and teasing. “You’re going to regret giving me that permission.”
“I’ll take my chances,” Sanghyeok replied, with the faintest upward tilt of his lips—more suggestion than smile, but just enough to make Jihoon’s chest tighten in ways he didn’t expect.
The moment settled quietly between them, not awkward or strained—just still, like the space had shifted, grown warmer, and neither of them was quite ready to move past it yet.
Jihoon glanced at him again, then leaned in just a little. His tone, when he spoke next, was light but edged with something more careful.
“This isn’t me flirting or anything,” he said, glancing away for a second before meeting Sanghyeok’s eyes again. “But you should know… you look really pretty when you smile.”
The words landed with more weight than he intended. Jihoon realised it the moment they left his mouth—but didn’t take them back. He just watched.
Sanghyeok blinked, then looked away for the first time in their conversation. It wasn’t a dramatic gesture, but something subtle. Quiet.
A faint flush bloomed across the tops of his cheeks—slow, pale pink bleeding into fair skin, disappearing beneath the collar of his coat.
Jihoon froze, just slightly.
Oh.
He didn’t say it aloud, but the thought hit him with surprising clarity. This composed, serious hyung with his perfectly buttoned coat and professional deadpan—he actually blushed. And not in some elegant, distant way. It was real. Vulnerable. Warm in a way Jihoon hadn’t expected to see.
He stared, stunned for a second too long. Does he even know how cute he looks right now?
Sanghyeok cleared his throat softly, gaze lowered for a beat too long—as if silence might smooth over the heat still lingering in the air between them.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said at last, voice steadier than before, though just faintly quieter.
Jihoon smiled again, something gentler in it now. “It was one.”
They stood almost at the same time, and without meaning to, moved in step toward the door—closer than colleagues, but not close enough for either of them to admit it.