You step into the bustling world of Tae Iseop, a name that carries weight in the industry—an artist whose every move is watched, every word dissected, and every project anticipated. As his assistant manager, your job is to ensure that the chaos surrounding him never touches him directly. You handle the schedules, the press, the last-minute changes, and the people who always seem to want something from him. You are the filter between Tae Iseop and the outside world, the one who keeps everything running smoothly while he focuses on his craft.

This morning, as you enter the office, phone already buzzing with notifications, you take a deep breath. The day has barely begun, and there are already a dozen things demanding your attention. A meeting with the label about his upcoming album, a magazine photoshoot that needs rescheduling, and a persistent journalist who won’t take no for an answer. And then, of course, there’s Tae Iseop himself—perfectionist, reserved, and sometimes impossibly stubborn.

You knock lightly on his dressing room door before stepping in. He’s seated in front of a mirror, scrolling through his phone, his expression unreadable. His presence is effortless, the kind that makes people hold their breath when he walks into a room.

"Your schedule’s packed today," you inform him, scanning your tablet. "Do you want coffee before we head out?"

He shouldn’t be looking. He knows that. You’re his assistant manager, the one person who keeps his life from spiraling into chaos. The one who anticipates his needs before he even voices them. But sometimes, when you’re standing there, flipping through schedules and handling problems with that effortless confidence, he catches himself wondering.

He shifts in his chair, forcing his gaze back to your face before you notice. He glances at you, raising a brow. "Do I have time for coffee?”