HANA

CHAPTERS: ONE | TWO | THREE | FOUR | FIVE | SIX | SEVEN

Main Characters:

Ju Ji-hoon (CEO) - 45, enigmatic, poised, dominant. Public image: calm, refined, untouchable. Private self? Caged chaos, precision, hunger. Has a strict no-dating policy… until her.

You (Reader!Employee) - 25, a corporate strategist at an enterntainment company. Vanilla, career-obsessed, cautious. Never knew submission could feel like liberation. Until him.

Choo Young-Woo (Employee) - 32, empathetic, poised, comforting, Public image: Career focused, sweet, shy, ambivert. Private self? Soft, yearns in silent, patient. Wants nothing but to care for her, protect her.

Themes:

Age gap (20 years and 7 years)

Power imbalance (celebrity x corporate staff)

Forbidden workplace romance

BDSM x vanilla dynamic

Soft to intense smut

Emotional unraveling

Public facade vs private surrender

ANGST ANGST ANGST

SLOW BURN

YEARNINGGGG

So much miscommunication

Red flag Ji-Hoon (I know he's far from it I am sorry yall)

A/N: This story is completely fictional with absolutely no relevance to the characters' real life persona or personal lives. It is meant for enterntainment purposes only and is not to be taken literally. Thank you.

You were warned.

"Don't stare." "Don't engage unless spoken to." "And never—never—flirt with Mr. Ju."

Which was fine, really. You had better things to do than pine over your new boss, even if he was obscenely sculpted in a black turtleneck, his bone structure seeming engineered in a lab. You were there to finalize the budget approval for a global campaign shoot, not drool over his fingers as they leisurely swirled his espresso.

But he noticed.

He noticed everything.

"You work in finance?" His voice was velvet over marble, smooth but cold.

You nodded, startled that he’d spoken to you at all. "Strategy team. I'm here for the contract review."

“Hmm.” His eyes didn’t waver. “And yet you look like someone who’d rather control people than numbers.”

Your pulse stuttered.

"I'm sorry?"

“Apologies,” he said smoothly. “You just… hold yourself like someone who’s never been told what to do.”

Chapters : One | Two | Three |

Pairing - Yang Jae Won x Reader

Theme: Fluff, Angst, Comedy, Suggestive Content, Medical AU, Trauma Code: Heroes on Call

Pairing: Dr. Yang Jaewon x Reader

Theme: Fluff, Comedy, Medical Drama, Trauma Code AU

Warning: mentions of blood, surgical procedures, death.

The trauma center at Hankuk National University Hospital buzzed with activity—controlled chaos woven into an orchestra of beeping monitors, rolling gurneys, shouted vitals, and the metallic scent of antiseptic and urgency. For most, it was a hellscape. For the few brave (or foolish) enough to want in, it was the arena.

You stood at the sliding glass entrance, gripping your umbrella like a weapon and silently praying your soaked shoes wouldn’t squeak too loud on the pristine floor. The rain had plastered strands of hair to your forehead, but you didn’t dare fidget. You were already nervous enough to consider running back to internal medicine. It wasn’t too late. Probably.

“Trauma? Seriously?” Your friend from your residency days, who was currently in OBGY, had scoffed over samgyeopsal last week. “Do you have a death wish? Or do you just like hearing bones crunch in stereo?”

You gulped now, clutching your folder tighter. Bones crunching in stereo? You did not like that. But what you did like was making a difference when seconds mattered. That... and the absolute lunacy of this department had intrigued you ever since the legendary “Baek Kang-hyuk trauma invasion” had become gossip in every hospital cafeteria in Seoul.

"Excuse me," you called out at the nurses' station, approaching with the hesitant confidence of someone who knew too much but still hoped for mercy. "I'm here to apply for the trauma center fellowship."

Behind the counter sat Nurse Cheon Jang-mi—black coffee in hand, perfectly unimpressed. She looked you up and down like a recruiter for the Marines evaluating a stray poodle.

"Another brave soul," she muttered, handing you a clipboard. "Fill this out and wait over there. If you survive the day, maybe you’ll get a locker."

"Comforting," you replied, offering a weak smile as you accepted the clipboard.

You’d barely taken three steps before the automatic doors swished open again. A gurney burst through, pushed by two medics shouting, "GSW to abdomen! BP 90 over 60! ETA from injury: 10 minutes!"

Jang-mi muttered something like “Welcome to the jungle” under her breath and slammed her coffee down.

"Scratch that. You, newbie. You're assisting. Put the pen down."

You blinked. “Me?! On my first day?!”

She shot you a side-eye. “Congratulations. You’re no longer waiting. You're in the trauma center now.”

Inside Trauma Bay 2, the world shifted.

A young man—early twenties—lay on the gurney, soaked in blood and groaning. His lower abdomen was a mess of soaked gauze and pressure dressings. The smell of iron hit your nose like a punch. But your hands didn’t shake.

“ABC,” you murmured instinctively. “Airway’s patent, breathing shallow but symmetrical, circulation is... crap.”

"Pressure dropping!" a nurse called.

Your brain flipped into clinical mode. “Two large-bore IVs, stat. Hang two units of O-neg and get type and cross. Prep for FAST ultrasound.”

Jang-mi raised an eyebrow. “You sure you’re new?”

“I did my ER rotation in Busan,” you replied, pressing down hard on the dressing. “We had more stabbings than clinic patients.”

From across the hallway, behind the observation glass, someone watched—quiet, unreadable. Dr. Yang Jae-won stood with his arms folded, his brow furrowed just slightly. He didn’t interfere, just observed with the kind of gaze that saw too much and said too little.

“Not bad,” he murmured under his breath. “Didn’t scream or cry. That’s new.”

You’d barely finished handing off the patient to surgery when you found yourself standing in a small break room with coffee-stained linoleum and one very judgmental vending machine. You looked like a drowned puppy. At the head of the room, like a war general awaiting a debrief, sat Dr. Baek Kang-hyuk.

“New applicant, huh?” he said, not looking up from his notes. “Name?”

You introduced yourself, bowing deeply. To your left, Dr. Yang Jae-won gave you a polite nod again, this time with a faint curve of his lips—a smile? To your right, Park Kyung-won sipped his coffee with the soul-deep tiredness only an anesthesiologist could possess.

“You handled that gunshot patient alright,” Baek said, scratching his temple. “Didn’t cry, puke, or pass out. Better than Slave No.1’s first day.” He gestured lazily at Jae-won.

Yang Jae-won groaned under his breath. “Professor…”

“I’m thinking...” Baek leaned back in his chair. “Something that’ll stick. Like ‘Bloody Rabbit’... no, that’s too cute. Or... Intestine Fairy?”

You blinked. “Intestine... Fairy?”

“She clutched the wound like she was tucking it into bed,” Jang-mi added helpfully from the doorway.

“I like it!” Baek grinned like a madman. “Intestine Fairy it is.”

You stood for a beat, then straightened and said, “Thank you, Professor. And may I say, that nickname is far less traumatic than I was warned.”

Everyone froze.

Jae-won coughed into his coffee. Kyung-won choked on his.

Baek narrowed his eyes. “Did you just sass me, newbie?”

You smiled. “Respectfully, sir. Intestinally.”

He pointed at you dramatically. “How dare you talk to your professor like that.”

A long pause. He grinned.

“I like you.”

Later That Day

The hallway was quieter now. The kind of quiet that only comes after chaos—echoes of beeping monitors fading into the hum of vending machines and the faint rhythm of rain tapping against the trauma center windows.

You leaned against the lockers, peeling off your gloves one finger at a time, when footsteps approached—calm, steady.

Yang Jae-won.

He stopped a few paces away, hands tucked into the pockets of his navy scrubs. The overhead lights cast soft shadows across his jawline.

“You were calm today,” he said.

You gave a half-smile, rubbing your forehead. “Pretty sure I disassociated halfway through.”

