shreya!

it begins with footsteps in the heat. low heels against sun-warmed pavement, a rhythm just behind yours, even but quiet, measured like breath—soft enough not to draw attention, certain enough to draw everything else.

you don’t know she’s there. 

not at first. 

not when you turn the corner outside the office and the morning presses its weight against your skin, nor when you shift your bag higher on your shoulder and blink the sleep from within your eyes. 

your head aches from the night before—excel sheets and wine and one too many thoughts about the way her hand felt on your lower back—how it lingered—when she passed behind you in the breakroom.

you don’t see the black town car that dropped her off. don’t notice the driver pulling away with a respectful nod as she stepped out, dressed like something sharp and ruinous in the warm light, her blouse tucked in clean, her eyes already on you.

you walk like you always do. not slow, not fast. your steps measured, focused, unaware.

but she sees everything.

she sees the curve of your waist above your belt, the slight shift in your shoulders as you pull out your badge. she sees the way your skirt moves when the wind brushes your side. she sees the back of your neck, soft and damp with heat.

jihyo stares.

not greedily.

not like a man might.

she stares like it’s the only way she knows how to breathe.

every step she takes behind you is quiet, deliberate, full of a hunger she has spent weeks learning to starve. she follows you into the lobby without a word, lets the glass door swing open behind your shoulder, watches you scan your keycard, watches the way you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear with fingers she swore she wouldn’t touch this week.

you step toward the lifts.

she exhales.

not loud. just enough. just barely.

you don’t turn.

you reach out, press the button for the upper floors, and wait.

and then—

she’s there.

beside you.

shoulder against yours.

not brushing. pressed. firm. intentional.

the contact hits like heatstroke.

her perfume—sharp and clean and impossible—folds around your throat like silk. your breath stutters before you can stop it. her body radiates warmth. you know this. you’ve felt it before, on those nights when she kissed your collarbone and called it devotion. but this—this is different. this is public. this is risk.

still, you don’t move.

neither does she.

the lift dings.

the doors open.

you both step in.

and it’s quiet.

so quiet.

just the two of you and the soft hum of artificial air, the faint tick of the floor indicator lighting up.

you move to the side. she follows. doesn’t look at the panel. doesn’t press anything.

you feel her eyes.

you know she’s looking.

you know the way she does when she thinks no one sees her—that unblinking, worshipful, desperate way that makes your stomach twist.

you turn your head slightly. just enough. her gaze is already there.

her mouth is parted.

and something breaks.

she steps forward—one step, two.

reaches out.

presses the stop button.

the lift halts with a soft thud.

you barely breathe before her hands are on you.

she pushes you back—gently but with purpose—until your spine meets the wall of the lift, cold against the fabric of your blouse, and then her hands are on either side of you, not touching yet, but close, close enough to cage in the heat. her eyes don’t move from yours.  

you say nothing. your breath is shallow. your pulse is impossibly loud in your ears.  

her fingers twitch once at her side, like she’s still giving herself a chance to stop. but her eyes drop—first to your mouth, then to your neck, then down, down, to where your blouse is unbuttoned at the top from the weight of the summer.  

she leans in, slow, reverent. like a prayer.  

“i’ve wanted to do this all week,” she whispers, her lips grazing the shell of your ear. “you walked ahead of me like that... like you knew.”  

you shake your head. but your body says otherwise.  

she smiles against your skin. and then her mouth touches your jaw, your cheek, your temple.  

“my girl,” she breathes.  

her hands rise. one of them finds your waist, the other your face. she tilts your chin toward her like she’s holding something delicate. like she knows it could all shatter.  

her lips touch yours like they’re testing something forbidden.  

but the second you part your mouth, it changes.  

she inhales sharply. pulls you in.  

the kiss turns hungry.  

then desperate.  

then something entirely else.  

her hands slide up your sides and around your back, gripping you like she can’t believe you’re real. your arms wrap around her neck without thought. the tension between you isn’t tension anymore—it’s release.  

you moan softly against her mouth. she swallows it whole.  

her tongue drags slow against yours, every movement saying i missed you, i need you, i can’t breathe unless i have you like this.  

you don’t answer with words. you just arch into her.  

she breaks the kiss only when she has to breathe, but her lips don’t go far.  

they move to your cheek again. your jaw.  

then—  

your throat.  

she kisses it once.  

again.  

and again.  

then bites gently at the curve where your shoulder meets your neck.  

you gasp. 

her grip tightens.  

she wants to mark you. 

you can feel it in the way her mouth hesitates over your pulse. “not there. people will see.”  

she stills. pulls back just enough to look at you.  

the question in her eyes is soft. silent. asking.  

you nod.  

slow. 

sure.  

yes.

she exhales like she’s been holding that breath for days. then—slowly, reverently—she brings her hands to the buttons of your blouse. 

her fingers shake, but not from hesitation. 

but from want. from awe. from the unbearable pressure of needing you and not being able to show it for so long.  

you watch her. chest rising and falling like a wave crashing again and again, your heartbeat so loud it blurs the sound of the halted lift around you.  

one button.  

two.  

her eyes never leave yours, not until the third slips loose and the front of your bra is fully visible.  

she pauses.  

her hands rest against your ribs, thumbs brushing just beneath the line of lace.  

you breathe her name.  

and that’s all it takes.  

she drops her head.  

kisses the space above your heart like it’s sacred.  

again. again. again.  

soft. open-mouthed. adoring.  

your lipstick—the one smeared over her mouth—smears against your skin, warm, smudged nude blooming down the centre of your chest. 

she doesn’t stop to look. 

she doesn’t care.  

her mouth moves slowly. 

deliberately. 

marking you in a way that doesn’t belong to men or rumours or performance reviews. 

this is hers. 

and she makes sure every kiss says it.  

you tilt your head back against the wall, your mouth parting, a small, quiet sound escapes you. 

it makes her press harder. kiss deeper. her tongue flicking over the edge of your bra, then lower, the heat of her breath burning into your skin.  

you whisper her name.  

she murmurs, “mine.”  

you nod again. more breath than movement.  

“say it,” she whispers, voice wrecked.  

“yours,” you say. 

and it comes out like a promise. 

like something irreversible.  

she groans, soft and buried, her mouth still trailing over your skin.

her hands tighten at your sides. one lifts to your shoulder, steadying you. the other presses to your lower back.  

she kisses every inch of skin she can reach. above your bra. across your sternum. the curve of your collarbone. she’s marking you without a trace of cruelty—only hunger. only worship. only need.  

you don’t want her to stop.  

you can’t remember what it feels like when she’s not touching you.  

and then—her mouth still against your chest, her breath warm and dizzying—she lifts her eyes.  

you follow her gaze.  

you both turn—just slightly—toward the mirrored interior of the lift.  

your lipstick is everywhere.  

on her mouth. your throat. your chest.  

her own lips are swollen. stained. flushed.  

and in the glass, jihyo sees herself.  

what she’s become in front of you.  

what she’s let herself do.  

what she’ll never be able to take back.  

and she doesn’t look away.

your hand lifts to her jaw. your thumb traces the curve of her cheek, smeared red catching on your skin. she leans into the touch instinctively, like your hand is gravity and she was always meant to fall.  

“we should…” you begin, but the words don’t finish. they fall flat between your mouths, heavy with everything that can’t be said out loud—not here, not now, not while your blouse hangs open and her breath still tastes like want.  

“i know,” she whispers. but she doesn’t move.  

her hand stays on your waist. her forehead leans against yours. and for a moment—just a moment—there is nothing else. no floors above. no emails waiting. no risk. only heat. only her. only the way your chest brushes hers when you breathe.  

“how am i supposed to pretend after this?” she asks, almost broken.  

you don’t answer. you just close your eyes and kiss her again.  

softer this time. slower. like goodbye. but it isn’t.  

she buttons your shirt with trembling fingers. you fixes your lipstick without looking in the mirror and you wipe the traces of yourself off jihyo’s mouth. 

when the lift finally begins to move again, neither of you speak.  

you exit first. she stays behind.  

the door closes. her reflection disappears.  

but the heat doesn’t leave you. 

it clings to your skin, to the space just above your bra, to the ghost of her hands still pressing into your back.  

and even hours later, when the building is full and your desk is loud with numbers, your mouth still tastes like her name.

⸻

jihyo doesn’t text when she arrives. 

she just pulls up to the curb outside your apartment, engine idling low, elbow resting out the open window, one hand loose on the wheel and the other curled in her lap. 

her eyes are hidden behind dark sunglasses, but you feel the weight of them anyway—dragging slowly from the building’s door to the top floor window you’d peeked out of a moment ago. she knows exactly where you are.

you come down with your hair still warm from the curling wand and your phone in your palm like a shield. the late afternoon sun turns your sundress sheer at the hem, soft light catching the curve of your legs and the bare skin of your shoulders.

it’s just a sundress. nothing fancy. mid-thigh, fitted at the waist, a tiny floral print you bought half for comfort and half because you’d wondered what she’d look like seeing you in it.

now you know.

she straightens when she sees you. sunglasses pushed up to rest in her hair. eyes dark and unreadable. her mouth opens just barely before it curves into a silent breath of a smile.

you expect her to lean over and unlock the door from the driver’s side but she gets out instead—shuts the door with a soft click and comes around the front, the pavement radiating heat beneath her shoes. 

she’s dressed cleanly today—slouchy black trousers cuffed at the ankle, a loose button-up worn open over a black tank, chain tucked into the dip of her collarbone, watch fitted snug around her wrist. the shirt flutters slightly with the wind, and you swear the air tightens a little between you.

she opens the passenger door for you like it’s habit. like of course she would.

“you always this polite?” you murmur, settling into the leather seat that’s already been cooled by the a/c.

she shrugs, leans in just long enough to pull your seatbelt across you, fingers brushing your ribs as she clicks it into place.

“only when i’m with someone worth being soft for.”

your breath catches. she notices, because of course she does, and shuts the door with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes yet.

the drive is quiet for the first few minutes. her playlist hums softly from the speakers,  r&b and pop that pulse more in your chest than in your ears. she drives with one hand, elbow propped, watching the road like she’s trying not to look at you again. 

her other hand doesn’t reach for your thigh—not yet—but it brushes your knee once at a red light and stays a second too long.

when she glances at you again, it’s out of the corner of her eye, a flicker, a quiet admission. and still, she says nothing.

the mall is gleaming white stone and silver trim, wide open spaces and cooled air that smells like designer perfume and polished marble. the shops rise two stories high on either side of a sunlit atrium. escalators glide silently in the centre, and everything is clean, expensive, restrained. you almost laugh.

“so this is casual?”

jihyo shrugs, hand briefly brushing the small of your back as you walk.

“it’s saturday,” she says. “figured you deserved a place with decent air conditioning.”

“right,” you say, smiling. “and maybe a place with three dior stores just by coincidence?”

she doesn’t answer, but the corners of her mouth twitch.

for the first ten minutes, she stays beside you like she’s pacing herself. her hands stay in her pockets. her gaze stays careful, even when you reach for a necklace on a velvet display or lean too far forward to check out some rings locked away in a glass counter. 

she’s clearly holding something back.

you duck into a boutique with high ceilings and low hanging lights. the racks are spaced far apart, all neutral tones and fluid silhouettes. she follows but lingers behind.

you walk the aisle slowly, eyes glancing across linen dresses and silk camisoles and wide-leg trousers that would absolutely destroy you if she ever wore them. 

you feel her watching. 

you feel it in the way your skin prickles when you move. 

in the way your stomach tightens when she exhales too close.

you stop in front of a mirrored column and pick up a folded top—then turn your head just slightly to see her reflection.

she’s watching you. jaw tense. hands still deep in her pockets like she’s afraid of what they’ll do if she takes them out.

you say nothing.

you step closer to another rack, draw your fingers along the hanger of a cream-coloured shirt. you feel her come closer. it’s deliberate, now. the air shifts.

you turn with a piece you had pulled from the rack. “do you think that would suit me?”

she hesitates for a second. only a second.

you gently wrap your hand around her bicep. your fingers brush her shirt sleeve, then her bare arm just beneath it. 

your grip isn’t tight. just enough to guide her to your side.

and that’s it.

that’s what breaks her.

jihyo blinks, exhales through her nose, and for the first time all day, reaches for you.

she doesn’t go far. just rests her hand at the small of your back, thumb barely moving. 

but her body turns slightly into yours. 

her mouth opens like she wants to say something, but nothing comes out.

“i think,” she says finally, voice low, “you could wear anything and i’d still look at you the same.”

you smile at her then. and you don’t let go of her arm.

she doesn’t take her hand off your back.

not for the rest of the shop.

not for the rest of the day.

she starts small—little touches when you’re not paying full attention. a brush of her fingers against your wrist as she hands you something to try. 

the way her palm fits against your waist when she leans over to whisper a comment about a price tag. 

and then, when you exit another boutique and your hand finds her elbow, she loops her arm around your back and keeps it there.

you don’t say a word. you don’t have to.

in the perfume store, she stands behind you as you test samples, her chin nearly on your shoulder, her breath warm against your neck.

“this one,” she murmurs when you hold a scent strip to her nose. “smells like trouble.”

you laugh, soft and breathy. “that a good thing?”

“i’ll let you decide,” she says, but her arm wraps tighter around your waist.

in a bookstore tucked into the far corner of the third floor, she’s downright handsy. not in a public spectacle way—but in that quiet, almost possessive way. her hand resting firmly on your hip as you browse. her fingers tracing the inside of your wrist as you flip a page. when you lean back into her, the space between you collapses completely.

“can’t believe you’re into these kind of books,” she teases, chin on your shoulder. “especially as someone who works with numbers.”

you glance back at her. “you barely even looked at the title.”

“don’t need to,” she says. “i’m too busy looking at you.”

you flush. 

she grins. 

kisses your shoulder like it’s second nature.

you end up with two bags, both paid for by her despite your protests. 

she tells you she’ll send her bank details to you. 

you know she won’t.

you stop for drinks at a café built entirely of glass. 

she pulls your chair close to hers. 

rests her hand on your thigh under the table like it belongs there. 

you drink a spanish latte. 

she watches you.

she watches you like you’re light.

like you’re something rare.

and when she walks you back to the car—still holding your hand, thumb brushing lazily along your knuckles—you realise you haven’t stopped touching each other since that moment in the shop.

you reach the passenger door and turn to her, body half-lit by the parking structure lights. 

she steps closer. 

her hand finds the curve of your waist again. 

you don’t lean away.

“you wore this dress on purpose, didn’t you,” she says quietly.

“and if i did?”

her hand slides to your lower back, presses you gently against the closed car door. she leans in. nose brushing yours.

“then i might have to drive slower on the way back.”

you laugh against her mouth. “what a shame.”

she kisses you then—soft, slow, just once.

then she opens the door, helps you in, and shuts it like you’re made of something worth protecting.

⸻

the door clicks behind you.

not loud. not sudden. just soft. just final. like the kind of quiet that holds its breath and waits for what’s next. 

you toe off your shoes and place the shopping bags near the entrance, the lightness of the day still clinging to your skin. 

behind you, jihyo stands still for a moment, as if crossing your threshold feels like crossing into something she doesn’t want to leave.

she sets her keys down without looking away from you.

and she smiles.

the evening air spills in through the open window, carrying the hush of seoul’s summer lull, the far-off sound of traffic, and the scent of your perfume—still trailing between the folds of your sundress. 

jihyo’s eyes flick to your wrist where the bracelet she bought now rests. 

she put it on you in the car before she drove back.  

it catches the light when you move. 

she doesn’t even try to hide the way she stares.

“are you hungry?” you ask, a little breathless, still brushing your hair back from the day.

“only a little,” she says, though her gaze doesn’t leave you.

you nod, brushing past her toward the kitchen, and you feel her follow—not close, not yet, just enough to keep you in reach. her footsteps slow and thoughtful. 

you glance back and she’s already watching you like you’re made of something she wants to unravel.

you pull out something random, place it on the counter. the fridge hums. a fork clinks against a plate. she steps closer.

“i’m glad you let me buy you that,” she says, her fingers ghosting the bracelet gently, her thumb dragging across your skin.

“i didn’t,” you murmur. “you insisted.”

she smiles and leans in, brushing her lips—barely—over your temple. “i wanted to. you deserve beautiful things.”

you inhale. not sharply. not out of surprise. just slowly. as if the moment needs time to settle inside your chest. 

she doesn’t move away. not fully. instead, her hand stays at your wrist, and her breath fans against your cheek while the food goes cold between you.

you lift the plate. “we should eat before it goes cold.”

“later,” she rejects, but only after letting you finish your sentence.

you look at her. 

the expression in her eyes is something molten. something tender. 

something about the way her jaw flexes, the way her thumb still presses into the soft underside of your wrist, makes your breath stutter.

you let her take the plate from your hand and set it down again.

neither of you says anything when she reaches forward to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. or when she lets her hand linger along your jaw. or when she dips her head slightly, just enough that her lips graze yours in a kiss that doesn’t even fully land—but steals your breath anyway.

you kiss her back first.

it’s soft. it’s hesitant. but it’s charged. her lips taste faintly of tea and restraint, of things held back for too long. your fingers twist in the hem of her shirt. her hands settle on your hips like they’ve always belonged there.

she kisses you like she’s tracing a memory. like she’s trying to be careful with something she knows she could ruin if she moved too fast. and still—her body presses against yours, her warmth seeping into your skin as her mouth moves from your lips to your cheek, your jaw, your neck.

she murmurs something there—just your name, nothing more—and you feel it vibrate through you.

when you draw back to catch your breath, you realise the television is still humming from the living room. a muted light flickering over the walls. the rest of the world forgotten.

“we were supposed to eat,” you whisper.

she laughs under her breath, low and warm. “you’re all i want right now.”

you tug her hand, leading her into the living room. she follows willingly, watching the sway of your dress, the slight curve of your back as you sit down onto the couch. you reach for the remote but never press it—because she’s already sitting beside you, already leaning in, already brushing her nose along your collarbone like she can’t stop herself.

she kisses the hollow of your throat and breathes you in. her hands settle low on your waist. you shift slightly and feel her hand tighten.

you tilt your head to look at her. “jihyo.”

her eyes meet yours, slow and heavy with want. “tell me to stop,” she says, voice hushed.

“i won’t,” you whisper.

she kisses you again. this time deeper. her hand slides under the hem of your dress, fingertips dragging slowly up the side of your thigh. 

your skin tingles. 

you press closer. 

she sighs into your mouth like she’s starving for you.

you’re no longer sure where the line is between comfort and desire. 

the evening has blurred everything. 

her bracelet still glints on your wrist as you move, catching the low light from the tv, and she catches your hand, brings it to her mouth, kisses your knuckles like they’re sacred.

her lips find your wrist. your pulse. the inside of your elbow. every soft place she can reach without rushing. you fall back against the cushions, breathless, her name caught somewhere between a whisper and a prayer.

she worships every inch of you like time doesn’t exist.

you feel her hands under the straps of your dress, guiding them down gently. 

her lips press kisses to your shoulders, collarbone, the space between. you reach for her, fingers tangled in her shirt, and she lets you tug it over her head. your hands explore the lines of her back, the warmth of her skin, the way she trembles slightly when you sigh her name.

when she lays you back onto the sofa fully, her mouth follows every inch of exposed skin. her fingers skim your ribcage, her kisses soft and reverent, her breath shaky.

and she slowly makes her way down. 

she lowers her head and presses kisses there, along the curve, above the lace. her lips trail lower, slower, like every second matters. when she finally looks up again, her eyes are glassy.

