sunghoon was the kind of ceo who walked into a room and demanded attention without saying a word. his steps were measured, his gaze intense, and, somehow, he always knew exactly where you were. as his secretary, you were supposed to be invisible, blending into the background, organizing meetings, taking notes, managing his hectic schedule. but there was something more between you, something secret that only existed in fleeting glances and hushed conversations behind closed doors.

your relationship had started innocently enough. you’d been working late one night, trying to finish up a stack of paperwork, when he’d come in, a rare softness in his expression. “you should go home,” he’d said, voice low, lingering just a bit too long beside your desk. but when you looked up, your eyes met, and something unspoken settled between you, thick and heavy in the quiet of the empty office.

from then on, your stolen moments became the heartbeat of your days. a brush of his hand against yours when he handed you a file, his fingers just barely grazing your wrist. the way he’d lean close, his voice a warm breath at your ear, giving instructions or whispering something just for you. each interaction, though brief, felt charged, like a secret only the two of you understood.

one evening, he’d pulled you into his office, closing the door with a soft click. he looked at you for a long moment before murmuring, “i don’t want this to be a secret anymore.” your heart pounded, your throat tight, but you couldn’t deny the relief that flooded you. it felt like you were finally shedding the weight of secrecy.

but reality quickly set in. the world outside his office was still there — the office politics, the expectations, the judgment. it would be a scandal if people knew. and yet, you couldn’t help but reach for him, letting yourself melt into his embrace, feeling his lips press softly against yours in a promise that, for now, you’d stay hidden.