His laugh was low, a brief exhale of breath. “Still impressive. Dr. Baek doesn’t say ‘I like you’ often. Usually it’s more like, ‘Congratulations, you’re slightly less useless than yesterday.’”

That got a laugh out of you. A real one this time.

You looked up at him, rain-mottled glass behind his shoulder. “Thanks. For not stepping in earlier. During the GSW. I am glad you trusted me enough.”

He tilted his head slightly, considering you. “You didn’t need help.”

That made you pause. “...You’re really just like that, huh?” It made you wonder how real and genuine of a person he is. No show-off, no superiority, nothing.

His smile was small but real. “I try to be fair.”

Another beat of quiet. You nodded, tucking a damp strand of hair behind your ear.

“Well,” you said. “One shift down. Only about a thousand more to go.”

Jae-won glanced out the window. “It’s still raining. You got here soaked.”

“Yeah,” you said, eyeing your damp shoes. “My umbrella flipped inside out before I even reached the gate.”

He hesitated. Then said, “Wait here.”

You blinked as he walked off, his silhouette vanishing down the hall.

Two minutes later, he returned—holding a trauma center-branded emergency poncho. Still in its plastic. Still very much hideous.

You burst out laughing. “This is the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Welcome gift,” he said, handing it over. “Also, a peace offering from the department of chaos.”

You tucked it under your arm. “Thanks Dr. Yang. I’ll wear it with pride. Maybe.”

His expression softened. He looked like he wanted to say something else but settled for: “Good work today, newbie.”

Masterlist | Prev | Next

Warning: Explicit content (18+). Mature themes. Consent-focused. Age Gap.

The fifth floor of Hansang Corporate was unusually loud today. Laughter echoed from the CEO’s side of the office, a clear contrast to his usual quiet, quiet mornings. You tried not to pay it any mind as you balanced a small stack of freshly printed scripts in one hand and your iced americano in the other.

“Just drop the files and leave,” you muttered under your breath. You had made it through the entire day without a single charged encounter. A clean streak. No pinky grazes. No mic check disasters. No accidental sniffing of his cologne like a lunatic.

You turned the corner toward his corner desk—and paused.

There he was.

Not Ji-hoon. The man sitting casually across from him, lounging in Ji-hoon’s chair like he owned the place, was devastatingly handsome. Tousled dark hair, bright amused eyes, and an obnoxiously charming grin that looked like it had ruined many people before you. He was wearing an expensive leather jacket and some sort of watch that screamed "not a nine-to-five guy."

Ji-hoon sat beside him, expression unreadable. One arm draped over the chair’s backrest, thumb lazily tapping against the leather, eyes trained—on you.

“Sorry to interrupt, sir.” You didn’t dare to look up. “Mr. Daehyun asked me to drop these files for you to look over and consider future projects,” you said blandly, placing the file on Ji-hoon’s table.

The stranger sat up straight, brightening. “And who might you be?” he asked smoothly. “His secretary? PR team? Or just someone criminally pretty roaming around?”

You blinked. Oh. Oh no.

Ji-hoon didn’t say a word.

“None of the above, sir.” You replied, eyebrows raised. “Just a random someone who tries to manage and organize things in order for our company's convenience.”

“Oooh,” the stranger leaned forward, extending a hand. “Then I’m speaking to a very important woman. I’m Joon-seok, by the way. Long-suffering friend of Mr. Doberman over here.” How fitting.

“Y/N,” you replied hesitantly, shaking his hand. He held it just a second too long.

Ji-hoon still said nothing. Just sipped from his coffee, gaze never leaving the two of you.

“You know,” Joon-seok continued, “it’s shocking no one’s ever mentioned you before. Ji-hoon always talks about work, but leaves out the part where someone like you is in the building.”

You gave a polite laugh, unsure how to navigate this. “Well. I’m usually hiding behind mood boards and production schedules.”

Joon-seok leaned even closer. “Well, maybe I’ll start attending collaboration meetings more often.”

Your smile was strained now. Before you could retreat with dignity intact, Ji-hoon finally spoke.

“She doesn’t have time for distractions,” he said, voice cool. “She’s got a double conference coordination tomorrow and three briefs to finish.”

Something about the way Joon-seok’s eyes tracked your every expression was both flattering and exhausting. You shifted your weight from one foot to another, clutching the edge of the file folder like it might deflect the intensity of his gaze.

“Do you have lunch plans tomorrow?” he asked, his voice casual but unmistakably suggestive. Completely ignoring his friend's comment.

You blinked. “I am sorry?” You looked at Ji-hoon for help. Unfortunately he was looking at his coffee cup with strange fascination.

He grinned. “Yeah. I know a place near Cheongdam-dong. Great bulgogi. Even better company.”

From the corner of your eye, you saw Ji-hoon’s fingers still on his coffee cup. Not moving. Not sipping. Just... gripped.

You gave a tight smile. “I usually eat at my desk.”

“Tragic. Beautiful women shouldn’t have to dine beside keyboards.” Joon-seok’s voice lowered just a bit. “You deserve better.”

You let out a breathy laugh, more out of nerves than anything else. “I should get back. These briefing notes won’t revise themselves.”

“Pity,” Joon-seok said, leaning back. “Don’t disappear too fast.”

You gave Ji-hoon another brief glance—still unreadable. No help there.

With a polite nod, you turned and walked away, heels echoing against the tile floor. “Enjoy your coffee,” you muttered, briskly walking back to your desk, heart pounding for all the wrong reasons.

The moment your figure disappeared around the corner, Joon-seok let out a low chuckle and turned to Ji-hoon. “Seriously, hyung. Where the hell have your agency been hiding her?”

Ji-hoon didn’t respond. His jaw was tight.

Joon-seok nudged him with an elbow. “She’s got this... understated kind of hot. Like, she doesn’t even realize how pretty she is.”

Ji-hoon said nothing. Just stared at the untouched file on his desk.

Another nudge. “Come on. I’m serious. Set me up. She single?”

A flicker of something dangerous moved through Ji-hoon’s eyes, but his voice remained even.

“I don’t know.”

“Pfft. Liar.” Joon-seok grinned. “You always know everything. Give me her number.”

Still nothing.

Ji-hoon slowly turned his head to look at his friend, the kind of slow, measured turn that in drama scripts usually meant something would get broken soon.

Joon-seok laughed nervously, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay. Damn. Calm down.”

But Ji-hoon wasn’t calm. Not inside.

She laughed at his stupid lines.

He touched her hand—did she even notice?

Why didn’t you say anything, idiot? Why didn’t you tell him to back off?

He stared at the place you’d just been standing, feeling the dull throb of a headache behind his temples. Not because of Joon-seok’s flirting. That was expected. The guy flirted with plants if they looked at him funny.

It was your reaction.

The shy smile. The way your fingers curled slightly when you laughed. The way you didn’t pull away.

He closed his eyes briefly. Let out a slow breath.

You were allowed to talk to people. Of course you were. You weren’t his. Not technically. Not publicly.

But still—

The idea of you sitting across from Joon-seok in some dimly lit restaurant made his stomach twist. You’d laugh like that again. Lean forward on your elbows. Maybe tell him things you hadn't even told Ji-hoon.

That thought? Unacceptable.

But he didn’t show it. He never did. Instead, he turned back to his monitor and clicked the mouse once. Twice. Didn’t even see what he was opening.

He didn’t even blink.

He’d already made up his mind.

Everyone had clocked out. Even Daehyun had finished his fourth round of goodbyes. The office lights dimmed one by one, and you were the last to head toward the elevator, bag slung over your shoulder, phone buzzing in your hand.

A new message.

CEO Mr. Ju Ji Hoon Get in the car. Now.

You froze.

Another message popped in right after:

Basement. Black SUV. Don’t make me text again.

Your stomach flipped.

You walked into the garage cautiously. It was dimly lit, the concrete walls echoing every footstep and every engine hum heading toward the exit. Your heels clicked steadily toward the stairwell, phone still in hand from the text that stopped you cold just a moment ago.