“you’re so beautiful,” she whispers.

you touch her cheek. “so are you.”

she leans into your touch, and her eyes flutter closed. for a moment, the world is still. the only sound is the soft sound of the tv and the hush of her breathing.

when she kisses you again, it’s deeper. needier. her restraint slipping.

you shift beneath her, tugging her closer. her thigh slips between yours, the heat of her body grounding you. her hand curves around your waist, fingers pressing into the dip of your spine. she kisses you like she means it. 

like she’s drowning in you. 

like there’s no one else in the world.

and when you finally breathe her name again, it breaks something open.

the night stretches. long. slow. aching.

by the time you’re tangled together under a blanket that never made it to your lap, her forehead is pressed to yours. your panties pulled back over your pussy from the side. your food is cold. your hearts are full.

she strokes your jaw with her thumb. kisses your lips one last time. soft. almost shy.

“stay,” you murmur.

“i was never going to leave,” she says.

you close your eyes. 

you don’t need the television. not when the only story worth watching is the way she looks at you like you’re the only thing she’s ever wanted.

⸻

the sun hasn’t quite set yet, but seoul already glows like it knows it’s being watched. golden light bleeds through glass and water and metal, diffused through the skyscrapers until the whole skyline breathes heat and hush. from up here—on the rooftop terrace of one of the city’s most exclusive hotels—it feels like the world is pausing just long enough to whisper you look too good tonight.

the company’s anniversary banner hangs in satin above the rooftop archway. candles flicker in glass holders along the stone balustrade, and the staff—sharp in tailored black—float between tables like dancers, offering glasses of champagne to executives who barely turn their heads. it’s elegant. expensive. no one here came to relax.

you feel eyes on you before you even turn.

you’re late by a few minutes—intentionally, maybe—the heat of the evening kissing the backs of your thighs with each slow step. your dress—midnight silk, backless—clings like water and flows like threat. you pass familiar faces with polite nods and practised smiles, feeling none of it. not really. you only care about one gaze in this crowd.

you find her instantly.

jihyo’s standing near the corner, half-shaded by the awning, deep in conversation with one of the senior board members. black suit. subtle chain under her shirt collar. sleeves rolled. hair swept back like she knew tonight she’d need every ounce of composure. 

she doesn’t see you at first—she’s too focused, too professional, lips tight as she listens—but then her gaze lifts.

and she does.

you see it hit her.

something in her expression flickers—like a fuse quietly snapping. she schools it in less than a second, but you see it. the breath she forgets to take. the way her eyes drag from your neck to your lips and back again, like she’s trying not to. like she’s drowning already.

you don’t greet her. not yet. you smile at a few more colleagues, accept a drink, keep your pace even. you want her to watch you. to burn on it. to feel your walk in the pit of her stomach. you don’t touch her when you pass by. you just brush your fingers over the lip of your glass and smile at someone else’s joke. and still—her eyes don’t leave you.

you take your seat at the long table—opposite her, of course—and glance up just once to see that she’s still standing still.

good.

you cross your legs and your heel dangles from one foot, the gold of your anklet catches the last thread of sun. 

you glance down and pretend you don’t feel her staring from across the room like the view is unbearable.

the night unfolds in quiet luxury. dish after dish. toast after toast. speeches and smiles and a kind of tension that only people who’ve worked together for too long can generate. 

you barely eat. 

neither does she. 

her chair is rigid. her hand curls and uncurls on her lap every time you shift.

then—about halfway through the evening—you slip your foot out of your heel.

she doesn’t notice at first. 

her gaze is fixed on the lead of logistics giving a long-winded toast. 

she’s being polite. professional. 

she even nods once.

you’re almost impressed.

but then your bare foot nudges gently against the hem of her trouser leg under the table.

she stiffens immediately. her glass halts mid-air. her thigh tenses. 

but she doesn’t look at you. 

not yet.

you trace your toes lightly over her ankle—subtle, deliberate. then up, under her trousers, just to the curve of her calf. her bare skin is warm beneath the fine fabric. 

your foot lingers, presses lightly. 

her breath catches. not audibly, but in the way her chest stutters just once.

then her eyes meet yours.

you smile innocently. 

her jaw tightens. her fingers curl around her glass. she doesn’t move your foot. doesn’t touch you. doesn’t speak. but her gaze burns so hot across the table you feel it in your throat.

someone’s saying something beside her. she doesn’t answer.

you let your foot drag softly again—no higher than her calf—just enough to remind her that you’re there, and that no one else at this table knows. 

she swallows hard. her knuckles have gone white where they grip her glass.

you lean back slightly. “you’re doing so well, sweet thing,” you murmur—quiet, measured—just loud enough for her to read your lips.

her eyes flare dark.

she still doesn’t speak. just shifts once, her leg tightening, her face a masterclass in control.

you reward her with one final brush of your toes—soft, almost innocent. then you take a sip of your wine like nothing’s happening at all.

her restraint is a miracle.

but miracles don’t last.

she excuses herself mid-sentence from the executive next to her. the movement is so abrupt it startles them. she mutters something about the bathroom and doesn’t wait for a response. you watch her go—shoulders tense, stride tight, back stiff with something just barely held in place.

and she finds that the lighting in the mirror is soft and gold and cruel—casting everything in the kind of glow that forgives nothing. not the slight tremble in jihyo’s fingers. not the smudge of heat still blooming across her cheekbones. not the way her eyes drag helplessly from your mouth to your hands and then back again, like she’s already lost whatever war she was fighting inside that stall.

you wait for a minute.

then you rise.

and you slip into the marble-tiled hallway that leads toward the private washrooms.

you don’t turn to her right away.

you simply glance once through the reflection—just long enough to catch the rise of her chest as she tries to breathe like nothing’s happened. like you haven’t already undone her with a single look from across a dinner table. like the silk of your dress isn’t still clinging to you in a way that makes it hard for her to look—and harder not to.

you smile at your own reflection. not at her, not quite—and draw the lipstick out again.

slowly.

like every movement of your hand is deliberate. like the twist of the tube is some silent countdown.

you bring it to your lips and paint them full again, dragging the colour across the skin she hasn’t touched all evening and may not survive if she does.

her eyes follow every pass.

you lean closer to the mirror, breathe once, and then flick your gaze sideways.

she startles at the contact—eyes wide, like she’s been caught in something she doesn’t have the words for.

you don’t speak. not yet.

you cap the lipstick, place it back in your clutch, and then finally turn to face her.

her back is pressed lightly to the tiled wall behind her, like she doesn’t trust herself to move forward. the sleeves of her shirt are still rolled, veins taut along her forearms. the top button of her shirt is undone now—was it like that before?

your eyes trace it. she swallows.

“you left in a rush,” you say, voice low. not quite teasing. not quite innocent.

she tries to smile, but it falters halfway. “i needed air.”

“hm,” you hum, stepping closer. “and did you find it in there?”

“not really.”

you close the distance slow enough to give her time to run—not that she will. not that she can.

you stop only a breath away. her gaze drops again—to your mouth, then your collarbone, then the place just beneath your ear where your pulse sits heavy. she doesn’t touch you. her hands are still clenched at her sides, trembling, as if the muscles remember how to be disciplined but the bones have already given up.

“you look like you’re still struggling to breathe,” you whisper.

her lips part, but nothing comes out. she looks at you like she’s memorising. like she doesn’t trust the moment not to collapse under her.

you tuck your clutch under your armpit then bring your hands up—soft, patient—and smooth your fingers along her collar, fixing it even though it doesn’t need fixing.

her eyes flutter shut.

“my strong girl,” you murmur. just soft enough that it feels like a secret between you and the tile. “trembling already?” 

the exhale she gives is almost broken.

you lean close, just enough to let your breath brush her ear.

“you gonna behave for the rest of the dinner?”

she exhales through her nose again—almost a laugh—but it’s jagged. pained.

“i’m trying,” she whispers.

you smile. “you’re not doing very well.”

you don’t kiss her.

you don’t even touch her skin.

you just let your fingers trail down her lapel and then step back, watching the hunger in her eyes crack through restraint like light through stained glass.

she doesn’t follow.

you reach the door before speaking again.

“don’t keep them waiting too long, miss park.”

then you’re gone. heels echoing gently against marble, leaving her there—hands trembling, mouth parted, and nothing left in the mirror but want.

and then you left her there—aching.

⸻

“don’t keep them waiting too long, miss park.”

then you’re gone. heels echoing gently against marble, leaving her there—hands trembling, mouth parted, and nothing left in the mirror but want.

and the air tastes different now. heavier. warmer. not from the wine, not from the soft jazz bleeding into the corners of the rooftop—it’s her. the way she walks back to the table seconds after you do, hands slower, breath not quite even. and though no one else seems to notice, you know. you know her too well. the flush at her neck didn’t exist before.

she sits across from you again. the same chair. same white cloth. same candle flickering between you. and yet none of it is the same.

you don’t say a word. neither does she.

someone is speaking to her, someone from marketing, you think, but her gaze slips past them too often. toward you. always toward you. her lips are pressed into something that looks like a smile, but doesn’t quite hold. her fingers, usually so precise, knock slightly against her glass as she reaches for it.

your own hands stay still in your lap. you cross your legs, tilt your head a fraction, and glance past her. not at her. not directly. not yet.

but she’s already looking. 

you don’t meet her eyes. you don’t need to.

the silence between you is a living thing now. stretched taut over clinking silverware and company laughter, over the echo of a toast being made somewhere to your left. and still, nothing breaks. she doesn’t speak. you don’t move. but the candle throws light across her cheekbones and you almost flinch at how beautiful she looks trying not to fall apart.

you reach for your water glass—slowly, deliberately.

her gaze falls to your hand. stays there.

you don’t speak.

the waiter appears. plates are cleared. small desserts arrive, delicate and pink. she doesn’t touch hers.

you do.

you pick up your spoon, just as slow, just as poised, and slide the silver delicately into the soft centre of the mousse. it gives way easily, creamy and sweet. you raise the bite to your mouth and hold her gaze as you do. you don’t rush. you don’t blink. you let the spoon linger against your lips for half a second longer than it needs to before drawing it out again, tongue pressing lightly to the edge.

her reaction is almost imperceptible.

almost.

the way her jaw tenses. the sudden shift in her shoulders. the half-second she forgets to breathe.

you take another bite. even slower.

from time to time, someone laughs too loudly. someone shifts their chair. but all of that lives in the background now. a hum beneath the weight of her restraint, the way she won’t stop glancing at your shoulder, your collarbone, the edge of your jaw. you can feel her eyes there like breath. like hands. like everything she hasn’t let happen.

you rest your chin lightly on your hand.

her own hand tightens slightly against the tablecloth.

still no words.

you almost admire her for it—for holding it in. for pretending this table is just a table, and this night is just a celebration. but the way she looks at you across the low flicker of candlelight says otherwise. it says she hasn’t recovered from the bathroom. it says she’s still trying to remember how to speak. how to sit. how to behave.

a fork scrapes lightly against a plate. not hers. someone else’s. maybe two seats away.

you shift in your chair.

her eyes track the movement instantly.

you smile, barely. not at her. just enough.

and something inside her folds.

not visibly. not fully. but you know it. you feel it.

it’s in the slight parting of her lips. the deeper inhale. the way her fingers drag once across the stem of her glass and then pull back as if burned.

she looks down.

you look away.

no one notices.

the city glows beyond the edge of the rooftop, lights like distant constellations blinking in quiet rhythms. but the real stars are here—trapped in the way her shoulders sit too still, the way her pulse trembles at her throat. there’s nothing louder than silence when it’s packed this tightly with want.

she picks up her fork finally. moves the dessert. doesn’t eat it.

you don’t look again.

you already know.

the applause tapers like rain easing off a roof. someone lifts a glass one last time, laughter scatters across the tablecloths like the final few coins at the end of a long gamble. plates are mostly empty, chairs creak beneath slowly rising bodies. polite bows. goodbyes said a little too loudly. a shuffle toward the lift, toward the night, toward whatever comes after celebration.

jihyo stays seated.

you do too.

you’re not looking at her—but you feel her not leaving. the pause of her hand at her lap, the careful stillness in her shoulders. you haven’t spoken a word to each other since that spoon. since the mousse. since she almost broke herself just watching you eat.

someone claps her on the shoulder, thanking her. someone else calls her name near the exit. she raises a hand but doesn’t turn. they take it as enough.

you reach for your phone, pretending to check the time. your heart’s been loud in your chest for over an hour now and it hasn’t quietened. she’s three feet across from you and still not looking and still not leaving and still not speaking and you’re starting to wonder if this silence will break you both before anything else ever does.

her fingers tap once against the stem of her glass.

you glance up.

she’s looking down.

she hasn’t touched her dessert.

you rise slowly. not rushed. not for show. not even to draw her gaze. you just need air. you need distance. you need—

her voice is quiet. “leaving?”

it’s the first word she’s spoken to you in over an hour. since the restroom. 

you glance at her.

her eyes are already waiting.

you nod. “thought i might.”

your voice is soft. still. something inside it hurts.

jihyo’s mouth opens like she’s going to say something else. she doesn’t.

instead, she stands too.

the others are nearly all gone now. you hear the elevator ding once, someone laugh by the doors. the staff are collecting glasses, clearing centrepieces, resetting silverware for tomorrow’s event. but none of it matters. not when she’s standing now—across from you, inches from the candle that’s flickering down to nothing, and you can see it. the restraint is so heavy in her limbs it’s pulling her under. she looks like she’s drowning in wanting you.

you gather your clutch, phone, stand straighter.

she does too.

you both step back from the table at the same time.

and then neither of you moves.

just that space between you, holding everything unspoken.

you glance around. no one’s looking. the last department lead has gone. one waiter is bent low stacking napkins. the soft clink of glasses is all that fills the air.

you take a small breath and turn away.

jihyo follows.

neither of you speak as you walk toward the lifts. her heels sound slower behind you now. like she’s giving herself a second to decide what kind of version of herself she’ll be in the next moment.

your hand hovers at your side, fingers brushing your hip.

you wish she would just—

a warm palm presses gently on the small of your bare back. 

you freeze.

the touch isn’t harsh, not quite, but it’s firmer than it should be. like she’s stopped pretending not to need to be near you. her hand doesn’t move. it stays there. the weight of it pins you to your own breath.

you keep walking.

you don’t say a word.

neither does she.

the lift is open and waiting. chrome doors half-reflecting the city behind you, the rooftop lights above, the shape of her standing too close behind you now.

you step inside.

she follows.

the doors slide closed.

your shoulders tense.

her hand’s no longer on you—but you can still feel it. burned there. the heat of it doesn’t leave.

you don’t turn.

you don’t look at her.

she doesn’t speak.

but you can feel her staring.

the seconds tick.

the floor counter drops.

and still—silence.

her breath catches.

you close your eyes.

the doors open to the ground lobby.

you both step out.

the air is cooler down here, the sharp scent of night wrapping itself around the marble and metal of the building’s entrance. a car hums in the distance. a final call for a taxi echoes across the street.

you don’t move.

jihyo’s hand brushes your elbow.

you turn your head slowly.

and then her mouth is near your ear.

“come with me,” she says. not a question. not quite a plea.

you nod once.

the lobby clears.

the receptionist smiles politely and walks out with the last group.

it’s just the two of you now.

and the silence returns—dense, almost holy in how unbearably charged it feels.

jihyo doesn’t look at you.

you don’t look at her.

but when she turns on her heel and begins walking toward the private garage downstairs, her keys already in her hand, you follow without being asked.

you always do.

outside, her car gleams under the security lights. you watch as she opens the passenger door for you, quietly, gently, and when you step inside, the door shuts with a soft, final click. she rounds the hood, gets in on the driver’s side, starts the ignition.

no music plays. only the sound of your breath and hers, echoing off the silence between you.

and the city lights slip past the windows as she drives you both home.

the inside of her car feels darker than outside. muted leather, black windows, the faint hum of the engine pressed low under your feet. she says nothing when she starts it—doesn’t ask if you’re sure, doesn’t look your way when she pulls the wheel gently to turn out of the garage. she just drives.

your seat is quiet beneath you, soft and unfamiliar. the console glows faintly blue between you and her elbow rests too close to yours on it, her fingers curling slightly as she changes lanes. outside the city flashes past—signs, shapes, red lights, blinking arrows. it’s all silent inside. muffled in a way that makes everything louder. the stretch of silence. the breath she just held too long. the way her hand twitches on the wheel when you shift slightly in your seat.

she hasn’t spoken since you stepped inside. neither have you.

you glance at her. not directly. just enough to see the set of her jaw, the sharpness of it under the dashlight. her throat shifts once, a slow swallow. she keeps her eyes on the road.

you press your legs together softly, thighs bare under the fabric of your dress. 

she notices. 

she doesn’t look. 

but notices.

the air conditioning is too low. or too high. you can’t tell. it feels hot despite it. warm in a way that spreads across your skin, layered with everything she’s not saying.

she changes lanes again. you let your hand rest gently on your lap, fingers playing with the edge of your bracelet—the one she bought you. good flashes every time the car turns under a light. her eyes flicker toward it once. maybe twice.

she clears her throat. “you okay?”

you nod. your voice wouldn’t come out right if you tried it.

a pause. heavy. then—“didn’t like the way they looked at you.”

it’s the first time she’s said anything that sounds like her. not the ceo. not the composed, restrained dinner host. just her. raw and real and unable to stop what’s slipping through.

“they barely looked at me,” you murmur. your voice is soft.

“they looked enough.”

you glance at her fully now.

her jaw’s tight again. her hands are tenser on the wheel. her gaze doesn’t shift from the road.

you press gently, just once. “are you jealous?”

silence.

then, so quiet you barely hear it—“wouldn’t you be?”

your pulse jumps.

you smile faintly. turn back toward the window.

she exhales slowly.

the drive feels longer than it is. 

her neighbourhood is high and tucked away—sharp turns, tall hedges, security gates that glide open only when her number plate is recognised. the car hums low up the incline toward the house, tires soft on perfect tarmac. you glance at her again as the garage opens—motion light flickering on above—and watch her eyes flick up to the mirror.

when she parks, the silence doesn’t move.

she kills the engine.

your breath catches.

she doesn’t reach for the door immediately. doesn’t even unbuckle.

just sits.

you do the same.

her eyes are on the dash, fixed, distant. you turn your head slowly, watching her in the stillness.

and then she speaks.

“i couldn’t stop thinking about you,” she says, quiet, like confession. “at that table. across from me. all night. you knew it too.”

you nod once, just enough for the space to feel like it shatters between you.

“you were teasing me,” she says. there’s something darker in her voice now. “with your eyes. your smile. your foot. that stupid spoon.”

you lean in closer, just a little. your voice lowers. “what are you gonna do about it?”

that breaks her.

not visibly. not yet.

but her eyes find yours. and they don’t leave.

the pause is unbearable.

she gets out first.

you follow.

the house is clean, modern, mostly glass and dark wood, tall ceilings and recessed lighting that throws golden pools across the marble floor. it’s silent. too silent. like it’s waiting for something to start.

you step inside after her and the door shuts quietly behind you.

jihyo walks ahead slowly—heels echoing faintly as she slips them off by the entry. you do the same. the cold floor bites softly at the soles of your feet.

she turns halfway in the hall, watching you.

“come here.”

your legs move before your brain does.

her hand reaches out, slow, sure, and you step into it—let her fingers brush your wrist, then your jaw, then trace down the side of your throat like she’s checking if you’re still there. like she’s not sure if you’re real.

her other hand rises.

settles against your waist.

your mouth parts just slightly.

“i want,” she begins, but she doesn’t quite finish. her thumb grazes your collarbone instead. “you knew what you were doing at that table. didn’t you?”

you nod.

softly.

“you’ve been doing it for weeks.”

another nod.

her lips part. not to speak. just to breathe.

“i’ve never wanted to touch someone so badly,” she murmurs, “and had to pretend i didn’t.”

your fingers lift to her chest—press softly into the fabric there.

“then stop pretending.”

the silence that follows feels like the moment before lightning hits a field.

then—she moves.

the hallway is quieter than it should be. 

behind you, the door shuts with a hush, locking the night out but letting something heavier in. not just heat—not just silence—but something else. like restraint buckling under its own weight. like breath held too long finally starting to shiver.

jihyo doesn’t speak. she doesn’t need to. her hand finds yours without hesitation and the pull is soft, deliberate. it takes you through the curve of the foyer, past the artwork neither of you glance at, into a living room far too spacious for the hush you’re wrapped in now. dark furniture, pale stone, walls of glass looking out into the sleeping city. her home smells faintly of cedar and rose. it’s her—but quieter. deeper.

your dress whispers against your legs as you move. her steps are slower than usual, as though she’s not sure what happens when she lets go—but she’s ready to. she’s close.

you stop only when she turns around.

she’s standing beneath one of the recessed lights and it crowns her in something too soft to be electric. her expression is unreadable at first. but her hands—her hands are not. they twitch once, open, curl back into themselves.

“you look…” she breathes out, not finishing.

you tilt your head. “what?”

her voice drops. “like everything i’ve ever wanted. sitting there. all night. just smiling. and i couldn’t touch you. couldn’t say a word. do you know what that does to someone?”

you step closer.

“tell me,” you say. not a dare. not a request. just soft, curious, real.

her throat works. she looks down at your lips and back up again. her hands fall to your waist slowly.

“you,” she murmurs, “drive me out of my mind.”

you reach up—your fingers grazing the hem of her blazer.

“then lose it,” you whisper.

her mouth finds yours in the next second.

it’s not soft.

it’s not sweet.

towards the end of december, i was in the car with a couple of my friends when a drunk driver hit us. in this accident, i had some severe injuries, including some broken bones, that i am still healing from. however, i should be grateful that a few injuries are all that i sustained because one of my friends in the car ended up passing away.

it has taken me a while to fully comprehend what has occurred and i’m very sorry to have just disappeared on you all. please understand that it wasn’t me just quitting my blog, instead it was me sort of forced to stop with my fics to focus on my health and recovery, whilst also mourning the loss of a friend that i was very close to.

soon, i will continue posting. i’m not exactly sure when but it will not be long, but please bare with me and have some patience because i have still not fully returned to “normal” in terms of health and mind.

please know that this explanation is not me trying to gain sympathy or anything of sorts, it is plainly just an explanation of my inactivity.

thank you so much for reading & being patient, and i am truly sorry to have just stopped posting.

stay happy, healthy, and safe my loves!

jihyo’s never really liked thursdays. they’re neither here nor there—too far from the weekend to feel hopeful, too close to the end to feel productive. 

but today, she hates thursdays. 

because it’s the eighth time this week she’s passed the finance floor under the guise of needing to check something—anything—only to find you not at your desk.

you’re in the conference room, apparently. giving another report to your department lead. and she should be in hers, reviewing the latest projections. but she isn’t. she’s here. again.

she tells herself it’s about leadership. about presence. but when she glances through the glass and sees the way your eyes shine when you speak—focused, assured, bright in that way that makes her chest twist—she knows she’s lying.

you glance up mid-sentence. her breath catches. you don’t smile. you don’t falter. but you know she’s there. and for jihyo, that alone is enough to ruin her composure for the rest of the day.

later, she lingers outside the break room a little too long, fingers curled around the rim of her coffee cup like it’s the only thing keeping her tethered. your laugh carries through the half-open door—low, warm, softened by affection—and she hears her name in your voice, playful, teasing.

a second later, you appear.

she doesn’t move.

you almost walk into her.

there’s a beat where neither of you speak.

then you blink, startled, and say, “miss park.”

and something about the way you say it—half-smirk, half-challenge, like you know what you do to her and do it anyway—has her pulse flaring just beneath her collar.

she clears her throat. “i thought you were still in your meeting.”

you tilt your head. “wrapped early. they were impressed.”

she nods. “of course they were.”

your eyes search hers for something. she doesn’t know if you find it. but you walk away with a knowing smile. and she watches you go like someone starving watches the last light leave the room.

later still, she catches you on your way back from lunch. she doesn’t plan it. not really. she just happens to leave her office the moment you’re coming down the corridor, face flushed from the sun, fingers swiping something off your phone screen.

your blouse is cream. tucked neatly into a darker skirt that stops mid-thigh. your heels aren’t high, but the shape of your legs, the way your hair falls over your shoulder, the way your mouth curves when you spot her—it all burns.

you slow.

she says your name.

“a moment?” she asks, softly.

you nod. “of course.”

inside her office, the silence is charged. she closes the door behind you and it feels like crossing a threshold you can’t uncross.

she doesn’t sit.

neither do you.

“i’ve got a gala to attend,” she says, voice too formal. “next week. i’ll need someone from finance there.”

you raise a brow. “someone?”

“you.”

your laugh is small. surprised. “you want me to accompany you?”

“i’d like that,” she says. then, quieter—“a lot.”

you search her face again.

then you nod.

“what should i wear?” you ask.

she steps closer.

“something that’ll make me regret inviting you in public.”

you smile. it’s slow. devastating.

“dangerous,” you murmur.

her eyes dip to your lips.

“only if you let me touch you after.”

you hum. “maybe if you behave.”

and you’re gone before she can say anything else.

alone, jihyo exhales like she’s been holding her breath since monday.

and for the first time in a long time, she doesn’t mind that it’s still only thursday.

⸻

the gala is on a saturday night.

you meet her at the venue. not by accident, not by coincidence—she told you when and where, what time to arrive, what door to come through. her voice had been low over the phone, not quite a command, but not something you could ignore either.

you’d messaged her asking what to wear.

she replied asap. dark. simple.

so you wear a backless satin number, midnight-dark, with a high slit and no straps.

it clings to your waist, skims the line of your thighs, and glows faintly under the street lamps outside the grand hall.

you wait by the entrance, ignoring the occasional stare, the glances from passing guests. her car pulls up smooth and silent. the door opens.

she steps out.

black suit. silk lapel. no tie. the top button of her shirt undone. and when she sees you—

her breath catches. just barely. but you see it.

you say nothing at first.

you just look at her, and she just looks at you.

“you said simple,” you murmur.

she doesn’t smile. not really. just moves closer, eyes trailing down the line of your figure in the tight dress like she’s committing every inch to memory.

“but you look dangerous,” she murmurs back.

you take her arm without a word.

inside, it’s noise and light and velvet carpeting, clinking glasses and polite laughter, too much perfume and not enough warmth. but jihyo holds her composure like armour. she glides through the crowd with you at her side, measured and careful.

she introduces you as her associate. finance department. nothing more.

no name. no title beyond the professional.

you don’t flinch. you expected it. wanted it.

because the last thing you want is anyone else to know what she looks like when she’s undone. how she kisses. how she murmurs your name like it’s a secret worth breaking rules for.

but still—

her fingers touch the small of your back too often. linger too long. when you’re both speaking to the same pair of investors, her hand rests on your wrist, like she needs the anchor.

at one point, she leans in to murmur something near your ear—some quip, maybe, about one of the board members who’s had too much to drink—and her lips graze the shell of your ear.

you feel it in your knees.

when you step away, you catch her eyes following you across the room. more than once.

you find her again near the terrace, eyes cast out over the city skyline through the high windows, one hand curled loosely around a half-full glass.

you slide up beside her, not quite brushing shoulders.

“you’re not exactly being subtle,” you say quietly.

her gaze flickers, but she doesn’t look at you.

“no one’s looking at me,” she says. “they’re all looking at you.”

you hum. “jealous?”

she doesn’t answer right away.

when she does, it’s quiet.

“always.”

you let that sit for a moment.

then—“you’re lucky i like you,” you say.

her eyes meet yours.

and then she says, low, almost like she’s warning herself—

“come with me.”

you follow.

she leads you through a side corridor, up a set of stairs tucked behind an alcove. the space narrows. goes quiet. then opens again into a high-ceilinged private lounge overlooking the city. thick curtains drawn back. golden lighting. polished floors and no one else around.

“did you plan this?” you ask, stepping in, your voice echoing just slightly.

“maybe,” she says.

you turn to face her.

“miss park,” she stops. eyes on yours. waiting. “this doesn’t feel very work appropriate.”

a slow tilt of her head.

“good.”

she moves toward you—and you let her.

your back meets the window. the glass is cool, your breath a little less steady now.

she lifts a hand to your jaw. thumb brushing just beneath your cheekbone.

and then she kisses you.

not with hesitation. not with panic.

with need.

her lips part yours like a question she’s already answered. she kisses you like she doesn’t care who she’s supposed to be. just that she wants you.

and you kiss her back because you’ve wanted this—wanted her—for far longer than you ever admitted aloud.

you reach for her. pull her closer by the lapels of her blazer.

she presses her body to yours like she needs the contact just to breathe.

“you’re going to ruin me,” she whispers between kisses.

“you’re already ruined,” you reply, and she groans, deep in her throat, burying her face against your neck.

after, when you’re both catching your breath, clothes still on but creased, lips swollen, her forehead rests lightly against yours.

you close your eyes.

her hand slips down your spine. rests gently at your waist.

“come home with me,” she says.

you hesitate.

her voice softens.

“i’ll drive. you don’t have to stay. just… come with me.”

you don’t say yes.

you just nod.

and she leads you back through the halls like she’s afraid to let go of your hand.

⸻

you don’t expect to find her there again.

not this late. not in the quiet that comes after the office empties out—when the halls echo and the lights hum faintly overhead and the whole floor feels like it’s holding its breath.

you pause at the end of the corridor, a folder tucked under your arm, and glance through the sliver of glass in the meeting room door.

she’s inside. bent slightly over the table, the edge of her sleeve brushing paper. she’s frowning, lips parted, one hand on her hip and the other fiddling absently with the cap of a pen. her hair is down—looser than usual—and her blazer’s nowhere in sight.

you hesitate.

then you push the door open with the quietest click.

her head lifts instantly.

you see the moment her expression shifts—like a tide rolling in. something soft flickers through her eyes before she pulls herself up straight, smoothing the hem of her shirt and clearing her throat.

“didn’t think anyone else was still here,” she says, voice even.

“same,” you reply.

you step in, set the folder gently on the table, and pretend your pulse isn’t speeding up just from being near her.

her eyes linger a second too long.

“you look tired,” she says after a pause.

“so do you.”

a faint smile ghosts her lips, then fades. she glances down at the papers again, then back up at you, fingers tightening slightly against the table.

“i’ve been thinking about you all day,” she says—quiet, like she didn’t mean to say it out loud.

your breath catches.

“jihyo—”

“i know,” she says, cutting herself off. “i know. but i can’t help it.”

you don’t move. neither does she. but the room feels different now—warmer, heavier, full of something unsaid.

then, softly: “you wore that dress on purpose, didn’t you?”

you glance down at yourself. it’s a subtle work-appropriate dress, simple jewellery—but you know what she means.

you lift your gaze. meet hers. “maybe.”

her jaw clenches. she looks away like it physically hurts to keep eye contact. then she breathes out, slow and ragged.

“you’re going to be the end of me,” she mutters.

you tilt your head. “then stop staring.”

she does look at you then, sharply. eyes dark.

“can’t.”

your heart stutters.

you clear your throat. “you should get back to work.”

“you should leave before i forget how to be professional.”

you hold her gaze.

neither of you move.

finally, you take a step back. her eyes track every motion.

you reach the door, pause, glance over your shoulder.

“goodnight, miss park.”

her breath catches.

“say that again and i’ll—”

“what?” you ask, playful, biting. “lose control?”

she doesn’t answer.

you smile faintly and slip out before you can say something else.

but her eyes are still burning through your back.

⸻

the day starts like a wound.

jihyo doesn’t realise she’s already bracing until she sees it—until the elevator doors part and the new hire steps out just behind you, shoulder tilted slightly too close. his mouth is moving, probably something about the logistics forecast he’d been tasked to present, and you’re nodding, lips ever so slightly curved, brows arched, sunlight streaking across the planes of your face like it’s choosing you on purpose.

jihyo doesn’t move. she watches from down the hall, mug in hand, body turned just enough to look like she’s mid-thought and not mid-jealousy. but her eyes are fixed.

you laugh at something. throw your head back just slightly. the new hire grins. he says something else, and his hand grazes your elbow—light, casual, forgettable.

except jihyo doesn’t forget it.

her knuckles tighten around the mug. her breath shortens, cuts clean in her chest. she turns on her heel before she can see more. heads back to her office without acknowledging the little buzz of her assistant greeting her, without hearing the latest memo from ops. her jaw is set. her spine is steel.

the rest of the morning is distance.

you don’t know why.

jihyo passes by your desk twice. doesn’t look. doesn’t speak. when you hover near her office for a meeting, she nods at others but not you. her voice is clipped, neutral, everything polished and untouchable.

you try not to let it hit. try not to let your chest tighten the way it does. but something about the chill in her gaze knocks you sideways.

for your mid-afternoon snack, you go to the break room. need a breather. you open the fridge, fingers reaching for the yoghurt you stashed earlier, when—

“hey,” says a voice behind you. you turn.

it’s him. the new hire. he smiles easy. his tie’s loose around his collar like he hasn’t figured out company dress code yet, and his sleeves are rolled halfway up his forearms.

“was just about to heat up the leftover pasta from lunch,” he says. “want some?”

you blink. polite, automatic.

“no, thank you.”

he nods. shrugs. “suit yourself. you’re always super busy, huh?”

“it’s just a lot to stay on top of,” you say. “but i like it.”

“i can tell,” he says. “ceo park must love having you.”

the sentence makes you still. something about the phrasing. your fingers tighten faintly around the yoghurt pot.

you don’t respond.

but then something shifts behind you. you turn slightly, eyes catching movement through the glass—jihyo.

her gaze is fire.

she’s standing across the hall, hand paused on a door that leads to the office of your department lead, body angled ever so slightly like she’d been on her way in—until she saw you.

you can feel her stare.

the tension crackles between the three of you—except he doesn’t notice it. jihyo doesn’t move. you meet her eyes and something twists in your stomach.

it clicks.

you understand.

you finish your yoghurt in silence. excuse yourself. go back to your desk.

when evening arrives, she’s still ignoring you.

a part of you is frustrated. another part just—aches. because you know her by now. know what she does with feelings too big to name. she retreats. she armours herself. and you can’t help but feel like the shield she’s using is forged from the distance between your desks.

you open your drawer. stare at your notepad. then, without much thought, you reach for a pen. tear a piece of paper from the pad. smooth it flat. and begin to write.

your handwriting is slow, careful. the lines are neat. the words aren’t many.

you don’t try to justify or explain. you just tell her one thing:

if you wanted to talk to me, i’d always listen. 

you don’t need to disappear to protect your pride. 

i’m not going anywhere, j.

you sign it with your initial. softly. like a whisper she might be able to hear if she’s quiet enough.

you pause, just for a second. then, impulsively, you reach into your bag. pull out the small bottle of perfume you keep in a zipped side pocket. spray once—softly, faintly—into the air, and wave the paper through it. just once. just enough.

fold the note carefully.

as the office begins to quiet—people leaving, lights dimming—you hold the note in your palm and walk towards her office. your steps are quiet. you don’t knock.

her door is closed. the lights inside are low, but you can tell she’s still in there.

you crouch down. slide the note under.

and then you leave.

and jihyo doesn’t realise how long she’s been pacing up and down her office until she gets an email notification on her smartwatch from her assistant with a reminder about the contract update.

she waves it off.

she can’t focus.

all she can see, all day, is the image of that man—too close. his hand. your smile.

and it’s irrational, maybe. but the way it lit a fire in her chest made her want to throw her title away and cross every line just to pull you into her arms.

she sits. stands. sits again.

and then she sees it.

a piece of folded paper—tucked just under the edge of the door.

she frowns. moves toward it.

pauses when she sees your handwriting on the outside.

for a second, she doesn’t breathe.

her hand hovers.

she picks it up. slowly. like it might shatter in her grip.

it smells like you.

she knows it’s ridiculous. but it does. soft, floral, something with warmth and sweetness underneath with notes of jasmine. she inhales like it’s the only air she’s had all day.

her hands shake as she unfolds it.

she reads.

and the words knock the breath from her chest.

you called her jihyo.

not miss park.

jihyo.

she stares at the note for a long time.

and then she presses it to her lips.

⸻

the next morning, you’re in early. coffee in hand. a little tired, but steady.

you sit at your desk. open your laptop. start your inbox.

and then you see it.

a small white box.

your breath catches.

it’s neatly wrapped. tied with a thin black ribbon. there’s a card.

your name, written by her hand.

you open the card first.

it’s not long.

you deserve better than silence. 

i am learning; one mistake at a time. 

thank you for being patient with me. ~ j.

you swallow.

your heart stirs as you open the box.

inside is a necklace—fine gold, a simple pendant, small and delicate. you turn it in your fingers. the metal is warm against your skin.

you look closer.

on the back of the pendant, in faint, barely-there engraving—a ‘j’.

your lips part.

you don’t put it on right away.

instead, you hold it in your hand. press it gently to your chest. close your eyes.

and when you open them again, the corners of your mouth have curled upward—just a little. just enough.

⸻

the meeting is mid-morning. the kind that stretches too long and moves too slow. sunlight pours in through the conference room windows, warm and golden, slicing across the table in neat lines. it flickers off tablet screens, catches in coffee spoons, casts sharp shadows beneath the frames of glasses and across notepads filled with data.

you’re standing at the front of the room, presenting. composed. effortless. voice even and firm, tone dipped in subtle command. you speak with the weight of someone who knows the numbers, who trusts them to speak louder than anything else.

jihyo is watching you. has been, from the second you stepped up to the front.

at first, it’s the usual—her gaze tracking your movements, her mind parsing every word you say before you finish saying it, her jaw taut with focus.

but then—

the sun shifts.

and the light catches on the gold at your throat.

jihyo’s eyes snag on it—glinting beneath your collarbone, the necklace she gave you—subtle, delicate, with the faintest little pendant that catches the light like it’s meant to be seen only by her.

only—

the clasp is at the front.

tucked close beside the pendant. exposed, like you’d had it on you for forever that it moved by itself.

jihyo stops breathing for a second.

and then the meeting disappears.

she can’t hear the words anymore—not yours, not the questions tossed gently from the clients at the far end of the table. she can’t track the spreadsheet on the projection screen or the careful rhythm of your pacing. all she sees is the delicate curve of the chain, the way it rests against your skin, the flicker of gold trembling with each breath you take.

and that clasp.

out of place. wrong.

a flaw on something flawless.

something that taints you. your body.

her fingers twitch.

she’s suddenly, overwhelmingly aware of how small this meeting room feels. how many people are in this room. how loud the blood in her ears sounds.

you’re still talking. you haven’t noticed her gaze.

you should be wrapping up now. the data presentation is almost done. and she knows she should be focused, sharp. 

a ceo at a client meeting. 

an executive presence.

but her mouth is dry.

because the necklace is backwards.

and you’re wearing it.

you’re wearing it for her.

she doesn’t hear the last three slides.

the meeting ends. you answer one last question with a smile, calm and poised, and then step back to your seat. people begin gathering their things, chairs scraping quietly against the floor, soft murmurs of conversation filling the air.

jihyo doesn’t move.

she watches you slip into your chair again, thank a colleague who murmurs something in your ear. she watches your fingers smooth over your notes, your lips part slightly as you sigh, as if releasing all the tension of the presentation in one breath.

and she waits.

waits until the last person leaves.

until the glass door swings closed with a soft click and the hallway beyond goes quiet.

you stand. slow.

stretch slightly.

and she’s there.

behind you.

you don’t startle.

you don’t speak.

you just look up.

and jihyo doesn’t say anything either.

her hand lifts.

slow, deliberate.

she touches the chain.

her fingers brush the clasp, her thumb pressing gently to the metal. her other hand finds the end of the necklace at the nape of your neck.

your breath stutters.

she leans in.

you can feel her breath at your ear.

warm. shallow. trembling.

her fingers trail across your collarbone as she works the clasp around, guiding it back into place behind your neck. she’s close enough that you can feel the brush of her body against yours, the way her palm presses briefly, softly, to your sternum to steady you—no need for it, no logic in it—just touch.

her mouth is inches from your jaw.

she exhales through her nose, slow, heavy.