There it was. A sleek black SUV sat idling just a few steps ahead, dark and waiting like a predator in plain sight. Through the tinted glass, you could see him—Ju Ji-hoon. Driver’s seat. One hand draped lazily over the steering wheel, the other tapping against his thigh. Sunglasses off. Jaw tight. That unreadable expression of his in full view.

He didn’t wave. Just unlocked the door with a click.

You paused. Just for a second. Long enough for your heart to trip over itself.

Then, without a word, you opened the passenger door and got in.

The door shut with a muted thud. Inside the car, silence. No music. No words. Just the thick, heady mix of leather and his cologne—sharp, clean, infuriatingly familiar.

He didn’t start the car. He just sat there, staring out the windshield, jaw tense.

“You texted, sir, ” you finally said.

“I did.”

“Is this about the files?”

“No.”

You looked at him. He wasn’t meeting your eyes. His knuckles were tight around the steering wheel. His profile was sharp, unreadable, just like earlier.

“Joon-seok’s cute,” he said suddenly.

You blinked. “What?”

“Charming. Funny. Knows how to hold a conversation. You looked like you were enjoying it.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Pardon me. But, are you… jealous?”

That made him look at you. A sharp turn of his head, eyes flashing dark and unreadable.

“I don’t get jealous,” he said flatly. “I get… territorial.”

Your breath caught.

He didn’t look at you. Just spoke, low and clear.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

You blinked. “No, I—”

“Don’t lie.” Calm, almost casual—but each word cut like a blade. “You’ve been dodging me since that night.”

You exhaled shakily. “I just… I didn’t think it was appropriate. I thought it was a one-time thing. I didn’t want to be a bother.”

Ji-hoon let out a sharp laugh. Bitter. “A bother? That’s what you think this is?”

You shifted awkwardly, eyes down, fingers nervously playing with the strap of your bag. “You didn’t say anything afterward. I didn’t know what you wanted. I figured it’d be easier if we just—”

“You literally act like a ghost in the office when you see me,” he interrupted. “You don’t just disappear. You run. Don’t even look back.”

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out. A silent beat passed between you.

“I thought keeping my distance would help us keep things… professional,” you said finally.

Before you could reply, he leaned closer, one hand resting on the headrest behind you, voice low and steady.

“Don’t flirt with people in front of me,” he said. “Even if it’s by accident. Even if you think I don’t care.”

Your heartbeat was a full-blown drumline in your chest. You tried to form words, but your brain short-circuited somewhere between territorial and the way his voice dipped on the word me.

“I didn’t flirt,” you finally said, your voice embarrassingly small.

He tilted his head. “Didn’t look like it.”

Silence hung in the car like a held breath.

“You done?” you asked, lips dry.

He stared at you for a beat longer.

“No,” he said. "Far from it."

He leaned across the console so fast you barely registered it. A firm hand cradled the back of your neck. His lips crashed onto yours, hot and demanding, stealing the breath from your lungs. There was no hesitation. No question. Just weeks’ worth of pent-up tension exploding in one sudden, searing kiss.

You gasped, hands grabbing at his shirt, your body reacting before your brain could.

His mouth was relentless, bruising, possessive, tasting like frustration and something far deeper than either of you could name. His other hand gripped your waist, pulling you closer across the console as if to erase the space between you entirely.

When he pulled back, his voice was hoarse, wrecked. “You think I forgot that night? You think I could touch you like that and walk away like nothing happened?”

Your only response was to kiss him again—this time slower, but just as desperate. Like it hurt to breathe otherwise.

He groaned low against your lips, then pressed kisses along your jawline and down the soft curve of your neck. Your head tipped back, mouth parted, a shaky breath escaping you.

“Say it,” he murmured against your skin.

“Say what?” you whispered, barely coherent.

“That you haven’t stopped thinking about me. About how I touched you.”

You closed your eyes, his breath making you tremble.

“I haven’t,” you confessed.

His hand slid under your blouse, fingers tracing the skin at your waist, grazing just enough to make your pulse spike. “Good,” he said darkly. “Because neither have I.”

His mouth was back on yours—hotter, hungrier.

You were vaguely aware of the windows fogging up, the cool garage air nowhere near enough to cut through the heat blooming inside the car. His touch was demanding, purposeful, fingers pressing into the softness of your thigh as you straddled the blurred line between reason and raw want.

And just before your brain could scream we shouldn't, his voice rasped into your ear—

“This wasn’t a one-time thing. It never was. It won’t be.”

You believed him.

And you kissed him again.

Back at Ji-hoon’s apartment, the city sprawled behind floor-to-ceiling windows, aglow in amber and steel blue. Rain streaked faintly across the glass, a quiet rhythm behind the storm you both brought in with you.

The car ride was torturous. None of you spoke. Heavy tension keeping you both company throughout the journey.

Ji-hoon wasted no time. He closed the door with a soft click—no words, no polite pretense. The polished stoic facade vanished. What remained was the man who had kissed you breathless, who had just stared at you in the garage like you were the only thing tethering him to earth.

His eyes found yours in the dim light. You were still catching your breath, your lips a little swollen from everything that had just happened.

“All this time, you've avoided me. It's fine.” he said quietly, approaching. “Don’t do that again.”

You nodded before you could speak. You didn’t trust your voice yet.

“Come here.”

He reached for your hand and brought you into his bedroom with that same quiet certainty that had made you melt in his car. His movements were unhurried, but charged. Like he’d waited weeks for this and wasn’t going to waste a second.

The bed behind you was neatly made—dark gray sheets, immaculate, like everything else in his home. But that restraint didn’t reach his eyes.

“You looked incredible today,” he murmured, brushing a thumb across your cheek. “That blouse drove me insane.”

You blinked, breath catching as he reached for the silk ties folded neatly on the dresser. They weren’t there by accident. He had wanted this.

“Tonight, I want you to surrender. No pretending. Nothing. Just trust me.”

You inhaled shakily. Then nodded.

With reverent precision, Ji-hoon guided you to sit on the bed and wrapped your wrists with the silk—soft, firm, the knots tied like he’d done this before. But his touch was careful, always checking your eyes.

“Too tight?”

“No,” you whispered. “It’s perfect.”

“Look at me,” he said.

You lifted your chin. Your dark doe eyes found his—and stayed there.

“Tell me you’re mine.”

Your lips parted. “I’m yours.”

A low growl caught in his throat as he kissed you—slow, deep, claiming. His hand traced your jawline, then lower, fingers moving down the elegant tie of your blouse. He toyed with the bow, fingers brushing the curve of your breast through the fabric, eyes drinking you in.

“You know I felt like a goddamn animal when you walked into my office earlier,” he muttered. “This little knot keeping you covered like a tease—”

And with one swift tug, the bow unraveled. The blouse fell open. You were bare to him.

His hands slid up your sides, thumbs grazing the curves of your breasts before his mouth followed. His tongue circled your nipple, slow, sensual. You arched into him, restrained wrists tightening slightly as your breath caught.

“You like when I suck your breasts,” he murmured against your skin. "Don't you?"

You nodded, barely able to speak. Your whines were more than enough for confirmation.

He flicked his tongue again, teasing, then sucked harder, making you whimper.

“Beg for more.”

You squirmed. You were too dazed to listen to anything.

And he stopped. You opened your eyes to meet icy stern glare staring right back at you.

"Beg." He was firm and clear.

“Please… Ji-hoon, don’t stop.” Your eyes were barely open, it seemed crazy to you how much you wanted this.

“Good girl.”

You’d never heard those words sound like that—like a reward and a warning.

He kissed his way down your torso, then back up again, never letting your gaze stray from his. Every touch was deliberate. Every command was soft, but undeniable. The silk restraints gave you no room to hide—and you didn’t want to.

It was overwhelming: his hands, his mouth, the low groans he made when you moaned for him.