“you’re wearing it.”

your lips part.

barely.

you don’t look away.

“i’m wearing it for you.”

jihyo’s fingers still.

you tilt your chin just enough that the curve of your cheek brushes hers.

“i thought you’d notice.”

her hand lingers at your chest. she doesn’t move away.

“the clasp was at the front,” she murmurs.

you hum. “you always notice the small things.”

she exhales again.

her thumb strokes once against your pulse point before it drops. her hands retreat.

you don’t move.

she does.

only a step. but enough.

she lets the silence breathe for a second.

“you shouldn’t tempt me like this,” she says. voice low. rough. dangerous in a way that isn’t threatening—just aching.

you smile. slow.

and then turn around.

“you like being tempted.”

her mouth parts. closes.

“when it comes from you.”

she’s standing inches away, eyes darker than before, tension drawn across her shoulders like wire.

you tilt your head.

“fixing my necklace wasn’t exactly helping.”

“i had to.”

“oh?”

“i couldn’t look at it anymore,” she says. “i couldn’t watch everyone in that room see you, see you wear something so beautiful and not know it was mine.”

you blink.

the words slam into your chest like a punch wrapped in silk.

and then her hand finds yours.

gentle. tentative. fingers curling against your knuckles like a question.

you don’t answer it with words.

you just lean forward.

press your lips to hers.

the kiss doesn’t last long—both of you conscious of where you are—but it said more than words could.

your forehead rests against hers,

and you breathe.

she does the same.

you stay like that for a long moment.

not kissing. not touching more than that one held hand.

but everything in the air between you is louder than sound.

and jihyo?

jihyo doesn’t care about the rest of her schedule.

she only cares that the necklace is sitting right now.

and that you’re still wearing it.

for her.

but she cares more about you.

⸻

the tv plays something low and forgettable. just background noise. the light from the screen flickers faintly across the walls, casting soft, shifting shadows over the living room. outside, the city hums on, but in here it feels like the world has slowed—quieted to the thrum of two heartbeats too close to one another.

your shoulder is pressed into the curve of her side, your knees tucked beneath you, a blanket pulled over the both of you like a secret. jihyo’s arm rests along the back of the sofa, and the side of your head is pillowed against the flat of her chest.

you can hear her breathing.

you think maybe she’s trying not to disturb the moment, like a held breath might make it last longer.

“alright,” you murmur, fingers curling beneath the edge of the blanket, “your turn.”

“my turn?” her voice is soft, and you feel the low vibration of it in her ribs.

“to ask something. we’re getting to know each other, remember?”

a pause, and then, “right.”

you can tell she’s thinking too hard about it. she wants to ask the right question. the real one.

“favourite smell,” she says finally.

you grin. “baked bread. or books. something warm. you?”

“jasmine. and the inside of old cars. the leather. the dust.”

“you are such a contradiction.”

she huffs a breath—maybe a laugh. maybe an exhale of nerves.

“what’s your biggest irrational fear?” you ask.

“being forgotten.”

you go still for a moment. “that’s not irrational.”

she doesn’t answer.

you shift slightly to see her face better. she looks calm. but there’s tension in her jaw, like that answer cost her something.

“i won’t forget you,” you say, voice low.

her eyes find yours in the dim. “you say that now.”

“i mean it always.”

jihyo doesn’t reply. but her hand slips from the back of the sofa to rest—barely there—on the outside of your thigh.

you take that as a question in itself.

“i don’t like being lied to,” you offer, curling closer. “or being made to feel like i’m too much.”

“you’ve never been too much,” she says instantly.

you smile, small. “you don’t get to be the judge of that.”

“i do when i’ve spent months wishing i could handle more of you.”

your breath catches.

there’s a silence, and then she speaks again, quieter now.

“have you ever been in love?”

you blink.

then sit up slightly, shifting to face her.

“are we going there now?”

“we don’t have to.”

“no,” you say. “it’s alright.”

you pause.

“i’ve had relationships. a boyfriend. and… a girlfriend. back in uni.”

jihyo’s brows lift—just slightly. but you see the tension hit her shoulders like a wave. it doesn’t show on her face, but you feel it in the way her fingers twitch, in the way she blinks slower.

“what were they like?” she asks, carefully.

“both were different. the first was sweet but also taught me a lot. the girl…”

you trail off.

“she taught me how much it can hurt to want more than someone’s willing to give.”

jihyo’s jaw tightens.

“and you?” you ask.

she hesitates. “i’ve never… been in a relationship.”

you blink. “never?”

“never had the time. or maybe i never let myself have the time. i always thought… if i let someone in, they’d become a distraction. or worse, a weakness.”

“and now?”

she looks at you.

“now i know that’s not true. not when it’s you.”

you shift closer. your hand finds hers.

“you’ve never been in love?”

she shakes her head, slow.

“have you ever wanted to be?”

“only recently.”

you’re quiet for a long moment.

“do you think it’s possible to fall in love slowly?” you ask. “like—not all at once. but in tiny moments. unnoticed.”

“i think that’s the only way i’d survive it,” she says.

you smile. “dramatic.”

“honest.”

her thumb brushes yours.

“what about childhood dreams?” you ask. “what did little jihyo want to be?”

“a singer,” she says. “or a vet. i wanted to help things. fix things.”

“you sort of still do.”

“and you?”

“i wanted to be a princess.” you laugh. 

she laughs. it’s small, but real. “that actually makes sense.”

“how rude.”

you both grin.

there’s a pause, then: “favourite time of day?”

“late evening,” you say. “that quiet just before everything turns dark. you?”

“early morning. before the city remembers it’s meant to be loud.”

your head finds her shoulder again. her hand moves to rest over your wrist, holding lightly.

“ever wanted to run away?” you ask.

“every day.”

“where?”

“i don’t know. somewhere green. quiet. with someone who makes it worth it.”

your breath stills.

“would you ever actually do it?”

she shrugs. “maybe. if i found someone who asked me to.”

your fingers tighten slightly beneath her hand.

you lift your head again, look at her properly.

“you’re being very honest tonight.”

“i don’t want to waste any more time,” she says.

you lean in, slowly, eyes flicking between hers.

“neither do i.”

there’s a beat.

and then she leans in too.

your foreheads rest together.

you breathe.

you don’t kiss. not yet.

just sit there in the quiet. her arms wrapping around you. your legs drawn over hers.

her chest rises and falls beneath you. you can feel it. steady. sure.

“what are you thinking?” you whisper.

“that i could stay like this forever,” she replies.

you close your eyes.

and in the silence, it feels like she means it.

⸻

it starts small. it always does.

a murmur of heat in the boardroom, the soft whirl of the aircon failing to reach the back corners. the steady trickle of conversation from the clients across the polished table, one of them half-smiling at something unmemorable. it’s midday, and the sun streams through the tall windows like it’s trying to catch someone out. everything’s a little too bright.

you’re sitting near the end, pen loosely between your fingers, shoulders relaxed in the way they only are when you’re not fully aware of them. you’ve just asked a question—sharp, succinct, the kind that lingers a second too long after it lands. one of the clients answers with a laugh that doesn’t meet his eyes. jihyo doesn’t like him. hasn’t liked him since the first handshake.

she’s across the room, leaned slightly forward, watching the exchange like it’s a chess match. the sleeves of her blouse are rolled neatly to her forearms. there’s a faint tightness in her jaw.

and then she sees it.

your shirt—a pale pink, high-quality cotton, fitted more than just right. a button low on your chest has come undone. not overtly, not scandalously, but enough. enough to draw attention. enough for the older man on the left to glance once, then again, eyes skimming downward like he’s owed the sight of the white lace underneath. 

jihyo stills.

your voice goes on, unaware. you don’t notice the shift. don’t notice the air snag in the space between words. you’re not looking at the eyes that linger too long.

but she is.

and then she moves.

quiet, fluid. her voice slices in, interrupting—“we’ll pause here.” not quite a command, not quite a suggestion.

you blink, caught mid-sentence. her tone doesn’t allow for questions.

jihyo’s eyes find yours. “come with me. just a moment.”

you follow instinctively, confused but obedient, no one stops you. 

no one asks why. 

no one ever does when it’s her.

she leads you out of the room without touching you, but it feels like she’s holding your wrist the whole time. 

her pace is brisk, precise. 

the corridor is quieter than it should be.

then she ducks into the nearest restroom.

“inside,” she says softly.

you follow her in, still catching up. the door swings shut behind you. the world narrows.

“what’s—”

“stand still,” she says.

her voice isn’t cold. it isn’t warm either. it’s trembling at the edge of something else. her fingers move to the button just above your sternum. her eyes flick up once, searching yours. something in her pauses.

you whisper, “jihyo?”

she swallows.

“you didn’t notice,” she says. her voice is quieter now. “they were looking.”

you glance down. 

finally see it. 

the undone button. 

your skin in white lace exposed just enough.

you inhale, mortified. “shit. i didn’t—”

“i know.”

her hands are already moving, fixing it. one hand steadies the fabric at your waist. the other lifts the button through its hole with slow precision. it should take two seconds. it takes ten.

you don’t breathe.

her fingers linger, just a little too long. you can feel the pads of them through the shirt, the way they pause after the work is done, as if the fixing of it wasn’t the point at all.

“jihyo,” you say again, and this time it’s more of a question than a name.

she lifts her gaze. and that’s the mistake.

because she sees your face. really sees it. your mouth parted slightly. your brow furrowed. the faintest pink on your cheeks. and beneath it all—trust. unguarded and open and hers for the taking.

she shouldn’t. she knows she shouldn’t.

but her hand moves before her mind can stop it. the tips of her fingers trail lightly up the fabric, over your collarbone, past your neck, to the place just behind your ear. soft. reverent.

and then she leans in.

her lips press to the side of your neck like a prayer. like a confession. like she’s only just allowed herself to want.

you freeze. then melt.

it’s not rough. it’s not desperate. it’s slow. aching. the kind of kiss that tastes like restraint stretched thin.

she breathes out against your skin. moves lower. jawline. just beneath it. another kiss, this time less careful. her lips part slightly against you. you can feel her breath, warm and shaky.

“jihyo,” you whisper. you’re not even sure what you’re saying.

her other hand finds your waist. the hold is grounding. it also makes your knees weaken.

you turn slightly into her, as if by instinct, like your body’s always known how to fold into hers.

and that’s when she pulls back.

abrupt. sharp. like she’s been burned.

her chest rises and falls too quickly. she looks at you like she doesn’t recognise her own hands.

“i’m sorry,” she says. it comes out too fast. “i—i shouldn’t have.”

you shake your head. “no, it’s—”

“we should go back,” she says.

but neither of you move.

and it takes almost a full minute before she reaches for the door.

when she does, her hand is trembling. just slightly. not enough for the world to see.

only you. only you ever see it.

⸻

it’s the kind of late that settles into the bones. not quite nightfall, but far past the end of the working day. the lights in the building have dimmed into their energy-saving mode, casting the corridors in soft, humming blues. the air feels heavy, too still, like the office itself is holding its breath.

your screen glows in front of you, open to a spreadsheet you’ve already revised three times. it’s not the work that’s keeping you here. it hasn’t been for at least an hour. it’s something else—something you can’t quite name, or won’t. not yet.

jihyo is still here too.

you sense her before you see her. the quiet shuffle of papers from her office, the low creak of her chair as she shifts. she hasn’t spoken to you since everyone else left, save for a soft murmur about a client file and a thank you when you handed her a coffee. but she hasn’t left either. and somehow, that says more than anything.

the city outside glows faintly through the window. headlights pass, indifferent. the sun dipped below the skyline long ago, but the heat of the day lingers in the glass, warm and sleepy.

you lean back in your chair, stretching. your spine cracks audibly. you don’t care.

across the room, she stands.

you glance up, and your eyes meet hers.

“done?” she asks, voice quiet, like the room might echo.

“yeah,” you reply, and it sounds louder than you mean for it to.

she nods once, smooth. deliberate. then, “come on. i’ll walk you out.”

it’s not a question. but it’s not an order, either.

just something soft that lives in the space between.

you don’t hesitate.

you gather your things slowly, slipping your laptop into your bag, winding the charger around your fingers, anything to delay the moment just slightly. not because you don’t want it—because you do. because it feels like the night might shatter if you move too quickly.

you walk beside her through the empty corridor, footsteps muffled against the carpet. the silence is thick but not uncomfortable. it breathes between you, slow and even.

the lift arrives with a soft ding. neither of you speak inside it.

when the doors open to the ground floor, the city greets you like an old friend. warm air, tinged with exhaust and late-night food stalls. seoul glows with that strange kind of beauty only visible to those who stay behind—the ones who wait for the quiet to return.

she steps outside first. you follow.

for a while, you just walk.

the streets are quieter now. the rush is over, replaced by the soft rhythm of feet and tyres and wind. a few shops remain open—convenience stores lit like beacons, bakeries packing away trays of uneaten sweets. somewhere down the block, you hear music. not loud. something melodic and aching from a passing car.

jihyo doesn’t speak for the first few streets. her hands are tucked into her pockets, her posture straight but not stiff, as though holding herself in place by force. you glance at her profile now and then, stealing seconds. her eyes flick toward yours once, catch you looking, and instead of looking away, she just… softens.

she doesn’t smile. but something loosens in her jaw.

you pass a quiet street corner where an old man waters plants in pots lined up along a fence. the pavement is cracked, the tiles uneven. neither of you trip. there’s a rhythm to the way you walk—unspoken, but known. her shoulder brushes yours once. she doesn’t pull back.

you reach a junction where the road splits left and right. to the left, home. to the right, nowhere in particular.

she doesn’t say anything. she just turns right.

you follow.

you’ve walked together before—between meetings, between buildings, on the way to company dinners—but never like this. never when the city was half-asleep and the air hung this low. you feel every step. every breath. every moment where your hand almost, almost grazes hers.

it isn’t nerves. it’s something deeper. slower. almost reverent.

you pass a flower stall packing up for the night, white daisies drooping softly in buckets of water. then a small bench beneath a streetlamp, its metal still warm from the day’s sun. you wonder if she’ll stop. she doesn’t.

you keep walking until the road begins to slope, just slightly, toward the han river.

and then, just ahead, you see them.

a couple, maybe a few years younger than you. the girl is wearing a loose jumper and a skirt that brushes her ankles. her partner is standing behind her, arms wrapped lazily around her waist, chin resting on her shoulder. they’re laughing at something on a phone screen. not loud. not obnoxious. just soft.

you feel jihyo still beside you.

not a full stop. just a slowing. like her body is caught in thought.

you stop too, instinctively.

the couple doesn’t notice. they’re in their own world. and maybe that’s what makes it sting a little—the casualness of it all. the ease. the comfort of belonging.

jihyo speaks, finally.

“do you ever think about it?”

you turn to her. “what?”

she gestures gently toward the couple. “that. being like that with someone.”

you swallow.

you don’t answer right away. you look again at the girl leaning back into her partner’s chest, the way their bodies fit like they’d done it a thousand times before.

“sometimes,” you say quietly.

she nods. her eyes stay forward, but something flickers across her face—something like pain, softened by longing.

then she says, in a voice so low you nearly miss it—

“are you mine?”

the question lands differently than anything else she’s ever said to you.

not professional. 

not polite. 

not even romantic.

raw.

bare.

your breath catches.

you don’t answer.

she goes on, barely above a whisper.

“because i already know i’m yours.”

you can’t breathe.

“i don’t know when it happened,” she says. “it wasn’t a sudden thing. it was slow. annoying, even. it was the way you looked up from that first file with your hair in your eyes and didn’t look at me like everyone else does.”

your heart pulls painfully in your chest.

“and then it was the way you say my name when you’re unsure. the way you say it when you’re tired. the way you said it in the restroom today like i hadn’t just undone something inside you.”

you close your eyes.

the city moves around you. cars pass. wind hums through the trees. somewhere far off, someone laughs.

but here, there’s just her.

just jihyo and her breath and the shape of you in her mouth.

“i didn’t mean to feel this,” she says. “but i do. every time you walk into a room. every time you wear that necklace. every time you ask me if i’m okay when i don’t even know how to say that i’m not.”

you open your eyes again.

she’s looking at you now.

not past you. not through you.

at you.

“and if you’re not mine,” she says, “i’ll keep walking. i won’t ask again. but if there’s even a part of you that’s already mine—say something. please.”

your voice doesn’t work. it’s somewhere in your throat, stuck behind everything you’ve wanted to say since that first day. since the moment her eyes caught yours across the boardroom and didn’t let go.

so you step forward.

closer than before.

your chest nearly touches hers.

you nod. just once. small. quiet. the kind of nod that means yes without needing the word.

her breath stutters.

her shoulders relax. 

her eyes, glassy, widen slightly. 

her pupils dilate. 

the corner of her lips raise slightly. 

“you are?” she whispers.

you nod again.

she laughs then—a soft, wet sound like something cracked wide open.

and then, gently, with the same tone she uses when she’s scared and sure at the same time—

“will you be my girlfriend?”

you reach up, hand trembling, and touch her cheek. her skin is warm beneath your fingers.

you whisper, “yes.”

and then she kisses you.

slow. delicate. no urgency. no performance.

just lips pressed to lips like prayer. like relief. like finally.

when she pulls back, it’s only far enough to rest her forehead against yours.

you both breathe. shallow. shaky.

and for the first time in weeks—maybe longer—she smiles like she’s allowed to.

and you—

you smile back. because you are.

because she’s yours. and you are hers.

finally.

fully.

quietly.

⸻

you didn’t sleep well the night before—not because you’re worried, not exactly, but because something inside you feels too full. it’s the knowledge of her. the way her voice still clings to your skin from that phone call the night before. the memory of her lips behind your ear. the warmth of her hand curling around your wrist when she whispered mine.

you keep the lights low as you get ready. your fingers linger too long over which blouse to wear, which scent to dab at the inside of your wrist. you choose the one she once leaned into without thinking. you don’t wear lipstick. she likes when you look soft in the mornings. like you just woke up. like you’d let her kiss you before anyone else gets to see you.

the train is quieter than usual. a woman in the corner is eating a banana and scrolling through the news. someone’s playing music from their phone too loudly. it’s summer but the windows don’t open. the heat is syrup-thick and humming already. you shift your bag on your shoulder and keep your head low.

you try not to think about seeing her again.

but you do.

you do.

you enter the building with your mouth dry. the receptionist smiles. you nod. you press the lift button and exhale so slowly it barely counts. your reflection in the mirrored walls looks like someone trying not to fall apart.

then the lift doors open on the twelfth floor—and you see her.

her back’s to you at first. she’s leaning against the far wall near the printer, talking to a department lead. 

and then she turns.

and she sees you.

the air leaves her face in one slow breath.

you don’t stop walking—but your heart does something sharp in your chest.

her eyes softens. changes. you know the look she gives you now. the one that isn’t for anyone else. the one that says i’ve been waiting all morning just to see your face.

she says something to the man beside her—still serious—but her eyes don’t leave yours.

you want to kiss her. 

you don’t. you nod. small. like a habit. like a secret.

she blinks once. presses her tongue to the inside of her cheek like she’s holding something back.

then she starts walking.

you pretend you don’t notice at first. you check your phone. turn down the corridor like it’s just another tuesday.

but you hear her footsteps fall into rhythm behind you.

and it’s slow.

intentional.

the hallway stretches too long. every fluorescent light flickers slightly. the carpet beneath your heels is soundless. her footsteps are quieter than yours but you can feel them.

you know she’s looking.

you know the way she looks.

you don’t stop.

she follows.

you round the corner toward the kitchenette, the door to the small stairwell creaking as you press it open. you step inside—cooler here, quiet. no one around.

you’re not even three steps in before her voice reaches you.