Your body felt like silk drawn taut—every nerve tuned to him, every breath thick with anticipation.

Ji-hoon didn’t rush. His hands moved with a reverence that undid you more than anything else—fingertips ghosting over your waist, the dip of your hips, the curve beneath your ribs. You gasped when he lowered his mouth again, teasing a trail of heat and hunger, pressing kisses like confessions down your skin.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured, voice gravel low. His thumb brushed just above your navel as if testing your restraint. “Still so shy, even now?”

You shook your head, but he caught your chin gently between his fingers, forcing your eyes to meet his. "Don't look away."

There was no teasing this time. Only command. Worship. Possession.

His mouth was warm and relentless as he worshipped every inch of your skin. You arched instinctively, wrists still soft-bound above your head, unable to control how much you wanted him—how badly you ached. And he knew. Every moan, every shift of your hips, only deepened the tension between your bodies.

Ji-hoon hovered over you, his body powerful and steady. His breath mingled with yours. You felt his restraint unraveling as much as your own.

“Tell me what you want,” he whispered. “I want to hear it from you.”

“I want you,” you breathed, chest heaving, back arched. “All of you.”

His eyes darkened, and then—finally—he moved against you. You were no longer sure where his body ended and yours began. Every thrust of pressure, every friction and pull, ignited fireworks under your skin. You cried out, helpless, and he silenced it with his mouth—hungry, claiming, unrelenting.

He guided the rhythm between you with his hands and voice, never letting you drift too far, always pulling you back to him with words like:

“Good girl.”

“Right there.”

“Mine.”

And you were. Entirely.

The tension built and built, a tide you couldn’t escape even if you wanted to. Your body tightened, arched, reached for something just beyond—and when you found it, it felt like surrender, like freedom, like everything you'd held back pouring out in one trembling wave.

Ji-hoon was close behind, voice rasping your name like a prayer. He gripped you through it, holding your wrists, your waist, his forehead pressed to yours as he came undone—quietly, fiercely, beautifully.

Afterward, there was only breath. The hum of skin on skin. His lips on your temple. Your wrists finally unbound, held in his hands like they were fragile things.

Before you could process the surge of emotions and pleasure you just experienced, you felt a warm cloth between your legs; his hand steady as he cleaned you gently, then pulled the blankets up, curling around you protectively. You didn’t know where your body ended and his began, and you didn’t want to.

Ji-hoon didn’t leave you alone for a second. He eased you back into the pillows, kissed your forehead, and brushed the damp strands of hair from your face. His body pressed beside yours, warm and real.

His hand never stopped tracing circles against your spine.

From the nightstand, he picked up a plate of chilled mango slices—sweet, perfectly ripe. He fed you a piece gently, letting you chew slowly as he rubbed your back with lazy affection.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered. “You’re mine. You always were.” he murmured. You could feel the sincerity in his voice. It was different this time.

You nodded, dazed.

“I’m yours,” you said again, quieter this time. More real.

His gaze held yours. “Forever.”

And for once, you didn’t flinch at the word.

Masterlist | Prev | Next

You told yourself it was a one-time thing. At least that what you wanted to believe when you did not see the man you spent the night with a few days back. It honestly baffled you how much let this one-time rendezvous affect you, because of course, it was definitely not the same for him.

For him, curiosity. A sugar-coated desire. A fleeting period of excitement that he could twirl around with his eyes alone.

For you, a moment of weakness. A lapse in judgment wrapped in silk sheets and the scent of his cologne.

That was what you thought, and what you preferred to believe. And being the self-critic person, you were, you kept judging and chiding yourself with internal insults of stupidity and unprofessionalism.

Unfortunately, judgment had no place in the open-plan fifth floor of Hansang Corporate and Ltd.

Especially not when Assistant Manager Daehyun was obsessed with "workplace synergy" and kept insisting you be present at every meeting with Ju Ji-hoon.

“Your energy balances him,” Daehyun whispered one afternoon, as if Ji-hoon were a delicate cactus that bloomed only in your presence. You look dumbfounded at the man. It made no sense a man, wise as he his—the small strand of grey hair gave away that at least—actually bought that. A grown-ass man from another grown-ass man.

What in the yin and yang is he even saying?

“Right,” you muttered, eyes trained on your screen.

Please please please no. Please just no. Please.

From the opposite desk, Miyeon popped her head up like a meerkat. “Did you just say ‘balance’? As in... soulmates. WORK PLACE SOULMATES?”

“No one said soulmates!” you hissed. Miyeon shot you a playful glare to which you quickly replied with a sorry.

Seung-ho swiveled in his chair, the peppero sticks long replaced by now a gummy bear packet. “But if you were soulmates, he’d totally be the stern, brooding male lead in a weekday drama. You’d be the sarcastic but soft-hearted intern. But it’ll be so controversial because he’s so old, and not to mention the CEO.”

“I’m not an intern anymore,” you said dryly. You didn’t like the way he called Ji-hoon old. He was far from being what his age put him out to be.

“Okay, intern Y/N,” Seung-ho sprinted as soon as he said, because knew his head would be under a headlock if he didn’t do so. You racked your brain for different excuses, anything that would allow to to stay out of his proximity.

And yet—Intern Kangjae chose that moment to skip over with a portfolio and a sticky note stuck to his forehead. “Hey Y/N, Mr.Ju said he needs to at the conference room downstairs. He said it was urgent.” He pointed to the pink note barely stuck to his forehead that read ‘Urgent, Now.’

You blinked. Curt. Short. Demanding. How typical of him. “Did he say what it’s about?”

Kangjae grinned. “He said, and I quote, ‘She’ll know.’”

Seung-ho and Miyeon burst into synchronized screams.

“I AM WORKING!” you announced, grabbing your tablet and storming out.

The office elevator was unusually crowded. Some interns, some team leaders and some new faces you did not recognize. You squeezed in last—and somehow ended up beside him.

How ironic.

Ji-hoon didn’t speak. Just stared straight ahead, arms crossed. His cologne curled into your nose like a challenge. It was a cruel reminder of the night that you both spent together a few days back.

Then his pinky grazed yours.

Your breath hitched.

He didn’t look at you, but his finger stayed. Pressed gently, knowingly, against yours. Barely noticeable to anyone else.

Your ears flushed.

A soft ding, and the doors opened.

He walked out without a word, leaving you dazed in a bubble of heat and tension.

And it wasn’t the only time that this happened. You were adjusting the office's weekly mood board when Daehyun called you over.

“Can you check Ji-hoon’s desktop mic? He can't attend the international meeting session unless it's fixed.”

“Sir, I am afraid I wouldn’t know. I’m not a sound tech.”

“But you’re the only one he doesn’t glare at,” Daehyun said, already walking away. "Please his mood swings are driving me crazy. It is essential we cater to his needs so he can focus on get into his drill.”

Inside the cabin Ji-hoon sat lazily against his chair as if he were eagerly waiting for your presence. His tie was already loosened with sone buttons undone around his neck. His gaze lifted as you entered—slow, amused.

“My mic’s misbehaving,” he said, deadpan. It was if he were talking something or someone completely unrelated to the closed wall of the studio that held you both. As if he was accusing you of misbehaving.

Your gaze instantly drifted down to your feet at his voice, almost instinctively. And you cursed yourself for feeling all fuzzy at his voice alone. The work had to be done nonetheless, so you crouched beside him on eye level, fingers fumbling at the tiny device clipped near his collarbone. Face only inches apart.

His skin was warm. Too warm.

He leaned down, whispering, “I like when you touch me like this.”

You froze.

Daehyun walked in. “All good?” You thanked all the seven heavens, it was as if the skies had finally heard your silent pleas.

You sprang back like you’d been electrocuted. “Yes! Mic’s perfect. Fantastic audio. Loud and clear!” So loud that your heart might just leap out of your ribs.

You were working late when Ji-hoon appeared beside your desk, a half-empty Americano in hand.

Oh god, not this again.