“so you’re going to pretend you didn’t see me?”

you pause.

her hand touches your back. light. reverent.

you turn.

“you were busy,” you say, almost smiling.

she tilts her head. “i wasn’t.”

“you were talking with that guy, all serious.”

“i was trying to focus because i knew you were walking past,” she starts. “and if i didn’t force myself to focus, i would’ve walked right over to you.”

you don’t say anything.

she takes a step closer.

“you look unfair,” she murmurs. “how am i supposed to get anything done today?”

you let her eyes trace you—slow, like the sun moving over your skin. her fingers don’t reach for you. not yet. but you see the effort in her restraint. the way her hand curls into a loose fist at her side. the way her throat tightens when she swallows.

“you’re staring,” you whisper.

she nods. “i can’t help it.”

you glance toward the door behind her.

“someone could come in.”

she shakes her head. “no one uses these stairs.”

you raise a brow.

“i checked before i followed you in.”

you try to look annoyed. it doesn’t work. your lips twitch. she sees it.

“you followed me?”

“i saw you and i couldn’t not.”

you lean back against the wall. the brick is cool behind your shoulder blades.

“you’re my boss,” you say.

“and you’re my girlfriend.”

you exhale.

she steps forward. just enough that you can feel the warmth of her body—not touching, but close.

“i missed you this morning,” she says. “i kept waiting to hear your laugh over someone’s spreadsheet. or see you roll your eyes when lee asks about reimbursements again.”

you look up at her. “it’s been one hour.”

“sixty-seven minutes,” she corrects.

you laugh. “you’re ridiculous.”

she smiles. “i’m yours.”

you press your tongue to your cheek, suddenly shy. your body wants to lean into her. your heart wants to crack open on the floor.

she reaches for your hand instead. holds it lightly. presses her thumb to your palm.

“do you want to stay in here for a bit?” she asks.

you shake your head. “we’ll get caught.”

she nods slowly. “okay.”

she steps back.

“can i see you at lunch?”

“that’s four hours from now.”

“i’ll survive if you look at me a few times across the room.”

you smile again. “okay.”

she hesitates.

then steps forward and presses the softest kiss to your knuckles.

“see you soon,” she murmurs, and slips out before you can say anything else.

you stand alone in the stairwell, heart stumbling, mouth aching for more.

she doesn’t touch you again for the rest of the day.

but every time she walks past your desk, she’s already looking.

on wednesday, it’s the heat that does it. the power flickers mid-afternoon, the office lights stuttering once, twice, then cutting entirely. a low groan rises across the floor. monitors blink to black. someone sighs something about the air conditioning.

you’re already standing near the kitchenette, fingers wet from a rinsed glass, when she appears in the doorway. no footsteps. just her. blouse slightly unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves pushed to her elbows. she doesn’t say anything—just walks past you toward the small battery-powered fan set on the counter.

you both stand in front of it in silence. the fan isn’t strong. it stutters every few seconds. but it’s enough to make the sweat on the back of your neck cool for a breath.

she tilts her face toward the breeze. her profile is a painting.

you look away.

“this is kind of nice,” she says quietly.

“the blackout?”

“the quiet.”

you don’t answer. the silence stretches.

then she speaks again, even softer. “i’ve been thinking about your neck all day.”

your breath catches. you keep your eyes on the fan.

“the way your hair’s tied up,” she continues. “i almost—”

you glance at her.

she stops. swallows. her throat moves.

then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, her hand rises. her fingers reach toward the side of your head. slow. reverent. she brushes a single strand of hair back behind your ear and lets her fingertips drift down the side of your throat.

it’s so soft you almost miss it.

she steps back before anyone comes in.

you don’t speak.

you don’t need to.

later that week, you catch her staring again. not once. not twice. five separate times.

you’re sitting in a late-afternoon company wide meeting—some guest speaker present yapping on about how to boost employee morale, which, intern, boosts productivity—three rows of desks facing the projection screen. someone from operations is speaking. you don’t know what they’re saying. you haven’t been listening.

because you can feel her, see her sitting at the front with the guest speaker. 

not close enough to touch, but close enough to ache.

you shift slightly in your chair and the corner of your eye catches hers.

she’s not looking at the speaker.

she’s looking at your mouth.

you turn back toward the screen and press your lips together. her gaze feels like silk and fire.

five minutes pass. ten.

you glance down at your notes. pretend to scribble something.

you bite your lip, slow.

you see her breathe.

and your throat dries up.

the next day, it’s your turn to ruin her.

you’re in the staff kitchen early—before most people. she walks in mid-sentence, talking to someone behind her, and pauses when she sees you leaning against the counter eating a yoghurt.

she freezes.

the man she’s talking to doesn’t notice. he says something about client figures. she nods absently. says, “mhmm,” eyes still locked to your mouth.

you don’t make it easier.

you dip the spoon.

her lips part.

you take the bite.

her hand grips the edge of the counter as she walks past.

you don’t smile. but your pulse does.

she brings you a drink the next monday. doesn’t say anything. just places it on your desk around midday—when pretty much everybody is on lunch—and walks away.

you stare at the condensation sliding down the cup for a full minute before touching it. it’s still cold.

your phone buzzes ten seconds later. a message from her.

don’t say thank you. just drink it.

you type,

are you trying to keep me hydrated or in love with you

then delete it.

you don’t respond. but you drink the whole thing.

on tuesday, she walks past you in the corridor and stops you.

“your blouse,” she says, quietly. “the tag’s out.”

you blink.

“turn,” she says.

you do.

her fingers graze the back of your neck, then the centre of your spine. she tucks the tag in slowly. like it’s taking effort. like she wants to drag it out.

you feel her fingertips longer than they’re there.

you don’t turn back around until she’s gone.

it’s a thursday when she touches you in front of someone else. not in a way anyone would notice. but enough that you feel it for the rest of the day.

you’re both standing in the lift with a few other staff, heading down to the lobby. she’s talking to the her assistant, voice low and friendly, face perfectly composed.

but her hand is at her side.

and her pinky finger brushes against yours.

once.

then again.

you don’t move.

you just keep your eyes on the lift door and feel her finger tap yours, soft, rhythmic, like a heartbeat.

she doesn’t look at you when she steps out first.

but her hand trails yours as she goes.

two days later, you run into her at the convenience store near the office.

it’s past 9pm. the lights are humming. the air is still sticky from the heat. you’re grabbing cold noodles and a drink. you’re tired. your hair is tied messily. you didn’t expect to see anyone.

but there she is—aisle three.

she stares at you like she’s stunned.

you both smile at the same time.

you end up walking home together. you don’t hold hands. but your arms brush every few steps.

she doesn’t say anything about how you look. but she keeps looking.

she asks you nothing about work. but she asks if you’re eating enough. if you’re sleeping.

she doesn’t kiss you goodbye.

but she watches you until you’re inside.

it’s a tuesday evening when she finds you dozing in the back office. you’ve been there for hours, working overtime, working through client reports, the summer heat making everything feel slower, stickier. you hadn’t meant to fall asleep—you were just resting your eyes.

but when you open them, she’s already kneeling beside you.

her hand is not quite touching your knee.

“you okay?” she asks softly.

you blink. “what time is it?”

“way past eight.”

you stretch, groggy. the fabric of your shirt pulls slightly at the shoulder. she watches it.

“you didn’t have to stay,” you murmur.

“i wanted to check on you.”

your eyes find hers.

“your voice,” you say, “woke me up.”

her lips twitch. “good.”

she reaches out and brushes something—nothing—from your cheek. her fingertip linger too long.

you don’t move.

the office is dim. the only light comes from the frosted glass. her shadow stretches beside you.

you whisper, “stay with me a minute.”

she does.

on wednesday, she sends you a message during a long board meeting. you’re seated three chairs apart, acting like strangers. the room is cold with artificial air and tension. numbers blur on the screen.

your phone buzzes once.

you’re making the air warmer

you look up. her eyes are already on you.

you don’t smile. but your whole body feels it.

friday. rooftop. golden hour.

it’s accidental.

you step out for air, holding a file you don’t actually care about, and there she is—leaning against the ledge, hair loose, phone forgotten in her hand.

she turns as you approach. doesn’t speak.

you don’t either.

you stand beside her, the sun soaking both your shoulders. the city glows below. somewhere, far off, music plays from an open window.

she doesn’t touch you.

but she stands so close you can feel the heat of her hip through your skirt.

you glance at her once.

her mouth is parted. her lashes thick. her breathing slow.

“this feels unfair,” she whispers.

you murmur, “what does?”

“you. being near me. like this.”

you want to kiss her.

but you don’t.

she steps away first.

sunday afternoon. the heat is unbearable. even with the windows open, the flat feels thick. you’ve tied your hair up. you’re sipping iced tea on the couch, legs curled beneath you, when your phone lights up.

it’s her.

jihyo [14:22]: are you home?

you [14:22]: yeah, how come?

jihyo [14:22]: i’m outside.

you rush to the door. she’s standing there with two bottles of peach iced tea, both sweating from the walk. she’s in loose linen trousers and a tank top, hair clipped up messily, lips a little dry.

“hi,” she says, breathless.

you let her in.

she sets the drinks down and turns to you, suddenly shy.

“i just wanted to see you,” she admits. “i didn’t know what to do with myself all day.”

you don’t say anything. you just take her hand and lead her to the couch.

you sit side by side. the fan whirs. the tv plays something you’re not watching. her fingers graze your thigh, your wrist, your cheek. she’s slow, like she doesn’t want to ruin the silence.

then she leans in and kisses your temple.

then your shoulder.

then your jaw.

then stops.

“you feel like sunday,” she murmurs. “like the part of the day that makes you ache before it ends.”

you turn.

kiss her once, soft.

she breathes out. her forehead presses to yours.

you close your eyes.

the fan keeps spinning.

she doesn’t leave until the sky goes black.

and it’s only because she has to. 

⸻

it begins with footsteps in the heat. low heels against sun-warmed pavement, a rhythm just behind yours, even but quiet, measured like breath—soft enough not to draw attention, certain enough to draw everything else.

you don’t know she’s there. 

not at first. 

not when you turn the corner outside the office and the morning presses its weight against your skin, nor when you shift your bag higher on your shoulder and blink the sleep from within your eyes. 

your head aches from the night before—excel sheets and wine and one too many thoughts about the way her hand felt on your lower back—how it lingered—when she passed behind you in the breakroom.

you don’t see the black town car that dropped her off. don’t notice the driver pulling away with a respectful nod as she stepped out, dressed like something sharp and ruinous in the warm light, her blouse tucked in clean, her eyes already on you.

you walk like you always do. not slow, not fast. your steps measured, focused, unaware.

but she sees everything.

she sees the curve of your waist above your belt, the slight shift in your shoulders as you pull out your badge. she sees the way your skirt moves when the wind brushes your side. she sees the back of your neck, soft and damp with heat.

jihyo stares.

not greedily.

not like a man might.

she stares like it’s the only way she knows how to breathe.

every step she takes behind you is quiet, deliberate, full of a hunger she has spent weeks learning to starve. she follows you into the lobby without a word, lets the glass door swing open behind your shoulder, watches you scan your keycard, watches the way you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear with fingers she swore she wouldn’t touch this week.

you step toward the lifts.

she exhales.

not loud. just enough. just barely.

you don’t turn.

you reach out, press the button for the upper floors, and wait.

and then—

she’s there.

beside you.

shoulder against yours.

not brushing. pressed. firm. intentional.

the contact hits like heatstroke.

her perfume—sharp and clean and impossible—folds around your throat like silk. your breath stutters before you can stop it. her body radiates warmth. you know this. you’ve felt it before, on those nights when she kissed your collarbone and called it devotion. but this—this is different. this is public. this is risk.

still, you don’t move.

neither does she.

the lift dings.

the doors open.

you both step in.

and it’s quiet.

so quiet.

just the two of you and the soft hum of artificial air, the faint tick of the floor indicator lighting up.

you move to the side. she follows. doesn’t look at the panel. doesn’t press anything.

you feel her eyes.

you know she’s looking.

you know the way she does when she thinks no one sees her—that unblinking, worshipful, desperate way that makes your stomach twist.

you turn your head slightly. just enough. her gaze is already there.

her mouth is parted.

and something breaks.

she steps forward—one step, two.

reaches out.

presses the stop button.

the lift halts with a soft thud.

you barely breathe before her hands are on you.

she pushes you back—gently but with purpose—until your spine meets the wall of the lift, cold against the fabric of your blouse, and then her hands are on either side of you, not touching yet, but close, close enough to cage in the heat. her eyes don’t move from yours.  

you say nothing. your breath is shallow. your pulse is impossibly loud in your ears.  

her fingers twitch once at her side, like she’s still giving herself a chance to stop. but her eyes drop—first to your mouth, then to your neck, then down, down, to where your blouse is unbuttoned at the top from the weight of the summer.  

she leans in, slow, reverent. like a prayer.  

“i’ve wanted to do this all week,” she whispers, her lips grazing the shell of your ear. “you walked ahead of me like that... like you knew.”  

you shake your head. but your body says otherwise.  

she smiles against your skin. and then her mouth touches your jaw, your cheek, your temple.  

“my girl,” she breathes.  

her hands rise. one of them finds your waist, the other your face. she tilts your chin toward her like she’s holding something delicate. like she knows it could all shatter.  

her lips touch yours like they’re testing something forbidden.  

but the second you part your mouth, it changes.  

she inhales sharply. pulls you in.  

the kiss turns hungry.  

then desperate.  

then something entirely else.  

her hands slide up your sides and around your back, gripping you like she can’t believe you’re real. your arms wrap around her neck without thought. the tension between you isn’t tension anymore—it’s release.  

you moan softly against her mouth. she swallows it whole.  

her tongue drags slow against yours, every movement saying i missed you, i need you, i can’t breathe unless i have you like this.  

you don’t answer with words. you just arch into her.  

she breaks the kiss only when she has to breathe, but her lips don’t go far.  

they move to your cheek again. your jaw.  

then—  

your throat.  

she kisses it once.  

again.  

and again.  

then bites gently at the curve where your shoulder meets your neck.  

you gasp. 

her grip tightens.  

she wants to mark you. 

you can feel it in the way her mouth hesitates over your pulse. “not there. people will see.”  

she stills. pulls back just enough to look at you.  

the question in her eyes is soft. silent. asking.  

you nod.  

slow. 

sure.  

yes.

she exhales like she’s been holding that breath for days. then—slowly, reverently—she brings her hands to the buttons of your blouse. 

her fingers shake, but not from hesitation. 

but from want. from awe. from the unbearable pressure of needing you and not being able to show it for so long.  

you watch her. chest rising and falling like a wave crashing again and again, your heartbeat so loud it blurs the sound of the halted lift around you.  

one button.  

two.  

her eyes never leave yours, not until the third slips loose and the front of your bra is fully visible.  

she pauses.  

her hands rest against your ribs, thumbs brushing just beneath the line of lace.  

you breathe her name.  

and that’s all it takes.  

she drops her head.  

kisses the space above your heart like it’s sacred.  

again. again. again.  

soft. open-mouthed. adoring.  

your lipstick—the one smeared over her mouth—smears against your skin, warm, smudged nude blooming down the centre of your chest. 

she doesn’t stop to look. 

she doesn’t care.  

her mouth moves slowly. 

deliberately. 

marking you in a way that doesn’t belong to men or rumours or performance reviews. 

this is hers. 

and she makes sure every kiss says it.  

you tilt your head back against the wall, your mouth parting, a small, quiet sound escapes you. 

it makes her press harder. kiss deeper. her tongue flicking over the edge of your bra, then lower, the heat of her breath burning into your skin.  

you whisper her name.  

she murmurs, “mine.”  

you nod again. more breath than movement.  

“say it,” she whispers, voice wrecked.  

“yours,” you say. 

and it comes out like a promise. 

like something irreversible.  

she groans, soft and buried, her mouth still trailing over your skin.

her hands tighten at your sides. one lifts to your shoulder, steadying you. the other presses to your lower back.  

she kisses every inch of skin she can reach. above your bra. across your sternum. the curve of your collarbone. she’s marking you without a trace of cruelty—only hunger. only worship. only need.  

you don’t want her to stop.  

you can’t remember what it feels like when she’s not touching you.  

and then—her mouth still against your chest, her breath warm and dizzying—she lifts her eyes.  

you follow her gaze.  

you both turn—just slightly—toward the mirrored interior of the lift.  

your lipstick is everywhere.  

on her mouth. your throat. your chest.  

her own lips are swollen. stained. flushed.  

and in the glass, jihyo sees herself.  

what she’s become in front of you.  

what she’s let herself do.  

what she’ll never be able to take back.  

and she doesn’t look away.

your hand lifts to her jaw. your thumb traces the curve of her cheek, smeared red catching on your skin. she leans into the touch instinctively, like your hand is gravity and she was always meant to fall.  

“we should…” you begin, but the words don’t finish. they fall flat between your mouths, heavy with everything that can’t be said out loud—not here, not now, not while your blouse hangs open and her breath still tastes like want.  

“i know,” she whispers. but she doesn’t move.  

her hand stays on your waist. her forehead leans against yours. and for a moment—just a moment—there is nothing else. no floors above. no emails waiting. no risk. only heat. only her. only the way your chest brushes hers when you breathe.  

“how am i supposed to pretend after this?” she asks, almost broken.  

you don’t answer. you just close your eyes and kiss her again.  

softer this time. slower. like goodbye. but it isn’t.  

she buttons your shirt with trembling fingers. she fixes your lipstick without looking in the mirror and you wipe the traces of yourself off jihyo’s mouth. 

when the lift finally begins to move again, neither of you speak.  

you exit first. she stays behind.  

the door closes. her reflection disappears.  

but the heat doesn’t leave you. 

it clings to your skin, to the space just above your bra, to the ghost of her hands still pressing into your back.  

and even hours later, when the building is full and your desk is loud with numbers, your mouth still tastes like her name.

⸻

it’s quiet.

the office is empty, hours tipping past when anyone reasonable should still be here. outside, the city hums under streetlights, the windows fogged faint with the breath of evening.

your jacket’s slung over your chair. your eyes are tired. your shoulders slope with the weight of the day.

and jihyo still can’t look at you without wanting.

she leans against your desk—but it feels smaller now. private. like it belongs to just the two of you.

“it’s late,” she says softly.

you glance up, one brow lifting, that familiar teasing edge curling the corner of your mouth. “so go home.”

“you.”

you shrug.

you both stay.

minutes stretch.

the hum of the air conditioning fills the space. her eyes drag over the slope of your spine, the faint creases in your blouse, the shape of your wrists resting on the desk.

you shift in your seat. stretch. roll your neck until it clicks. “you staring or helping?”

she moves closer. 

you swivel in your chair as she reaches you, legs parting slightly beneath the desk, casual, confident in a way that makes her chest ache.

her hands find yours and she pulls you up.

they then find your waist, light, testing. you don’t move away.

you tilt your chin up instead, eyes sharp, curious.

“this helping?” you murmur.

her fingers tighten just enough to answer.

you lean in, knees brushing hers, and she can’t hold back any longer.

she kisses you.

soft at first. slow. testing the water you both already drowned in weeks ago.

you kiss her back like you’ve been waiting for her to catch up.

it builds.

your fingers twist in her shirt, drag her closer.

her hands slide along your sides, settle at your hips, pull you flush against the desk.

your mouth parts for hers, breath catching between teeth and tongue.

it’s not careful anymore.

it’s not restrained.

your hand curls around the back of her neck, acrylics grazing skin, and she groans softly into your mouth.

she slowly pushes you against your desk.

her thigh slots between yours.

your hips shift.

her pulse stumbles.

she wants to lose herself in you. wants to forget the clock, the city, the walls still standing around both of you.

but she pulls back.

just enough.

her forehead rests against yours, breath uneven, eyes closed.

you exhale a shaky laugh. “what?”

her voice is rough. raw.

“i want to take you out again.”

your brows lift, teasing. “this isn’t out?”

“properly.”

you smile, small, warm, infuriating. “you already have.”

“one more,” she breathes. “before we—” her eyes open, meet yours, dark, heavy, honest—“before this.”

you stare at her for a long moment.

then you nod.

soft. sure. the corner of your mouth curling like maybe you understand exactly why she’s pulling away.

her hands linger at your waist.

yours trail down her arms.

and for the first time tonight, neither of you need to rush.

⸻

the restroom is quiet.

the echo of running water hums low in the tiled space, fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead. you’re standing at the sink, fingers adjusting the tuck of your blouse into your skirt, fixing your appearance with steady eyes.

the door clicks behind you.

you hear her. 

jihyo’s stride is slow. sure. 

in the mirror, you see her. 

her blazer’s off, sleeves rolled, the faintest flush still along her throat from the day’s meetings.

she doesn’t speak as she approaches.

her hands find your hips gently, fingers curling in at your waist, body pressed along your back in one smooth, familiar motion.

you don’t flinch.

her mouth is near your ear, warm breath curling against your skin as her nose nudges lightly at your neck.

“seven o’clock,” she says quietly.

she uses her nose to move your hair before placing a soft kiss on the skin of your neck. 

your eyes meet hers in the mirror. 

“meet at your place,” she adds, voice lower now, threaded with quiet intent.

you arch a brow. “bossy.”

her smile curls against your cheek. “you like it.”

her fingers shift along your waist, lingering at the curve of your hips, thumb tracing small, absent circles.

“wear something like that black dress,” she murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “the one you wore the first time i completely lost my mind over you.”

your pulse stumbles.

she leans in just enough for the tip of her nose to trail along your jaw. “unless you want me distracted all night,” she adds, “you should pick something else.”

your mouth tugs faintly, small, amused. 

“but i like you distracted,” you say, voice soft, teasing.

her eyes darken in the mirror. “i know.”

you let the silence stretch, her hands still heavy at your hips, her chest pressed to your back.

then you reach for your lipstick, uncapping it slowly, applying it with steady, practiced ease.

jihyo’s eyes narrow, but she watches every second.

when you finish, you lean back into her, eyes still fixed to hers in the mirror.

“seven,” you echo.

she nods once, pulse visible along her throat.

you leave her standing there.

you can feel her stare long after the door swings shut behind you.

⸻

the knock at your door comes exactly at seven.

you open it to find jihyo composed but softened—blazer missing, bare skin glistening under fabric, dark trousers fitting sharper than they should. her hair’s tied loosely at the nape of her neck, makeup minimal, eyes focused entirely on you.

her gaze drags down your frame, slow, appreciative, teeth pressing faintly into her lower lip as she takes in the sight of you in a maroon dress. 

“good choice,” she says, voice low, hand curling gently around your wrist as you step back to let her in as you finish getting ready. 

and the restaurant is quiet. tucked away on a narrow street you’ve never noticed before. low lights. quiet music. too many candles.

jihyo keeps her hand on your lower back the whole time you walk from the car to the table. 

conversation flows easy. laughter softer now. the sharp edges between you dulled, replaced by something warmer. settled.

she watches you over her wine glass like you’re the only thing in the room.

your foot brushes hers beneath the table. intentional.

her smile curves, dark, knowing.

neither of you rush.

by the time she walks you to your door, the air between you is heavy again, and crackles—heavy, thick with everything neither of you are saying. every step closer stripped more restraint from both of you, the want trailing close behind as it begins to press in every step. 

you stop at your door, fingers curling around the key in your lock, pulse low and steady like you’ve practised this. you look at her—up close now, shadows under her eyes, lips parted faintly, every inch of her down bad and barely hiding it.

“you coming in?” your voice is quiet. edged. dangerous in the way you know she can’t refuse. 

her eyes drag to your mouth, slow and deliberate, like she’s debating losing control entirely right there on your doorstep.

“eventually,” she says, voice rough, low.

and the promise of her earning it—earning the permission, the right, to be able to walk into your home after waiting right at your door until you decide she gets to walk through—curls straight through you.

⸻

the meeting should be simple.

finance review. department updates. end-of-quarter numbers.

jihyo’s done a thousand of these. in her sleep. on autopilot.

but not today.

because you walk in looking like that—blazer fitted to your waist, skirt skimming the line of your thighs, heels sharp, blouse tucked in so neatly it borders on cruel.

you know exactly what you’re doing.

your eyes catch hers as you take your seat across the table. calm. unreadable. dangerous.

jihyo swallows hard.

her assistant starts the meeting. slides flash on the screen. voices blur.

all she can see is the way your legs cross, how your skirt tightens just enough to make her pulse trip. the faint line of your collarbone where your blouse dips. the delicate glint of your necklace resting against your throat.

your voice starts.

she’s supposed to be listening.

supposed to be focused.

but your words—clean, confident, sharp—slip through the cracks of her restraint like warm honey.

you stand to present, fingertips brushing the edge of the table, blazer shifting with your movement.

her stomach tightens.

the room hums with quiet focus. charts, numbers, graphs.

all she sees is the curve of your waist, the soft glint of skin at your thighs when you turn slightly to point at the screen.

you lean over the table as you explain a breakdown of projections.

her jaw clenches.

your eyes meet hers, briefly, steady, knowing.

she forgets what slide they’re on.

her assistant fills in the blanks. the team keeps talking. she doesn’t hear them.

her gaze drags back to your mouth as you speak, the faintest curve of a smirk curling there like you know you’re wrecking her and you’re enjoying it.

she can’t look away.

your presentation ends.

murmured praise. heads nodding.

her chest burns.

you sit, composed, legs crossing again, skirt riding just enough to make her dizzy.

the meeting ends. chairs scrape back. papers shuffle.

you pass her on your way out, pausing at her chair.

your hand trails lightly along her shoulder. 

but your fingers graze the nape of her neck—a whisper of touch, featherlight.

“eyes up next time, miss park,” you murmur under your breath.

her pulse shatters.

you’re gone before she can breathe again.

⸻

the bar is warm with noise, low lights casting everything in soft gold. music hums under the swell of conversation, glasses clink faintly over polished tables.

jihyo barely hears any of it.

the investors finally signed this afternoon. weeks of meetings, numbers, pressure—all of it closed neatly with a handshake and ink on paper. the tension in the building evaporated the second the contracts hit the table.

she should be relaxed.

instead, she’s watching you.

you’re tucked between sana and nayeon, drink in hand, head tilted as you listen to some story nayeon’s telling. your smile curls easy at the edges, quiet and real, your eyes warm with the afterglow of the win.

jihyo’s heart stumbles.

you laugh.

she nearly chokes on her drink.

it’s soft—just loud enough to carry across the table—but it cuts straight through her, sharp and clean.

you lean your elbow on the table, fingers brushing your temple, eyes crinkling faintly as sana jumps in to add something, both of you giggling.

jihyo’s barely heard the story.

her gaze tracks the line of your jaw, the slope of your neck where your blouse dips just enough, the soft flush rising along your cheeks as the alcohol settles in.

you sip your drink. your lipstick leaves a faint mark on the rim. your nails tap lightly against the glass as you set it down.

someone clinks their glass, proposing a toast to the department, to the win.

you lift yours, eyes shining.

jihyo lifts hers, eyes only on you.

the night stretches.

the team softens. drinks flow. laughter hums low under the clatter of ice in glasses.

you talk easily to everyone—the department leads, the assistants, even one of the newer interns—your smile patient, your laugh light, your posture relaxed.

you glow in the low light, confident, soft, untouchable.

and then the drinks tip you just past careful.

your eyes glaze faintly at the edges, your smile slipping wider, your fingers looping gently around sana’s arm as she leans in to tease you.

jihyo can’t look away.

your laugh is looser now, warm, head tipping back against the booth.

your hand curls around your drink, lazy, absentminded, thumb tracing circles along the condensation.

jihyo wants to touch you. wants to press her hand to the small of your back, feel the warmth of your skin under her palm, steady you as you tilt your head toward her with that soft, glassy-eyed smile.

you glance at her.

your eyes meet.

the air shifts, heavy, quiet.

your smile curves. small. knowing. drunk enough to be bold, sober enough to mean it.

jihyo’s pulse trips over itself.

you lean your chin on your hand, elbow on the table, watching her across the room with eyes that say you know exactly how gone she is for you.

she drinks the rest of her wine.

she doesn’t look away once.

⸻

you barely manage to unlock your apartment door.

the key wobbles once, misses the lock entirely, and you laugh under your breath—soft, unfocused, breath warm with the buzz of the drinks still lingering in your system. the door finally clicks open and you stumble inside, heels forgotten somewhere in the hallway, your bag sliding down your arm to hit the floor with a dull thud.

jihyo follows at a careful distance, her coat draped over her arm, eyes sharp despite the late hour. no one from the office noticed—no one ever does. to the team, she’s still the composed ceo, untouchable, unflinching, and you’re still her employee. nothing but neat lines between you, all clean professionalism on the surface. nobody looking close enough to notice how she never stops watching you. how you always feel her eyes first.

but now—now you’re toeing off your heels in the middle of your living room, swaying faintly as you shrug your blazer off your shoulders and let it hit the floor with a careless thud. forgotten, keys tossed haphazardly onto the kitchen island.

jihyo closes the door behind you with a quiet click, her eyes tracking your every movement. her jaw clenches faintly as you fumble with the buttons of your sleeveless blouse, pulling it off with minimal grace, fabric crumpling on the carpet behind you as you stumble toward your bedroom.

her ears burn.

she stoops, picking up your blazer first, folding it neatly over the back of your couch. your blouse follows. the skirt comes next—a soft, careless drop to the floor that leaves you laughing quietly, bare legs catching the low glow of the streetlight filtering through the windows.

jihyo doesn’t let her gaze drop. 

but she can’t look away.

your laugh is quiet, tipsy, breathless. you disappear into your bedroom for a moment, drawers opening and closing, wardrobe creaking faintly as you tug on a pair of pyjama shorts and an oversized t-shirt that falls past your hips. your hair’s a mess—strands sticking to your cheek, the faintest flush lingering across your skin from the drinks, your eyes heavy but stubborn.

jihyo exhales through her nose, her pulse an uneven thrum beneath her ribs. she collects the rest of your clothes, folding them with steady hands, setting them aside in a neat pile before trailing after you.

the sound of running water follows.

you’re leaned over the bathroom sink now, splashing cold water onto your face, dripping onto the floor, your fingers clumsy as you reach for your toothbrush. your reflection catches her in the mirror, her frame silhouetted in the doorway, coat now tossed over the arm of your sofa, eyes dark, unreadable.

“you’re not leaving,” you say, voice low, words soft and slurred around the edges but firm with quiet insistence.

jihyo’s brow arches, her arms folding across her chest as she leans against the doorframe. “you’re drunk.”

“doesn’t matter,” you mumble, fumbling for a spare toothbrush in the drawer under the sink, shoving it toward her with the same stubborn tilt to your mouth that’s been undoing her for months. “you’re staying.”

she huffs a quiet breath, fond, eyes tracing your face, your flushed cheeks, the glint of water on your collarbone. “you really want me to stay that badly?”

“yes.” your voice leaves no room for argument. your gaze is hazy but unwavering. “please.”

her chest tightens.

she takes the toothbrush from you, her fingers brushing yours, the touch sending a sharp ache curling low in her stomach. she turns to the sink, brushing her teeth beside you in silence, the two of you framed together in the mirror. your eyes flick to her every few seconds, your expression softening, your stubbornness turning fond.

when you’re done, you stumble back toward your bedroom, tugging at the hem of your t-shirt as you go. the apartment is a mess now—clothes trailing behind you, your heels abandoned by the door.

“pyjamas,” you mutter, digging through a drawer, pulling out a pair of matching pyjamas. you toss them toward her. “can’t sleep in work clothes.”

jihyo hesitates for a breath, her cheeks flushed, but your pointed look leaves no room for protest. she changes quickly, the fabric soft and worn, your scent clinging faintly to it.

you climb onto the bed, blankets twisted, your limbs sprawling carelessly across the mattress as you bury your face in the pillow.

jihyo folds your discarded clothes neatly on the chair by the window before turning back.

you lift the blanket, eyes heavy, your voice quiet but sure. “get in.”

her heart stumbles.

she moves carefully, sliding beneath the covers, lying stiff at first, cautious despite the drunken haze softening the edges of the room. 

but then you reach for her, curling your arm around her waist, tucking your head in her neck, breath warm against her throat.

her pulse trips over itself.

you’re so close.

your fingers curl loosely in the fabric of her shirt, your breathing slowing as sleep pulls at you, the faintest smile curving your lips as you mumble, barely audible, “stay.”

“i’m here,” she whispers back, her voice low, rough, her arm wrapping around your back, her palm splayed flat between your shoulder blades.

you fall asleep like that—safe, wrapped around her, your heartbeat steady beneath her fingertips.

jihyo lies awake long after, staring at the ceiling, your warmth pressed against her side, the quiet rise and fall of your chest anchoring her.

the room is dark, still.

she lets herself breathe.

⸻

you wake slow.

the first thing you register is warmth—steady, real, pressed along every inch of your side. the second is the faint, rhythmic rise and fall beneath your cheek, the soft thud of a heartbeat beneath layers of fabric and skin.

you breathe in.

the air smells faintly of your shampoo. 

and something else.

her.

you don’t open your eyes yet.

your body is heavy, muscles slack with sleep, the faint ache of a hangover creeping quietly at the edges of your temples. but the warmth beneath you, the familiar thrum of jihyo’s pulse, the gentle press of her hand resting at your lower back—those things cut through the fog first.

her hand is steady. light. the weight of her palm against your spine grounding in a way that makes your chest ache.

you shift slightly, your nose brushing against her collarbone, your breath warming her exposed skin, your cheek pressing closer to the worn fabric of your silk shirt—the one she’s wearing. the one you handed her last night when you could barely stand straight.

her breathing catches.

you hear it—soft, shallow, only for a second—but it’s there.

she’s awake.

her thumb traces the faintest circle against your back, slow and unhurried, like she’s afraid to move, afraid to break the fragile peace settling between you in the quiet.

you stay there for another long moment, your head heavy, eyes still closed, your brain slowly slotting the pieces together.

last night.

the bar. the drinks. her hand at your waist. the warmth of her breath at your ear. the way she didn’t leave, the way she stayed.

your cheeks warm faintly against her chest.

you shift again, your hand curling loosely at her waist, fingers brushing the edge of the shirt.

“you’re still here,” you mumble, voice low and rough with sleep, heavy-lidded and warm.

her chest rises beneath you as she exhales, her hand steady at your back. “you made me stay.”

you smile against her shirt, your lashes brushing her skin. “good.”

there’s a pause.

long. soft. filled with the hum of the city beyond the window and the steady ache blooming quietly in your temples.

her hand moves again, slow, tracing along the curve of your spine, her palm warm, fingers careful, lingering.

“headache?” her voice is low, rough with sleep, like she hasn’t spoken yet this morning.

“a bit,” you admit, your words muffled against her.

her hand drifts higher, fingertips brushing along the back of your neck, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. her touch is featherlight, tentative.

you finally open your eyes.

the room is soft with pale morning light. your curtains drawn half-shut, the faint hum of early traffic floating through the cracked window.

you tilt your chin, your eyes dragging up to meet hers.

she’s watching you already.

her gaze is quiet. steady. the sharp edges softened by sleep, by something deeper settling beneath her ribs. the shadows under her eyes are faint, her lips parted, her expression unreadable.

you study her for a moment longer, your pulse quickening faintly under your skin.

“what time is it?” you ask, your voice still scratchy with sleep.

“early,” she replies, her thumb brushing along your back. “you should rest.”

you hum low in your throat, your eyes slipping shut again, your cheek pressing closer to her. “you always this bossy in the morning?”

her laugh is quiet. barely there. but it curls warm through your chest, grounding and soft.

“only with you,” she murmurs.

your heart stutters.

you stay like that for a while longer—silent, steady, the press of her beneath you anchoring you to the bed, to the room, to this moment that feels suspended outside of the rest of your life.

eventually, your muscles protest. your head aches properly now. your mouth dry.

you shift, peeling yourself off her with reluctance, your body heavy as you sit up, hair a mess, silk wrinkled and slipping off one shoulder.

jihyo watches you, her gaze following your every movement, her hand resting lightly at your thigh, her thumb tracing an absent shape there.

“don’t go far,” she says softly.

you smile, lopsided, fingers brushing your tangled hair from your eyes. “just the kitchen. unless you plan on carrying me.”

her brows arch faintly. “don’t tempt me.”

you shake your head, pushing the blanket aside, standing on wobbly legs as you pad toward the kitchen. your flat is quiet, the pale morning light catching on the glassware, the forgotten pile of clothes on the sofa, the faint imprint of two bodies on the bed.

jihyo appears at the doorway, arms loose at her sides, her expression still soft, still wrecked, still entirely undone by you.

you pass her a mug of tea a few minutes later, your fingers brushing hers, lingering too long.

neither of you say a word.

but it settles between you—the weight of it. the want. the quiet shift in the air that neither of you are trying to hide anymore.

and you let it stay there.

undeniable.

steady.

real.

⸻

the tea goes cold on the counter.

you don’t notice.

jihyo’s standing between your legs, your back pressed against the counter, your oversized t-shirt hanging loose around your frame until it hits the quartz, her hands resting lightly at your hips.

the morning is quiet.

the apartment still smells faintly of tea and sleep. the pale light leaking through the window catches in her hair, her eyes soft, heavy-lidded as she watches you.

your hand curls lightly at the side of her neck, your thumb brushing just under her jaw.

neither of you have moved for a while.

you lean in.

her breath stumbles.

your mouth finds hers—slow, unhurried, soft. not careful, not sharp like the first time, not desperate like the second. just warm. steady. lazy in a way that makes your stomach twist.

her hands tighten at your hips, her thumbs pressing gently into the curve of your waist.

you sigh into her mouth, your other hand sliding up to cradle her jaw, your fingers tracing lightly along her cheekbone.

she kisses you back like she’s been holding her breath all morning.

your bodies barely move.

the only sound is the quiet, soft hum that escapes you when her teeth catch faintly on your bottom lip, her thumb rubbing slow circles at your waist.

your head tilts, deepening the kiss, your fingers threading into her hair, the strands warm and messy between your hands.

her other hand slides under your t-shirt, her palm flattening against your lower back, her thumb brushing absent shapes along your skin.

the kiss stays slow.

messy.

soft.

your noses bump. your mouths part just enough for breath. then you’re leaning back in, her jaw tilting to meet you, her pulse visible in her throat.

she groans quietly into your mouth when your teeth scrape lightly along her lip, her hand tightening at your waist like she’s anchoring herself.

you smile faintly against her, breath warm, your chest brushing hers.

“we’re gonna be late,” you mumble, your voice low, your forehead pressed to hers.

“i don’t care,” she whispers, her lips brushing yours again, her eyes still closed.

you kiss her again.

long.

slow.

then you pull back, the smallest, crooked smile curling your mouth as you step away, your hands lingering at her jaw a moment longer.

“get ready,” you murmur.

she watches you walk away.

her tea goes untouched.

⸻

the streets are quieter this late.

gangnam’s glass towers still glitter under the streetlights, the main roads humming with traffic, but the side street you turn onto is quieter—narrow, lined with little shops that have long since pulled their shutters down. neon signs flicker faintly overhead, washing the pavement in soft pinks and blues.

the restaurant sits at the end of the street, tucked beside a convenience store, its sign faded with age, the name peeling slightly along the edges. the windows glow soft and yellow, condensation clouding the glass.

it smells like fried garlic and broth before you even step inside.

jihyo holds the door open, the bell chiming softly as you slip past her into the warmth.

the place is small—four tables by the window, a long counter along the back wall, the kitchen hidden behind a faded plastic curtain. two middle-aged men sit near the window, nursing bowls of rice and steaming makgeolli. an older woman behind the counter glances up briefly, her eyes flicking over you both with faint curiosity, before returning to wiping down a tray.

you pick the table by the window, sliding into the seat, your blazer shrugged off, your hair falling loose around your shoulders. your cheeks are still faintly pink from the cold.

jihyo sits opposite, her blazer folded neatly on the seat beside her, her sleeves pushed to her elbows.

she watches you scan the menu—the way your brows pinch faintly, your bottom lip caught between your teeth.