Previously, you had successfully dodged the older man four times already. Okay maybe thrice.

Fine. Twice. Ugh, one. One. And that one barely counts because you hid in the women’s restroom for fifteen minutes while pretending to be on a call with “Accounts.”

First attempt was when you fake-coughed and told Daehyun you were feeling “a bit warm” and didn’t want to risk a viral outbreak in the creative department. Daehyun, ever the hypochondriac who started imagining how you might just spread the germs to his prized team members, let you slip away faster than a rat from a flood.

Second attempt, you offered to “deliver documents” to the PR team on the third floor right when Ji-hoon walked into the lobby. You even took the stairs. Two flights. In heels. Your knees still hadn’t forgiven you.

Third one, you claimed you were fasting. He offered you a protein bar and water with a straight face. You almost choked trying to explain that it was a mental detox fast, the kind where you only drink things that are green and smell like regret. Yeah you completely made that up. He just tilted his head and said, “Even during meetings?” You wanted to throw your stapler at him. And maybe the protein bar too.

And the fourth attempt? You ruined it yourself. Because you wanted to see if he’d notice your absence. Spoiler alert: He did. He noticed immediately.

“Where’s the newbie?” he had asked, during a full-room campaign briefing.

“Probably with PR, sir,” Daehyun had replied.

“She’s not,” Ji-hoon said simply, without even checking his phone. “Her schedule’s clear. She should be here.”

The room went dead silent. Seung-ho dropped his pen. Miyeon mouthed “WTF” so dramatically you saw the consonants form in real time.

You were called back into the meeting within five minutes. He didn’t look at you when you entered, but the faint twitch of his jaw muscle said enough. And then, to top it off, the web development team also specifically requested his presence for a presentation in regards to discuss about setting up the next product launch. And the meeting was scheduled exactly 15 minutes after the prior.

Which is why he was now here. And you were cornered. Again. Nonetheless, you would still like to credit yourself for three almost successful attempts.

“No one’s here,” you said without looking up. The conference room was already deserted within five minutes of the meeting ending.

“Except you,” he replied.

You pointedly kept your eyes on your laptop. “You need something?” A pause. "Sir?"

He leaned down, voice low. “I think you know what I need.”

Your typing stuttered.

He slid his tablet beside yours. “They’ve added another reviewal on Thursday. Can you update the timeline?”

You nodded stiffly.

Oh, he needed this. To update his schedule.

He moved closer.

Too close.

You could feel the heat from his chest behind you, his breath ghosting across your neck as he pointed to a date on your screen.

“Your hands are shaking,” he murmured, his tone all-knowing and mocking. “I wonder why.”

You pushed back your chair. “It’s cold.” The Air conditioner taunted your lie with 27°C gleaming in neon yellow. You made the mistake of trying to clear your throat mid-sentence, which only made it sound like you were choking on your own dignity.

“It’s cold.” You stumbled over the words a second time, punctuating them with a weak, almost comedic cough. “I mean—I’m cold. Me. Myself. The person here is cold.”

God. Why did your mouth betray you like this?

He smiled, clearly not buying it. “Right.”

Ji-hoon didn’t say anything after that, but his lips twitched — the faintest hint of amusement lurking at the edge of his otherwise unreadable face. He leaned just a little closer. “Should I get you a blanket?”

You swore your soul briefly left your body.

Certainly! Here's a rewritten version of that scene with smoother flow and vivid tone:

At lunch the next day, Miyeon slapped a glossy magazine down onto the break room table like it owed her money. On the cover, front and center, was him — Ji-hoon, sharp-jawed and devastating in a tailored charcoal suit, eyes locked with the camera like he knew exactly what he was doing.

“Seriously,” Miyeon groaned dramatically, fanning herself with the magazine. “If he ever looked at me like this in real life, I’d explode on the spot.”

She wiped imaginary lint off the cover as if the man himself might feel it through the page.

The headline in bold serif font read: “Top 10 Faces of Korea’s Business Elite” And honestly, no one — not a single soul in South Korea — could’ve been a better choice than him.

“He looks at everyone like that,” you said quickly. "He's known for being nice and friendly to everyone."

“Not at you,” Jiwon said, munching on tteokbokki. “He’s weirdly... polite with you. Like, intense polite. Like Jane Austen polite.” She paused thinking. “You know what I am trying to say?”

“Why are you all obsessed with this?” you groaned. It seemed like everyone was hell bent against your mission of keeping Ji-hoon off your mind.

“Dude, it’s him? Ju Ji-Hoon, the CEO, our boss's BOSS, hello?” Seung-ho said in a sing-song voice which pissed you off even more because darn he was right. Anyone would be obsessed on trying to get on his good side. Anyone would die to be around this man.

Minseo leaned in, wide-eyed. “Is it true he requested you personally for the next briefing?”

You blinked. “What?” Absolutely clueless. This was news to you.

“He said your name in a meeting,” Minseo whispered. “Your full name. Slowly. It was kind of hot.”

Masterlist | Prev | Next

Warning: Explicit content (18+). Mature themes. BDSM x vanilla undertone. Consent-focused. Age Gap. Sweet aftercare included.

When you made your way out of the venue, bidding your colleagues and superiors goodbye, you saw him; poised as ever, waiting inside his car by himself. He knew.

Oh, he knew so well that you’d give in.

You waited a little bit more for the crowd to disintegrate, before slowly and carefully nearing his car. A soft knock at the tinted windows which seemed to drop at cue before you could place a second one.

“Hey,” He said softly, as if he were trying to lure you into his world. But the funny part is, he didn’t even need to try.

“Hey,” Your voice cracked, the embarrassment and uncertainty clearly visible in your tone. That earned a soft chuckle from the older man who sat in the driver seat, crouching over to open the door for you to be his passenger princess for the night.

This was dangerous. This was wrong in so many ways. But it’s too late, too far to back out now that you were here. You wanted to know, see, everything. Everything.

His apartment was dimly lit. It was spacious but not too much. Minimal but enough. Perfectly balanced, just like him.

Not cold or clinical like you expected. No sterile leather or strange hooks. Just warm wood floors, heavy curtains, and the scent of something that felt warm, and something darker—something like him.

You stood near the doorway, your breath trembling.

“You can still leave,” Ji-hoon said quietly.

You looked at him. Broad-shouldered. Shirt unbuttoned just enough to show the smooth plane of his chest, veins slightly visible at his forearms. Forty-five. Quiet. Certain.

But his eyes held stillness. Waiting. Confident but respectful.

“I don’t want to,” you said softly.

He nodded once, then stepped closer—slowly, carefully, like you were made of crystal.

“You’ll tell me if you want to stop,” he murmured, fingers brushing your jaw. “You’ll use the word ‘Lily.’ Okay?”

You nodded. You wondered why the specific word but decided to just ignore asking him. You were too distracted in anticipating what might happen next.

“No,” he said gently. “I want to hear it.”

“Okay,” you whispered, assuring both him and yourseld.

His eyes softened.

“Good girl.”

That alone nearly made your knees give out.

He tucked the loose strand the brushed over face, neatly placing it behind your ear before propping your face up. His gaze was intense, demanding, but also caring.

He didn’t rush.

He kissed you once—just once—long and patient. Then again, deeper, his palm cupping your cheek.

His hands ran down your arms like you were something he was memorizing.

“You're softer than I imagined,” he said against your mouth. “But I knew you’d melt.”

You whimpered when his hand slid down your back, finding the curve of your waist, then down further—over the swell of your hips.

"And I knew that you'd melt me too."

His fingers squeezed, slow and possessive.

“Curvy little thing,” he muttered. “Perfect for me.”

You shivered.

Then—he lifted you.

Just like that.

You gasped as he carried you to the bed, laying you down as if he’d done it a hundred times in his dreams.

He hovered above you, brushing the hair away, once again, from your flushed face. He love seeing your face all flustered.

“Tell me your limits,” he said.