“you overthinking food?” she teases quietly, her voice low, smooth, softer than you’ve heard it all day.

your mouth quirks. “i’m hungry, i’m cautious.”

you finally settle on something. she adds fried dumplings, her voice low as she orders, the familiar lilt of her accent curling at the edges.

the drinks arrive first—a small green bottle of soju sweating lightly against the metal tray, two tiny glasses clinking faintly as the worker sets them down.

you pour for her first, your eyes catching hers over the glass rim.

“rules are rules,” you murmur, faint amusement curling your words.

she pours for you after, her fingers brushing lightly along yours as she passes the glass across the table.

your heart stutters. so does hers.

the food arrives quickly.

the broth bubbles gently in its black stone pot, steam curling in the air, the rich, spicy scent of fermented chilli and pork filling the space between you. the rice is soft and perfect. the dumplings crisp and golden at the edges.

you eat.

easy, slow.

conversation drifts naturally—small things, familiar. the department. nayeon’s latest gossip. sana’s endless voice notes. your mutual hatred for the office coffee machine.

jihyo listens.

fully.

you laugh, your eyes shining faintly, your hand gesturing as you tell some story about your first week on the job—the chaos, the nerves, the way you thought you’d misfiled your first report.

she remembers.

she remembers watching you that day. remembers how your hands had shaken just faintly when you passed the papers to your department lead. how your smile had been polite, professional, but your eyes had given you away.

she hadn’t stopped watching you since.

your foot brushes lightly against hers beneath the table.

you don’t pull away.

neither does she.

the dumplings disappear. you steal a piece of her kimchi without asking. she pretends to be annoyed, but her chest tightens at the sound of your laugh.

the restaurant hums around you—quiet, steady.

the two old men leave. the ajumma starts wiping down the empty tables.

outside, the street glistens faintly under the streetlights, the pavements wet from some earlier drizzle.

you finish the last of your rice, your chopsticks clinking softly against the bowl.

jihyo leans back slightly, her eyes on you, her expression unreadable but soft at the edges.

“feel better?” she asks quietly.

you nod, your gaze steady on hers. “yeah.”

she pays at the counter. you don’t argue.

the air outside bites faintly at your skin as you step back onto the street. your coat hangs loose around your frame, your hands buried in the pockets, your hair curling faintly at the ends from the humidity.

you walk side by side.

your hand brushes hers once.

again.

she catches it gently this time, her palm curling around yours.

you glance at her, your expression soft, a small smile tugging at your mouth.

she’s wrecked.

completely.

but for once, she doesn’t fight it.

she just walks beside you, her hand in yours, her heart steady, and lets herself fall.

⸻

jihyo’s patience runs thin the moment she steps onto the finance floor.

you’re there, seated at your desk, head tilted slightly as you read through a document. the faintest furrow creases your brow. your legs cross under the desk, skirt sliding higher across your thigh. your foot taps against the floor, unconscious, focused. your lips purse together as you scan the page.

jihyo’s steps falter. her assistant says something beside her. she doesn’t hear it. all she sees is you. concentrated. professional. completely unaware of the storm building inside her ribcage.

she forces herself to keep walking but her pulse doesn’t slow for the rest of the day.

and then the next meeting blurs around her. the boardroom feels colder than usual. the presentation flickers across the screen in front of her. voices drone on. she can’t hear them.

through the glass wall, beyond the polished table, she sees you. your chair leans back slightly, head tilted toward sana as you talk. your smile is small. private. controlled. but when sana says something that makes you laugh, really laugh, your head dips forward, eyes crinkling at the edges, lips parting around quiet amusement.

jihyo’s throat dries. she loses her place mid-sentence. her assistant glances toward her. she clears her throat, looks away, fumbles her words back into order. but the sound of your laughter sticks to the inside of her mouth like static whilst sitting there warm, making her heart skip a beat. 

another time, the lift doors open.

you’re already inside.

your arms are folded across your chest, shoulder pressed against the mirrored wall. your eyes track the glowing numbers overhead, expression unreadable.

jihyo steps in. the doors slide shut.

the space feels suffocating instantly.

the soft scent of your perfume clings to the air—faint, familiar, maddening.

you don’t speak. don’t glance at her.

her fingers twitch at her sides. her gaze burns into the metal doors. the numbers climb too slow. your shoulder shifts slightly as the lift hums upward.

when it dings open, you step out first. your heels echo down the corridor. she follows, a step behind, pulse unsteady.

you never once look back.

and from her office window, she watches you leave for the day.

your blazer swings lightly with your stride. your chin tilts up against the cold. you disappear into the flood of pedestrians outside, your figure swallowed by the city.

jihyo stands there, frozen.

her hand presses flat to the glass. her reflection stares back, composed, cold, exhausted.

she doesn’t turn away until the street is empty.

the break room hums with quiet conversation.

jihyo doesn’t mean to linger in the hall but she does.

your name drifts through the door—someone complimenting you. a polite, professional note of praise. your voice answers—modest, grateful.

jihyo can’t see you. doesn’t need to.

the quiet smile she knows you’ll be wearing twists her stomach tight.

her jaw clenches. she pivots, leaves.

the ache settles deep, bitter.

the lobby’s busy. cars line the street outside. employees stream through the glass doors.

you cross the floor, heels sharp against the marble, coat draped over your arm. your expression is unreadable—eyes sharp, mouth set, focused.

jihyo stands near the revolving doors, waiting for her car.

your eyes meet.

it’s brief.

cold. unreadable.

the twist of her chest is sharp, sudden.

she looks away first.

and again does the rain fall hard against the car windows in the midst of summer. 

you cross the street in front of her.

no umbrella. coat pulled tight. hair damp at the edges. your expression is tight with irritation, head ducked low against the wind.

jihyo watches from the backseat of her car, fingers curled into fists, knuckles white.

her driver says nothing.

she almost tells him to stop. almost opens the door. almost walks out. almost grabs you. almost pulls you in. almost takes you home. again. 

she doesn’t.

you disappear down the street, soaked, untouchable.

her pulse hammers through her ribs like punishment.

after hours, the building is quiet. most offices dark.

she steps off the lift onto your floor.

you’re there, slipping your phone into your bag, hair curled and loose over your shoulders. your eyes are tired, your mouth set.

you walk past her without a word. without a glance.

she leans back against the wall as the lift doors slide shut, pulse dragging like wet concrete through her veins.

and the matching set you’re wearing should not undo her.

but god, they do.

especially the tight skirt. 

then the late afternoon sun filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows, catching on the textured fabric, the soft lines hugging your hips, your waist.

you cross the finance floor, composed, unreadable, perfect.

you drop a folder.

it hits the carpet with a quiet slap of paper.

you bend to pick it up.

your skirt tightens across your hips. the blazer lifts just enough to bare a strip of your lower back, the delicate curve of your spine and ridiculously sheer tights.

jihyo’s mid-step when it happens.

her heart stutters. her mouth dries.

you stand. adjust the folder. walk away, heels clicking soft against the floor.

her pulse doesn’t settle for hours.

by the time her office empties, the city darkens, and her reflection stares back at her from the glass walls, jihyo knows the truth.

she’s gone for you.

fully.

hopelessly.

irrevocably.

you don’t even see it.

and god—she doesn’t want to stop.

⸻

jihyo knows the day will be bad the moment her assistant knocks with that tentative, apologetic rhythm—two quick taps, pause, one softer. the kind that means something is happening in finance she hasn’t planned for.

she stands, straightens her cuffs, follows the corridor past panes of glass and muted conversation. the closer she gets, the sharper the hush inside her chest.

you’re there, of course. seated on the edge of your desk, skirt riding just enough to show a shadow of thigh. sana’s beside you, laughing. that alone is dangerous—your laughter always is—but today it’s worse.

because a stranger is smiling at you like she already knows the taste of your name.

miyeon.

jihyo recognises her from the quick search the other week, the one she deleted and then performed again. dark hair, easy grin, soft eyes that belong on magazine covers. she’s holding a bakery box tied with twine, gesturing animatedly while sana beams.

jihyo’s heartbeat misses once.

she forces herself to stop six steps away, profile half obscured by a potted plant. close enough to hear. far enough to pretend she isn’t listening.

“—thought i’d drop these off before the rush,” miyeon says, voice low and bright. “and maybe steal you for coffee later, if you’re free?” her gaze flicks to you, not to sana.

your smile is polite. guarded. jihyo notices the way your fingers tug the hem of your blouse, nerves you don’t show anyone else. miyeon notices too—she leans closer, offers you the box like an apology.

jihyo’s stomach twists.

“that’s kind,” you say. “i’m not sure about my schedule yet, but thank you.”

“schedules can be rearranged,” sana teases.

jihyo’s jaw tightens.

miyeon laughs, nudges your arm. you duck your head, cheeks warming. jihyo memorises the exact tilt of your smile. she’s never seen miyeon give you pastries before. she’s never given you pastries herself.

the box changes hands. your fingertips brush miyeon’s. jihyo feels the graze in her own skin.

she steps back into shadow before she’s seen. her pulse is a drum. she hates the burn crawling up her throat. jealousy was a word she used for other people—messy, undignified—but here it is, clawing through her control and composure, raw and alive.

miyeon says something softer. you laugh again, smaller this time, and jihyo feels the sound slide between her ribs.

she leaves before she does something stupid.

back in her office she locks the door, sets her hands on the desk, breathes until her pulse slows. she shouldn’t care. she has no claim. last night proved that—your silence, your distance, the way you didn’t even flinch when she left that text like a breadcrumb she prayed you’d follow.

but she does care.

she cares enough that when her assistant asks if she’ll attend the finance outing tomorrow night—karaoke bar, casual drinks—she doesn’t hesitate.

“yes,” she says, voice level. “pencil me in.”

she arrives late on purpose. the rooftop bar hums with neon lights and off-key singing from the floor below. nayeon waves, drunk, mouth stained with a cherry slush. mina and tzuyu are at the counter corralling drink orders.

jihyo scans the tables. finds you almost instantly—seat against the railing, city lights painting your hair copper. laughter curls from your lips, carried on night air. you’re texting someone. jihyo wants it to be her. fears it’s not.

she doesn’t see miyeon yet.

but she feels the possibility of her everywhere.

jihyo orders water with ice. stands slightly apart, pretending she’s concerned with the view. in truth she’s cataloguing every micro-expression on your face: the upward flick of your eyes to read a message, the shy curve at the corner of your mouth, the way you tuck hair behind your ear when you’re thinking.

sana comes out of nowhere, hands full with shots. 

she pushes one across to you. 

you shake your head, laughter crooked. 

sana shrugs, downs hers, then slumps against your arm, whispering something that makes you tilt your phone away. 

jihyo catches the flicker of hesitation in your gaze.

her lungs tighten.

ten minutes later, miyeon appears—bag in hand, grin already bright. jihyo hears her before she sees her, that warm “hey, sunshine” she drops at your side.

your shoulders straighten. 

your cheeks flush.

you smile. genuinely.

jihyo turns away, stares at her own reflection in the black glass of the night sky. she hears glasses clink, hears you say “thanks” soft and earnest, hears sana giggle something about best pastry chef in the city.

she feels ridiculous. childish. petty.

but she can’t stop listening.

when miyeon asks if you’re free this weekend, jihyo’s pulse stutters.

your reply is a non-answer—“maybe, i’m not sure”—but it’s enough to make jihyo’s nails press crescents into her palm.

she forces herself to sip the melting ice water.

forces herself not to look.

forces herself to breathe.

and then, amid the swirl of laughter and karaoke echo, she hears your name again—someone asks sana if you’ve made up your mind about that date.

jihyo’s world narrows.

she leaves before the answer lands.

the city air is cooler outside. she walks too fast. heels strike pavement like punctuation. she knows she’s running from nothing but the sound of your voice across a rooftop.

it doesn’t help.

nothing does.

because all she can see is your smile—softer than anything she’s earned. all she can feel is the distance she built brick by brick, now filled by someone who offers you pastries and easy laughter.

jihyo glances at her watch. midnight.

she pulls her phone out, types your name, then stops.

no messages.

not tonight.

instead she scrolls—search history still open to miyeon’s page. warm smile. gentle eyes. a caption about small joys. jihyo exhales, hates herself, scrolls again, then locks the screen.

she’s driven home with the night buzzing around her, jealousy singing low and ugly in her bones.

she sleeps two hours.

then the morning arrives, cold and waiting, and she knows the silence can’t hold.

⸻

you don’t knock.

the door is open already—wide, like someone forgot to close it behind them—and for a second you hesitate. for a second you almost back away, almost turn down the hallway with your mouth full of unfinished thoughts.

but then you step in.

the air is cooler inside. quiet in that pin-drop, sharp-edged way that makes the silence feel personal—and it makes the sound of the door shutting way too loud but not loud enough to block out the beating of your heart in your ears. the city hums through the windows. a storm’s trying to gather on the skyline again.

jihyo doesn’t look up immediately.

she’s at her desk, fingers hovering above the trackpad, not moving. a spreadsheet half-lit on the screen. a coffee cup beside her, untouched. her jacket’s off. shirt sleeves rolled up, forearms tensed like she’s been trying not to grip the edge of the desk too hard.

when she finally raises her head, her eyes don’t widen in surprise. they soften, slowly, like she’d been bracing for something and then realised it was you.

the door shuts. 

you walk closer.

not gently.

you don’t speak right away. the quiet stretches.

she’s the one who breaks it.

“you’re early.”

“so are you.”

a faint tilt of her lips—dry, humourless. “you asked for the meeting.”

“i asked to clarify figures for next quarter. loudly. professionally. not whatever this is.”

you say it evenly. no accusation. just weight. truth.

she nods once, barely—but you saw the way she swallowed.

you cross the room slowly. the blinds are half drawn. the light slices through in sharp, golden angles. your reflection glints faintly in the glass.

you stop two steps from her desk.

you’re not sure what you expect to say until it’s already coming out of your mouth.

“why did you show up last night?”

her eyes shift.

you watch it happen—the flicker of composure, the press of restraint.

“it was a company event,” she says.

“don’t do that.”

silence.

you lean in slightly, voice low.

“you stood across the rooftop like a shadow and didn’t say a word to anyone. you watched me like you were trying to memorise me. and then you left the second someone mentioned my name with miyeon’s.”

her hands curl slightly.

“you don’t get to be jealous,” you say, softer. “you made your choice.”

jihyo’s breath shudders. she looks down.

“i didn’t mean to.”

“but you did.”

you circle the desk. she doesn’t stop you. doesn’t look up as you move until you’re behind her, the chair creaking when she turns to face you.

you lean against the edge of the desk, arms folded.

“so what is this?” you ask. “what do you want now?”

her eyes lift slowly. they land on your face like a confession.

“i want you.”

you inhale once, sharply.

but she’s not finished.

“i want you,” she says again, voice rough, low, breaking in places. “in every version of the word. in every language. i want you when i’m composed. i want you when i’m a mess. i want you even when i try not to.”

you blink.

she stands.

slowly. like she’s afraid you’ll vanish if she moves too fast.

“you walked into my office on your first day and i felt something break. i didn’t know what it was. i told myself it was fascination. curiosity. nothing serious. but then it got worse.”

she steps closer.

“every day i watched you move through this building like you belonged to it. like it hadn’t turned cold. and i started making excuses to pass your desk. to ask questions i already had the answers to. and when you smiled at me, i forgot how to breathe.”

her voice is shaking.

you don’t move.

“and then i touched you,” she whispers. “that night. when we stayed late. when your fingers brushed mine and it felt like the world narrowed to the shape of you.”

she swallows.

“i kissed you and it didn’t feel like a mistake. it felt inevitable.”

you still don’t speak.

she steps in again.

“but i pulled away. because i was afraid. because i’ve built this company on boundaries and control and every rule i’ve made says i can’t want you like this.”

her hand lifts—slow, trembling—stops just before your jaw.

“but i do,” she says. “i want you so much it hurts. and i can’t pretend anymore.”

you exhale like you’ve been holding your breath for a year.

“you made me feel like a secret,” you say.

“you weren’t.”

“then what was i?”

“everything,” she says, too quickly. “you were—are—everything.”

you watch her. long enough that her hand falls back to her side.

then, quietly,

“you made me feel like wanting me was shameful.”

“it wasn’t,” she says. “it isn’t. i was ashamed of myself. for being weak. for needing. but you—”

she cuts off.

and when her voice comes again, it comes a lot softer, more genuine. 

“y/n, you were never a mistake.”

you take a step closer.

the air cracks.

“then show me,” you say and her eyes darken. “show me i wasn’t.”

and that’s all it takes.

her hands are on you in an instant—one at your waist, the other sliding up your spine to cradle the back of your neck. her mouth finds yours like it’s starving.

you kiss her back with every second she stole from you. every moment you ached. every inch of silence she left you with.

it’s not gentle.

it’s not clean.

it’s desperate and hungry and aching.

her chair rolls back as she stumbles into it, pulling you with her. you follow, straddle her hips, press into her like she’s the only thing holding you steady.

her hands grip your thighs. yours cradle her jaw.

she breaks the kiss only to breathe your name.

you whisper hers into her mouth.

her blazer slips off the chair. your fingers knot in her shirt. her lips trace the line of your jaw, your throat. she kisses the place beneath your ear like it means something.

you press your forehead to hers.

you stay like that—breathing each other in. steadying.

her fingers soften their grip. trail gently over your thighs like apology, like prayer.

you speak first.

“you’re not allowed to disappear again.”

her voice is hoarse.

“i won’t.”

“i mean it.”

“so do i.”

you pull back just enough to see her clearly.

“this doesn’t fix everything.”

“i know.”

“but it’s a start.”

she nods.

her arms wrap around you. she tucks her face into the crook of your neck like it’s the only place where she can breathe.

you close your eyes.

and for the first time in weeks, you feel something close to peace.