You blinked. “I—don’t have many. I don't know. I just…”

His eyes darkened.

“I like being touched,” you whispered. “I like being told what to do. But I… like sweetness too.”

His expression didn’t change. But his voice dropped an octave.

“You’ll get more than sweet, love,” he said. “You’ll get worshipped.”

He unzipped your dress slowly, peeling it away to reveal the curves he’d only imagined. It was agonizingly slow, because he was in disbelief as well. He thought it was a mere fantasy that he build inside his head when he first saw you at the meeting. He felt like a creep when his gazed hovered over your figure during the meeting, pale yellow blouse with a modest neckline, but the way it hugged your body drove him crazy.

His eyes paused at your breasts—full, firm, rising with your shallow breath.

“Jesus,” he breathed. “These are…”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

He kissed down your neck, slowly trailing lower, reverent. His tongue traced the slope of one breast, then the other, before his mouth closed around a nipple, sucking deep and slow.

You moaned. He moaned back, the vibration making you arch.

He bit gently. Then licked.

“You were made to be touched like this,” he said, voice hoarse. “Made to be adored.”

His hands never stopped moving—one caressing your hip, the other kneading your thigh. He took his time with your chest, switching sides, alternating between sucking, kissing, and murmuring filth against your skin.

“Does that feel good, baby?”

“Y-Yes—Ji-hoon—sir—”

He groaned.

“Say that again.”

“Sir…”

He bit your nipple and you gasped.

“Good girl,” he murmured. “So good for me.”

He undressed you completely, slowly dragging down your underwear like it was a gift he was unwrapping.

“Look at you,” he whispered, spreading your thighs. “So wet already. All for me?”

You nodded, dazed.

He touched you carefully at first—fingers gliding up your folds, circling your clit, watching your face.

Then deeper. Two fingers curling inside you.

Your back arched.

“That’s it,” he said, voice low. “Let me hear you.”

You moaned into his neck. “I can’t—please—”

“You can,” he said, kissing your temple. “You will.”

Then he lowered his mouth between your thighs.

You didn’t know how long it went on.

All you knew was the way his tongue felt like velvet and sin, the way his hands held your thighs wide, firm but never hurting, and the way he growled every time you whimpered his name.

You came with your thighs trembling around his face, and he didn’t stop—not until you were squirming, begging him to slow down.

He climbed up, kissed you again, and whispered, “Can I take you now?”

You nodded. “Please.”

“Words, sweetheart.”

“Yes. I want you. Please—sir.”

He didn’t tease.

He guided himself into you slowly, stretching you inch by inch, until he was buried inside you completely.

You gasped. He groaned.

“So tight,” he panted. “So warm. Fuck—you feel perfect.”

He didn’t pound.

He moved deep. Measured. Let you feel every inch.

One hand gripped yours, fingers interlaced, while the other pressed your knee higher, opening you wider.

He whispered praise into your ear with every thrust.

“You’re so beautiful.” “You take me so well.” “You were made to be mine.”

You cried out when he hit a spot that made your vision go white.

He kissed your lips.

“There. Right there?”

You nodded, breathless.

“Good girl.”

You came again.

This time around him. With his mouth on your throat and his fingers digging into your hips, holding you still so he could grind deep and slow.

He followed right after—groaning into your skin, staying inside you as your bodies trembled together.

He didn’t move for a long time.

Just held you.

One hand cradling your cheek, the other stroking your hair.

“You okay, baby?”

You nodded, eyes fluttering. “Better than okay.”

He kissed your forehead. Then your nose.

“Let me clean you up.”

You blushed. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

And he did.

With the warmest towel. With a glass of water. With gentle kisses on your thighs, your shoulder, your temple.

Then he pulled you into his chest under the covers, wrapping your legs with his.

“You’re mine now,” he said softly, fingers tracing circles into your back.

You were already drifting.

But you smiled.

“Yours.”

You woke slowly.

Not in your bed. Not in your apartment. But under deep navy sheets that smelled faintly of sandalwood and... him.

Ju Ji-hoon.

Oh. Wait.

You didn’t have to open your eyes to know he was awake.

You could feel it—the way his palm was resting just beneath your left breast, not groping, just there. His breath was even, but his fingers occasionally flexed like he was reminding himself you were real.

And so, did you. Everything felt hazy, as if it were a vivid dream you just didn’t want to end yet. Your hands brushed over his, quietly reassuring yourself that he was, indeed, real. Beside you, engulfing you in his warmth. His hair tickled your neck, you were naturally ticklish, but you didn’t dare to move, yet. You wanted the moment to last longer, just a little bit longer.

He nuzzled his face in the crook of your neck, slow and soft hums of comfort left his lips. He pulled you closer, possibly trying to integrate your form into his. It was as if all the cells in your body had memorized his touch; your skin prickled in remembrance from the night before. Your thighs still trembled a little when you shifted, now facing him. You felt raw, full, worshipped.

“Awake?” His voice was raspy, eye half shut, sleep-heavy. Dangerous in the softest way.

“Mhm,” you murmured, slightly rubbing your eyes.

He kissed your shoulder.

You turned to face him again, tilting your head up.

He looked unfairly beautiful in the morning—dark tousled hair, bare chest, golden skin and a smile that hinted at sin but also... affection?

You studied him. He studied you back.

Comfortable silence.

“What?” you whispered, suddenly shy.

“You’re trouble,” he said half-amused.

You blinked in confusion. “What?”

He leaned in. Pressed a kiss to your cheek. “You make me want things I told myself I was too old for.”

You laughed—soft, breathy. “You think I’m not thinking the same thing?”

His brow lifted in amusement, maybe little cockiness too. “So you are thinking about me?”

You nudged him with your knee. “I literally fell asleep with your—” you cleared your throat softly, letting him know that you were too shy to say it out loud.

“Say it.” He deadpanned.

“What?” Once again, you felt your cheeks burn. Every time you were around this man, it was given.

He had his infamous half-smile playing across on his face, which looked more of a smirk honestly, quietly ushering you to finish the rest of the sentence.

“Say it.” This time, it held a little more authority to it.

“—with your...you inside me,” you said, flushed.

He smirked. “There’s my girl.”

You stared at him. “I’m not your girl.”

He paused.

“Yet.”

Pause.

Did I just ruin the whole vibe for god’s sake.

You tried to backpedal. “I mean—”

He leaned in again. Kissed your lips once. Then again. Slower.

When he pulled back, he whispered:

“You said ‘yours’ last night. Did you mean it?”

Your heart thudded. Yours. His.

“…I did.”

His expression softened. His hand stroked your waist. “Then I’ll keep you, if you’ll let me.”

You swallowed hard. “You don’t think it’s weird? Me being this much younger, immature?”

He gave a low laugh. “No. I think what’s weird is how little I’ve cared about anything else since you walked into that damn elevator. Light yellow shirt, beige pants. Your presence accompanied by a mix of vanilla and Lilies.”

Oh my god, my first day at work. He saw me then?

You blinked. “The elevator? You noticed me then?”

“Baby,” he said, shifting closer. “I noticed your lips before I noticed your badge.”

You hid your face in his chest. “Stop.”

He chuckled and wrapped his arms around you.

This is a bad idea. Really, really bad one at that.

Thirty minutes later, he was still shirtless in the kitchen, boiling water for tea and scrambled eggs, while you sat on a stool in his long button-down shirt that barely covered your thighs.

“Your team leader will kill me if you’re late,” he said without looking. It was funny to you because how on earth would he know that his team member had just spent the night with his boss, the CEO.

“More like he’ll kill me.” You groaned. “Don’t remind me.”

“I will make him disappear into thin air before he does that.” A chaste kiss on you check as he set a cup of tea in front of you. “You can call in sick.”

You shook your head. As much as you wanted to use the higher-up privileges, you decided to let go of your temptation. “Can’t. Not unless I want the gossip mill to explode about a newcomer already lazing off at work.”

He leaned on the counter across from you. “So, let them talk.”

You stared down at the tea. “It’s not that simple. I still need to prove myself.”

He studied you for a moment. “You’re scared this is too much.”

You hesitated, he wasn’t talking about office. He was talking about you, about him. Both of you together.

You felt something creep inside your chest, like a mix of fear and anxiety. “Not scared. Just… unsure how this works. You’re you. I’m just a—”

He crossed the space between you and kissed your forehead.

“You’re not just anything. You’re the first person in years I’ve wanted to wake up next to.”

You blinked. “You’ve had...others?”

Of course he did stupid. What an absurd thing to ask.

“Of course." You liked his honesty, he doesn't sugarcoat things.

"But no one who made me feel like this. Seen, reciprocated.” He took a sip of tea from his cup, a slow sigh of the burn traveling down his throat. “You know, I literally announced on public television that I don’t plan on dating, not now, not any time soon.”

You swallowed. Unsure, scared of what he was about to say next. You hoped he wouldn't let things just end yet.

“But you…you changed that. I can’t help myself when I am around you.” His response was straightforward, but genuine. You internally sighed in relief.

The tea ran cold while you both exchanged quiet, longing glances at one another. The moment oddly felt so intimate, so authentic.

He smirked. “Terrified yet?”

You smiled. “A little.” You were an honest person, always upfront to voice out your thoughts.

His voice lowered, almost in relief.

“Good. Me too.”

Later that morning, after hurried dressing and a hasty goodbye that was anything but innocent, he whispered:

“If anyone asks how was your night, tell them you spent the night thinking about me.”

You stared at him, cheeky sly smile adorning his face. “I did spend the night with you.”

He grinned harder.

“That’s the best kind of truth,” he said as he placed another kiss but at your lips now, “The one no one believes, but us.”

The office seemed busier; perhaps it was because of the recent surge of multiple new products being launched. Your desk was a mosaic of colourful papers, each belonged to different departments, each assigned to you to make summary notes. You huffed in annoyance, hands barely moving in defeat.

This is death sentence.

“Damn son,” Seung-ho peeped from his desk, a small wall of glass separating you both. He was already on his second packet of peppero for the day. “This is literally a death sentence.”

“My thoughts exactly,” You found yourself automatically listing and scribbling down anything that you remember the last meeting you just attended. You mentally made a checklist to steal a packet of peppero from the doofus beside you.

Did Miyeon talk about the HR or the web development team's budget list?

“So, how was your night? You didn’t even attend our afterparty.” Miyeon chimed in, pouty face while adjusting herself into her seat right in front of you. “Yah, just because you are the youngest doesn’t mean I will always let you off the hook.”

She was three years older than you in age, and a superior at work who joined the company two years ago. It was indeed a blessing to have her as your senior, or else the youngest, Seung-ho—who joined the company alongside you, would've cracked your skull with his clumsy troublemaker tactics. The man literally set the electric hot kettle on fire the other day because he went for a quick nature's call. Oh, he only poured the coffee beans in the kettle, no water, nothing.

“Second youngest,” you corrected, sly smile. “I’m sorry, I’ll be there next time.”

“But you didn’t answer me,” Miyeon was pointing her stylus at you accusingly, eyes fixated on you with determination. She wanted to know what kept her junior busy to miss out an impromptu karaoke session in fancy wear. The pictures you saw of them singing and dancing like maniacs while being all formally dress was hilarious to say the least.

“Nothing much.” You typed harder, in attempts of trying to mask your lies. “I just spent the night thinking.”

Masterlist | Prev | Next

You woke up to a string of messages. It was odd for your colleagues to bombard the chatroom with messages popping every millisecond, unless it was a national emergency news or fake news about Ronaldo and Messi retiring. You quickly did a crosscheck via Naver, whether indeed there was a national crisis that you were unaware of. Thankfully, the world still seemed to be normal.

You stared at your phone screen for longer than you liked. Gala, charity, celebrity. What?

KJ: So are you going? MY: Yah, she'll be dumb to miss such a big event. SH: Honestly, I am going for the food, also Director Won might be there might as well get on his good side ^^ MY: Disgusting, you're disgustingly greedy for the promotion Seung-ho. SH: It is what it is.

It wasn't that you didn't like fancy balls, or getting all dolled up like a bridgerton character. It was the unfamiliarity and uncertainty of the place, the world you were slowly becoming a part of, creeping inside you that scared you. The corporate industry came with the pros and cons, but it was too soon for you. Too soon, too paced for you liking. You hated fast paced stuffs.

Y/N: I'm in. I hope I don't knock over any chaebol's suit with wine like the last time. SH: Oh we love a self aware king. Y/N: I'll kill you Seung-ho. MY: Count me in when you do so.

The gala was a blur of sequins and crystal glasses. The richness dripping with every step you took inside the venue. The place was none other than Royal Heights, housing South Korea's most exquisite banquet hall ever. The celling was probably 5 storied alone, with chandeliers and velvety curtains adorning the whole place.

It was both funny and unrealistic. You’d barely been in this job six months, and already you were being handed champagne in art museums and asked to mingle with Korea’s wealthiest, most famous. You wore the best thing you owned—a navy silk dress with modest lines and trembling nerves beneath. No amount of dressing up could hide the imposter syndrome that was slowly consuming you from within.

Amidst everything, you didn’t expect to see him. He is always so busy and recognized by everyone in the industry as an infamous workaholic. You were new to the job, but not to the industry.

But of course he was there.

Ju Ji-hoon.

In a tailored midnight suit, no tie. Hair swept back with a sharp contrast created by a low fade, wrist heavy with an elegant black-faced watch. He looked like the room bent around his silence.

Your eyes met across the crowd.

You looked away first.

Because what could you possibly say to a man like him, in a place like this, after what he whispered last time?

“You haven’t decided yet whether you want to be controlled.”

You weren’t even sure what he meant. But you’d thought about it every single night.

You were sipping mineral water and trying to stay near your team when your heel snapped.

Of course.

This is so embarrassing. I love being God's favourite.

You limped your way to a quiet hallway just beyond the exhibit entrance, taking refuge near a glass display of minimalist sculptures, praying no one would see you crouched with your shoe in hand.

That’s when you heard the voices.

Two men.

You weren’t trying to eavesdrop—swear to God—but their words drifted through the corridor like a slow trickle of smoke.

“…she got intimidated too soon, you know?” The voice seemed familiar, older but definitely someone you heard on screen before

A pause.

“You pushed her too far, hyung.”

Then a quieter reply. Too recognizable for your liking. Deep. Even. Laced with calmness.

“She needed to feel the edge. Her eyes asked for real submission. She just didn’t know what it meant.”

Your fingers clenched around your heel.

That voice.

Ji-hoon.

You waited until the voices faded, your heart pounding in your throat. You didn’t understand everything they’d said. But you understood enough.

Submission. Control.

It was exciting.

You stood shakily and made your way toward the balcony for air. The Seoul skyline was a shimmer of glass and gold behind the railing, but all you could feel was the way your skin burned beneath your dress.

You didn’t know he’d followed.

“You shouldn’t wander alone in heels that flimsy,” he said softly behind you.

You stiffened. You felt the heat rushing your cheeks, making your already bright blush appear ever darker.

Is he mocking me?

He stood just behind your right shoulder, his presence like a low flame.

“I’m fine, Sir.” You said, not turning. You fiddled with the broken heel, desperately trying to hide it behind the table beside you.

“No, you’re not.” His voice was calm. Almost amused. “You heard us.”

You turned then, slowly. At this point, you didn't care whether he is judging you for walking around with a broken heel in hand. Another wave of embarrassment took over you while you tried to defend your actions, which might have looked like you have been prying over someone's privacy.

“I didn’t mean to,” you said. “I—just needed air.”

He nodded once. “You were curious.”

Your face flushed. “No, I wasn’t—”

“You’re lying.”