⸻

and it’s different now.

you feel it the second you step onto the floor—the weight that sat heavy between you and jihyo for months is still there, but it’s changed. it hums instead of pressing. it simmers instead of suffocating.

she leaves an iced coffee on your desk before you arrive.

she’s done it before. quiet, secret, desperate.

this morning, the difference is small but certain—the sticky note on the lid reads your name. just your name. small, neat handwriting curved around the edge of the cup.

you don’t smile. not properly. but your fingers wrap around it and you keep it.

jihyo passes you in the hall a few hours later. she’s not subtle about the way her eyes skim down your figure, linger at your hips, your tits, your mouth, your eyes. 

she’s never been good at hiding it, not with you.

you meet her gaze.

steady.

there’s no sharpness now. no cold, controlled mask.

you look at her like you want her too.

her pulse stumbles.

in the next meeting with potential investors, her foot finds yours beneath the table.

you don’t pull away.

you nudge back, just slightly, your heel brushing her ankle, a quiet, deliberate reply.

she forgets what slide they’re on. 

her assistant carries the presentation without her.

the day keeps folding like that.

you pass her office. your eyes meet. you keep walking—but there’s a faint curve at the corner of your mouth now, like you know exactly what you’re doing to her.

she rounds the long way to the lift just to see you at your desk, head tilted as you type, bottom lip caught gently between your teeth in thought.

she leaves another note beside your laptop—reminder for the project deadline—but her handwriting is softer this time. you don’t say anything, but when she passes later, it’s still on your desk, unfolded, kept.

by the time the building quiets for the evening, she’s leaning at your desk, your chair turned toward her, your knees brushing between the small space.

your voice is low, words warm, the edges of your smile easy now.

it’s fragile, this thing between you.

but it’s here.

by friday, jihyo hasn’t slept more than three hours a night all week.

it started with a discrepancy. a small one. buried in procurement delays and delivery lags. she clocked it monday and flagged it with her assistant—then promptly got pulled into three days of strategy meetings and client calls that went nowhere. every time she tried to refocus on the margin, someone interrupted. something broke. some other department cried wolf louder.

and yet, through it all, the number on the internal dashboard kept dipping. slowly. quietly. like a leak she couldn’t patch.

by tuesday evening, she was eating dinner standing at her window. by wednesday, she wasn’t eating at all.

she watched you from across the room during the wednesday debrief. the way you held your notes with one hand and kept your other curled into your skirt, grounding yourself. your voice calm. eyes tired. everything about you said, we’re handling it.

she believed you.

but belief isn’t a strategy. and by thursday, her confidence had started to crumble—and she knows her confidence would’ve crumbled long before if you were not involved.  

too many moving pieces. not enough time. and under it all, a cold, crawling sense of something worse—that this wasn’t just about finance. it was about you. about her. about the line she’s been trying not to cross since the first time you laughed in the hallway and didn’t look away fast enough.

she starts friday already wound too tight. her assistant stutters through two meetings. legal won’t stop emailing her about something irrelevant. she keeps pulling up your name in the dashboard, watching the update time stamps, watching your department stretch itself thin.

but she doesn’t say anything.

until she finally calls you up.

you knock once. step in. your presence fills the room too easily. too gently.

she doesn’t tell you to sit.

she doesn’t want to be soft today.

“what’s the actual figure?”

your answer is clean. precise. you don’t flinch. you’re good at this—she’s always known that. even when she first hired you, she knew. it’s not the numbers she’s doubting. it’s the fear underneath, the one she can’t say out loud.

because if this cracks, if the company wavers, it’s her face on the front line.

and somewhere inside her, ugly and cold and small, there’s a flicker of resentment at how you’re always so composed. how you don’t break.

how you haven’t come to her again—not like that night. not like the quiet look you gave her when she walked past your desk a few days ago.

“we’re exposed,” she says.

“temporarily.”

“that’s not good enough.”

you tense. just slightly.

“we’re not failing. we’re adjusting.”

“i want it fixed.”

her voice is harder than she means. she hears it too late.

“you think we’re not trying?”

“maybe someone in your position should’ve flagged it sooner.”

you look at her then, really look. your posture straightens. you don’t raise your voice.

“i have. three times.”

her hands curl into fists.

“then maybe you weren’t loud enough.”

silence stretches. you tilt your head slightly. she watches the way you breathe through it, like you’re choosing not to shatter.

“jihyo—”

it hits too close. it sounds too tender. too knowing.

so she says it. without thinking. 

“miss park.”

and the moment it leaves her lips, she knows.

she’s crossed it.

she watches your mouth go still. watches the light behind your eyes dim just slightly. 

not anger. not even hurt.

disappointment.

you blink once. twice. again. then nod, like you’ve just learned something about her you didn’t want to.

she tries to fix it.

“i didn’t mean—”

“don’t,” you say.

you’ve already taken a step back. 

“i’ll send the updated breakdown,” you say without turning.

you pause.

she doesn’t move.

“we’re still inside forecast tolerance. if that changes, i’ll flag it. loudly.”

next thing she knows is that your hand is on the door handle. 

and then—turning just enough you make eye contact, voice too soft to be cold—you say,

“i thought it was just jihyo.”

then you leave.

the silence that follows is unbearable.

she doesn’t sit. she doesn’t move. she just stares at the door like it might let her take it back.

miss park.

it echoes in her skull.

she presses her knuckles to her mouth.

because that’s not what she meant.

and she knows—deep in the pit of her chest, under everything she’s tried to hold back—she’s already losing you.

but could she really lose you if she never really had you?

⸻

you don’t expect to see her.

not after the way she dismissed you. not after she left you standing in her office with her words still ringing in your ears like a slap you didn’t see coming. not after a full week of silence where you held the department together while feeling like you were being slowly pulled apart.

you’ve just come from drinks with sana. you weren’t planning to. she caught you on what was supposed to be your grocery trip and looped her arm through yours like it was natural. insisted. told you you looked like you hadn’t had a full breath in five days. 

and she was right. 

you haven’t. 

you had two drinks. you barely tasted either. you smiled and nodded and let her talk, let her distract you, let the noise of the bar dull the ache sitting beneath your ribs. you kept checking the door, like you were expecting someone, even though you weren’t.

it’s late now. the streets are slick with stormwater, puddles black and shining under yellow streetlights. the back of your blouse sticks to your skin. you’re tired, but it’s the kind of tired that runs deeper than your muscles. it’s a tired that lives under your skin.

you turn the corner toward your building.

and stop.

because there, curled into the bench just inside the lobby glass doors, is jihyo.

your first thought is that you’re imagining her. that maybe you’ve conjured her up, the same way you’ve conjured her voice in your head every night this week. but then you take one more step and the light hits her hair—soaked and sticking to her face—and you know it’s real.

she doesn’t see you at first. she’s looking down at her lap, hands folded like she’s praying or trying not to come undone. there’s a wet patch beneath her from where the rain’s soaked through. her shoes are ruined. her shirt’s translucent where the fabric clings to her arms. she’s shaking. you don’t know if it’s the cold or something else.

you swipe your keycard at the door and push through. your heels echo once against the tile. she looks up.

and her glassy eyes go wide.

but you don’t soften.

you don’t move toward her.

you just cross the lobby slowly, set your keys down at the desk, and say—quiet, even, precise—

“miss park.”

you watch her flinch with something you refuse to name. 

her mouth opens like she’s been winded.

her hands twitch in her lap. 

her voice, when it comes, is raw.

“please don’t call me that.”

you arch an eyebrow. “why not? you told me too.”

“i didn’t mean it.”

“but you said it.”

you don’t yell. you don’t raise your voice. you don’t need to.

she stands, slowly, unsteady like her legs might not fully obey her. the light catches the droplets still clinging to her lashes.

“i came to apologise,” she says.

“you could’ve got your assistant to email.”

her breath catches. “i didn’t want to.”

“you could’ve emailed.”

“i wanted to see you.”

you pause. eyes sharp.

“why?”

her lips part. her throat works around the answer. she doesn’t give it.

you nod, like that tells you everything you need to know.

“you looked me in the eye and made me call you ‘miss park’ like i was a stranger. like you hadn’t wanted me so bad your control and composure were wavering. like you hadn’t looked at me like i was something you wanted to keep.”

she’s shaking harder now.

you step forward. not out of compassion. just so she hears you clearly. 

“you made me feel small,” you say. “you made me feel like i mistook your control for care.”

“that’s not true,” she says quickly, desperately. “i see you—i’ve always—i just—”

“you what? panicked? lost control? slipped back into the safety of a title and hierarchy because it’s easier than admitting you care about someone you’re not supposed to?”

she doesn’t deny it.

she looks down at the floor. you watch her jaw tighten like she’s trying not to cry.

“i haven’t slept,” she whispers.

you blink—the admission stings more than you expect it to.

“i haven’t eaten properly in days. i’ve ruined half my wardrobe. i’ve rewritten the apology in my head a hundred times and none of them sounded right. and i still came here because i thought—maybe—if you saw me like this, you’d know i wasn’t pretending.”

you exhale. long. heavy.

“why now?”

she looks at you like she doesn’t understand the question.

“why now?” you repeat. “after days of nothing. after you watched me drown at work and didn’t so much as check in. why tonight? why here?”

she doesn’t answer.

you shake your head.

“i’ll tell you why, miss park,” you state, jaw flexing. “you only come when it hurts you.”

that lands. 

she recoils like you slapped her.

“i didn’t know what else to do,” she says, voice small. “i don’t know how to fix it.”

“you don’t get to fix it,” you say, suddenly tired again. “not just by showing up looking pathetic—small, soaked and sad.”

you turn. step toward the lift.

she follows.

“please,” she says. “don’t shut me out.”

you press the call button.

“call me jihyo,” she says. quietly. urgently. like she’s already breaking.

you look at her.

her eyes are wet.

“i don’t want to be miss park to you.”

you inhale slowly. measured. like it’s the only thing keeping your mouth closed.

“you don’t get to ask that,” you say.

the lift dings open. you step inside.

she doesn’t follow this time.

not until, just before the doors begin to close, you meet her eyes and say—quiet, exhausted—

“are you coming or not?”

she steps in.

the ride up is silent.

she doesn’t touch you. doesn’t even look at you. you think maybe she’s afraid she’ll break the thread if she pulls too hard.

you open the door to your flat. toss your keys on the counter. pull off your shoes. she does the same, slow and reverent, like she’s afraid this is a dream she’ll wake from.

you don’t offer her a drink. you don’t say sit. you just stand there.

and eventually, she speaks.

“i wanted to be better at this.”

you don’t answer.

“i wanted to keep you safe,” she says. “and i thought the best way to do that was to keep you at a distance.”

you laugh. once. sharp.

“you don’t keep someone safe by pushing them away.”

“i know.”

“you don’t protect someone by hurting them first.”

“i know,” she says again, this time like it costs her something.

you turn, slowly. arms folded.

“i don’t want to be a secret,” you say.

“you’re not.”

“i don’t want to be an accident.”

“you never were.”

you stare at her for a long moment.

and then: “why did you come?”

she blinks. “because i needed to see you.”

“because you needed to feel better?”

“because i missed you,” she says, and her voice cracks clean through the centre.

you don’t respond right away. the silence after is long enough to make her shift on her feet. her hands are still damp from the rain. her hair sticks to her cheek. you watch her struggle to find somewhere to look that isn’t your face.

“you missed me,” you echo. not a question. not a kindness. just a shape of the moment pressed between you.

she nods.

you cross your arms tighter.

“you don’t get to say that like it means anything.”

“it does.”

“not when you left me hanging by nothing but air for a week.”

“i know. i hated it.”

“you caused it.”

“i know,” she says again, more breath than sound. “i don’t expect you to forgive me.”

you don’t move.

“then what do you want?”

she hesitates. looks at you like the answer might shatter in her mouth.

“i want to be where you are,” she says. “even if you won’t talk to me. even if you won’t touch me. even if you never want to look at me the same way again. i just—i don’t want you to be hurting while i pretend everything’s fine.”

you stare at her.

“you’ve already been pretending.”

she flinches.

“i know. but not well. i thought i could—keep everything clean and separate. but i couldn’t. i didn’t. you got in—under my skin, into my ribs. and when it started to matter more than i knew what to do with, i folded. i used what power i had left to make you feel smaller so i wouldn’t have to admit that you terrified me.”

you breathe in slowly. let the words sink through your bones. her honesty doesn’t fix anything. it doesn’t erase what she said. but it slices her open in front of you. and she doesn’t hide.

“you hurt me,” you say.

“i know.”

“you made me question whether any of it was ever real.”

“it was. every second of it.”

“then why didn’t you say something sooner?”

“because i was scared you’d look at me the way you’re looking at me now.”

“and how exactly am i looking at you?”

“like you don’t know if you ever want to let me in again.”

you let the silence stretch. “you’re right.”

she closes her eyes.

“i don’t,” you add. “i don’t know what i want from you. i don’t know if i want anything at all.”

“then i’ll wait,” she says, quiet and immediate. “i’ll wait as long as it takes.”

you turn away. walk toward the kitchen. not to escape. just to move. your hands are cold.

“you’re not staying because i forgive you,” you say over your shoulder. “you’re staying because i can’t sleep either.”

behind you, she exhales something like relief.

“thank you.”

“don’t thank me.”

you fill a glass of water. place it on the coffee table. you don’t offer it to her directly. you don’t say goodnight.

you just disappear down the hallway.

when she follows, it’s without a sound. her footsteps are light. hesitant. she doesn’t touch anything. doesn’t reach for you. she just changes into some pyjamas you let her borrow and she stays on the opposite side of the bed, hair still damp from the storm.

you lie facing the wall. she lies facing the ceiling.

neither of you speaks.

and still—you fall asleep faster than you have all week.

and you wake first.

light slants through the blinds. the air is warm. soft. your back aches from sleeping too still.

you hear her breathing behind you. slow. steady.

you don’t turn around.

you think about all the things you should say. all the ways you could let her down gently. all the ways you could twist the knife back in.

but none of it feels right. not yet.

you slide out of bed. pad quietly into the kitchen.

you don’t expect her to follow.

but five minutes later, there she is—hair a mess, clothes rumpled, eyes puffy but clear.

she doesn’t speak.

you pour two cups of tea.

you hand her one without looking.

she takes it like it might vanish.

you both sit on the sofa. one cushion apart.

the silence feels different now. not forgiving. but less sharp.

“thanks,” she says, finally.

you nod.

“i’ll head out soon. i just—i didn’t want to leave without saying something.”

you take a slow sip.

“you don’t have to rush.”

“i should.”

“then do.”

she glances at you. you’re not looking at her.

“you want space,” she says.

“i want a lot of things.”

she nods. “i’ll give you whatever you ask for.”

you finally look up.

“don’t promise things you can’t keep.”

she holds your gaze. her throat works around the words.

“i’m not going to push you,” she says. “but if you ever want to talk—about any of it, or none of it—i’m here.”

you finish your tea. stand.

“your shirt’s still damp.”

“it’ll dry on the walk.”

“take one of mine.”

she blinks.

you’re already in the bedroom. rummaging. you toss her a clean button-down. she catches it like a lifeline.

she disappears into the bathroom.

when she comes back out, the shirt hangs soft and loose on her frame. she looks gentler. like something inside her has been undone.

you open the front door.

she steps past you. pauses.

“i’m sorry,” she says again.

you meet her eyes.

“i know.”

she hesitates.

then leaves.

you don’t cry. not yet.

but your hands shake when you close the door.

⸻

she feels you the moment you step into the building.

doesn’t see you. doesn’t hear your voice. just knows, in some silent, irritating, entirely involuntary way—that you’re here.

the morning moves as it should. her assistant hands her the day’s first report. her inbox stacks up as expected. her coffee is too bitter. the numbers on her monitor make perfect sense.

but you’re somewhere in this building, and it throws the whole rhythm off.

her mind keeps drifting to that night—your voice rough with restraint, your shoulders held too tight. the way you’d opened your front door like it cost you something. the way you said “you don’t get to ask that.”

and then: the way your fingers brushed hers when you handed her the shirt. how she still hasn’t taken it off.

she gets through her morning briefing without a stumble, but her eyes keep flicking toward the corridor outside. she doesn’t mean to. doesn’t want to.

but she’s looking for you.

and when she does finally see you—through the pane of glass outside the finance department—you’re exactly where she feared you’d be.

standing beside sana.

laughing.

it’s the kind of laugh she hasn’t heard from you in weeks. bright. unguarded. it cuts straight through her chest.

you’re holding a spreadsheet in one hand, a pen tucked behind your ear, your hair a little messy from the weather. sana’s leaned in close. whatever she says next has your head tilting back, a smile spreading so wide across your face that it makes jihyo’s stomach twist.

then she hears it.

not clearly. not directly. just enough to freeze her in place.

“—miyeon asked about you, said she’d love to see you again—”

her name. a soft laugh—your laugh.

jihyo doesn’t catch your response.

she doesn’t need to.

her hands are cold.

she walks away before she lets herself listen to anything else.

back in her office, she closes the door too hard. her assistant knocks ten minutes later and she tells them not now. her coffee’s cold by the time she remembers it.

miyeon.

she remembers the name. the girl sana tried to set you up with. café owner. model. soft-spoken, apparently. polite.

jihyo never saw her. but she didn’t have to. the name alone felt like a warning bell the first time she heard it. now it feels like a countdown.

she doesn’t know what the two of you are now.

nothing, probably.

you’d let her stay the night.

you didn’t ask her to stay the morning.

you didn’t text.

you didn’t even look at her when she passed your desk earlier—just kept typing, eyes narrow on the screen, like she didn’t still live in the spaces behind your shoulders.

and she can’t blame you.

but god, she wants to.

she spends the rest of the day in that state—tethered, taut, tense.

you’re close but unreachable.

your voice drifts down the hall in bursts.

your laughter lingers in her memory like a wound she keeps pressing.

the meetings blur.

the spreadsheets do too.

the pen she returns to your desk is hers, not yours. she doesn’t realise until hours later.

she almost asks if you’ll return it.

but she doesn’t speak to you.

not yet.

she needs to earn the right.

but she watches.

always.

and the moment she hears miyeon’s name again—soft, off-hand, somewhere near the lift as the evening crowd begins to thin—she feels the ache sink deeper, colder.

and this time, she doesn’t look away.

⸻

jihyo doesn’t remember pouring the second bottle of wine into her glass. 

she only realises it’s there when her fingers brush the rim and find it already half empty. the bottle sits beside her on the coffee table—open, sweating slightly against the glass surface. the television is on but muted. her apartment is dark, save for the screen and her phone.

her blazer’s discarded. the top buttons of her shirt are undone. her legs are curled beneath her on the sofa, one heel still half on, the other discarded somewhere by the door.

she stares at the glow of her phone screen.

blank message box.

your name just above it.

she types.

deletes.

types again.

nothing sounds right.

“did you get home okay” feels too casual. “i missed you today” sounds too much like a confession. “i thought about you all afternoon” is too honest.

she backspaces everything.

she’s not drunk. not really.

just tired.

too tired to fight herself when the thought appears.

she opens instagram.

goes to sana’s page.

scrolls.

finds a comment from you under one of her posts, complimenting her. 

two likes.

she clicks on it.

sana.

miyeon.

jihyo hesitates.

then taps.

the profile loads.

her bio is short—in it, the username for her café tagged. 

a pinned highlight captioned with “👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩” filled with grainy videos of her and some friends.

jihyo scrolls, slow.

a picture in an oversized jumper, holding a tray of pastries.

a post from the café—chalkboard handwriting, flower pots in the window.

a dump of her on set and the bts of a photoshoot.

a recent few in a white knit sweater, seated on one side of a table, smile lazy, captioned: someone said i looked soft. they weren’t wrong.

your username shows up as the top comment. mmmh, i’m never wrong 🤷‍♀️

jihyo exhales through her nose. it’s not quite a scoff. not quite jealousy. just something that tastes like acid at the back of her throat.

she locks her phone.

then unlocks it again.

searches the name.

stares at it.

closes the app.

opens messages.

and finally types—slowly, carefully:

i don’t know if i have the right to say this, but i hope you got home well.

she doesn’t send another.

she just stares at the screen until it goes black in her hand.

and you’re not sure why you can’t sleep.

your apartment’s quiet. the window’s cracked open. the air smells like earth and distant rain. your phone is face-down on the table, but you already know what it said.

you read it twice. maybe three times.

you didn’t reply.

you don’t know what reply you could even respond with.

you’re not sure what a reply would even mean.

you’re not angry. not in this moment.

just unmoored.

so you pull on a light jumper over your pyjama top, slip into your shoes, and head downstairs.

the streets are quieter than usual. a little damp. warm with the promise of summer. you walk aimlessly—past the café you like, past the corner shop that always stays open too late, past the quiet bus stop where you once saw jihyo waiting with her head tilted back like she was finally free.

you round another corner.

and stop.

she’s standing beneath a streetlamp. not moving. not on her phone. not walking. just… still.

her coat’s draped over one arm. her hair’s tied back loosely. her face is tilted upward slightly, like she’s thinking or watching or remembering.

you stay where you are.

she doesn’t see you.

you don’t call out.

something about the way she looks—so composed, yet so lonely—roots you in place.

you wonder what she’s thinking.

you wonder if she’s thinking of you.

she rubs a hand through her hair, then turns and walks slowly down the block.

you let her go.

you wait a minute before turning back.

you’re not ready to forgive her.