He stepped closer. Not enough to touch. But enough that your breath caught.

“You think you hide your reactions,” he said gently. “You don’t.”

You looked at him—really looked.

Calm, but watching you with razor precision. Eyes dark and patient. His fingers were resting on the edge of the railing, but he wasn’t relaxed. He was… waiting.

Testing.

Like a clock that was just about to strike midnight, to drop off all the facade.

“What were you talking about?” you asked.

“You already know.”

You licked your lips. “Not really.”

Ji-hoon tilted his head, his eyes briefly glancing at you, perhaps even lingering at the thing that you did. Or maybe, again, you were overthinking. “Do you know what a submissive is?”

You froze.

He let the question sit in the air like a coiled silk rope.

“I’ve read things,” you said softly. “A lot of things, actually. But I’ve never—”

“Tried?”

You nodded. You felt like a deer caught in headlights.

He watched you for a moment. Suddenly the air was hot, and maybe he also felt the same because he seemed to fidget with this buttoned up collar, undoing the top to slightly loosen its grip across his neck. You only then took a properly at how good, insanely good he looked. His tan complexion glistening under the warm lights of the corridor, eyes sparkling with curiosity, maybe slight hints of mischievousness. Then:

“May I ask you a question?”

“…Yes.”

“Have you ever fantasized about being told what to do?”

Your body went very still.

Your throat was dry, but you whispered, and you don't even know why you did that, “Yes.”

What. What did I just say. Holy Fuck.

He exhaled slowly, knowingly. Not like a man aroused—but like one who’d expected your answer.

Then he looked at you, and for the first time, his voice changed.

Softer. Slower. Like velvet dragged across bare skin.

“I don’t play games with people who are unsure. Or reckless. Or impulsive.” His gaze dropped to your lips. “You’re none of those things. That’s why you interest me.”

You didn’t speak.

He leaned in, just barely.

“No touching,” he murmured, “unless you ask for it.”

Your pulse stuttered.

“And if you ever ask me,” he said, eyes now inches from yours, “you’ll mean it.”

Your breath came shallow. “Mean what?”

He smiled, slow and devastating.

Ju-Ji Hoon

In The Quiet Between Us : Ju Ji-Hoon x reader x Choo Young-Woo

Choo Young-Woo

Blood Baptism : Choo Young-Woo!Dr. Yang Jae Won X Reader!Fellow Doctor

In The Quiet Between Us : Ju Ji-Hoon x reader x Choo Young-Woo

Pairing: Ju Ji-Hoon x Reader x Choo Young-Woo

Masterlist | Next

Warnings: suggestive content, age gap, hints of BDSM

You read the memo three times.

“Please maintain a respectful professional boundary with Mr. Ju Ji-hoon. Do not initiate personal conversation. Do not ask for selfies or autographs. Absolutely no fraternization.”

You blinked. You weren’t here for a fan meet. You were 25, an overworked junior strategist in Seoul’s biggest corporate firm, and frankly, you'd rather dig through twelve hours of procurement spreadsheets than deal with such silver-spoon born people. Especially older, ridiculously sculpted, unfairly poised figuers like Ju Ji-hoon.

Forty-five years old. Stoic. Meticulous. The face and embodiment of your company’s existence literally.

You were just here to close the campaign budget approvals. You had only heard about his position and his authority despite being 6 months in the company. Never met him, never had a single word of conversation, nothing.

So why the hell did it feel like his eyes were following you?

The conference room was cold, but your skin felt flushed. You hated being watched, more so, you hated being judged or scrutinized by unknown faces.

He hadn’t said a word to you. Not directly. Just polite nods. Just quiet elegance in a black dress shirt, one button left open at the collar. His manager handled all the talking. His focus was fixated on a stack of papers which he seemed to swipe through every now and then, not even bothering to listen to the HR Manager's PowerPoint presentation which apparent took the man 2 weeks to complete.

Despite the tension the meeting room held from all the employees, you found yourself sneaking small peaks and glances of the man the office respected and feared.

You pretended not to notice how his sleeves were rolled back to his forearms. You absolutely did not notice the slow, deliberate way he sipped his coffee. Or how he never touched his phone. Or how he glanced—just once—at you during the brief moment you laughed at something your marketing lead said.

It was… electric. And forbidden.

Your boss nudged you after the meeting. “Good job today. Just—try not to draw too much attention.”

You blinked. “I didn’t—what?”

She smiled knowingly. “Ji-hoon-ssi is particular. He doesn’t like interruptions. Doesn’t excuse anyone. He comes off sweet and friendly but doesn’t talk personal much. Just be careful. He is a senior after all.”

Your cheeks flushed. Not from guilt. From confusion. From the heat that rose again at the memory of his gaze.

Three days later, you saw him again.

You were the last one to leave the presentation floor after the campaign preview. You’d stayed behind to fix a formatting error on your slides when the door opened behind you.

You turned.

Ju Ji-hoon stood in the doorway. Alone. It was excessively weird for the CEO to travel five floors below his cabin to leisurely stand by the lobby cafe 'by chance.'

You noticed his hair was slightly damp from rain. Coat slung over one arm. Tie loose. No manager, no assistant. Maybe he came back because he left something?

Your mouth went dry. “Ah—sir. I didn’t know—”

“You stayed late,” he said quietly.

You nodded. “I had to update the sponsor summary.”

He stepped closer. Slowly. “You’re the youngest on the strategy team?”

“Yes. Well—second youngest. But… probably the least experienced.” You gave a nervous smile. “I’m only a few months in.”

He looked at you. Too long. Too closely.

“I can tell.”

You stiffened slightly. At first you got defensive, thinking it was a snarky remark.

But he didn’t mean it unkindly. If anything, it sounded… amused.

“Innocent,” he added. “That’s rare here.”

Your stomach flipped.

“Thank you?” you said uncertainly.

He stepped even closer. Close enough for you to smell his cologne. Warm, musky, and expensive. Dangerous.

“I meant it as a compliment,” he said, voice low. “Most people in this world… lose softness early. You haven’t yet.”

You didn’t know what to say to that.

He tilted his head. “Do I make you uncomfortable?”

Yes. No. Not exactly.

You felt hot. Embarrassed. Alive. Like you were standing on the edge of something huge and hidden.

“I’m just not used to this,” you admitted.

“Which part?”

“Being seen like that,” you whispered. "By the CEO, at the very least."

His lips twitched—just slightly. “You’re very easy to read. That’s dangerous, you know.”

You swallowed. “Why?”

“Because you’re surrounded by people who want to shape you. Control you.”

He leaned just an inch closer.

“And you haven’t decided yet whether you want to be controlled.”

Your knees went weak.

He looked down at your hands, still holding your laptop against your chest like a shield.

“Relax,” he said softly. “I won’t touch you.”

Not yet, his silence seemed to say.

The rest of the ride back home was a mess. Your mind was everywhere but nowhere at the same time. Does it even make sense? It doesn't. You felt like a madwoman ramming her head against her steering wheel, choosing to sink in the silence of the garage of your apartment. Even getting out of your car feels naked, exposed; as if someone is going to read all of your racing thoughts as soon as you step out of the seat. Your seat belt clung to your chest, acting like a ship's anchor which tried to keep you grounded to reality.

Of course you were overthinking, of course you're being unreasonable and livid with these meaningless interactions with a man twice your age, with a man that's literally a household name across the nation while you were just a new employee at the office, both foreign to him and his country.

With little energy left, you usher yourself out of your car, plain but it gets the job done so it is alright. You don’t like overspending anyways. You swiftly ease into your apartment, hoping a quick cold shower will resolve the mess inside your brain. And to an extent, it did. For a moment, you found yourself leisurely making dinner, grilled sautéed chicken with vegetables and a warm herbal tea to calm your nerves. Things to a turn when you went to bed because your head was blank with only him invading your thoughts. His poised demeanor, friendly yet so untouchable, the respect everyone held towards him and his work, it was unreal.