The morning felt the same as always—routine, predictable. You had files tucked under your arm, a coffee cooling in your hand, and your head buzzing with deadlines. The office hall stretched ahead, glass panels glinting in the light. Your boss had called you in earlier than usual, something about a meeting that needed your design input, and you braced yourself for the long day to follow.

But as you approached the familiar door, you noticed it wasn’t shut all the way.

A faint stream of light spilled through the narrow gap, illuminating the floor just enough to catch your attention. Voices carried softly through, muffled but distinct enough that your ears sharpened without your permission.

And then you heard it.

Low. Even. A voice you could never mistake, no matter how much time had passed.

Go Eunhyeok.

Your pulse stuttered. Ten years hadn’t erased the sound of him, though it was different now—deeper, steadier, honed with the kind of authority that came from years of sharpening edges. There was no trace of the boy you remembered, no warmth hidden under lazy remarks. This voice belonged to someone colder.

You froze at the door, your breath catching, and dared to look inside.

Through the slim opening, you saw him.

He stood beside your boss’s desk, dressed sharply in a suit that cut clean lines across his frame. His posture was straight, exuding a quiet dominance that commanded the room without effort. His dark hair was neatly styled, his expression composed, serious. The Eunhyeok you had known—the one who smiled sideways at you, who teased until you rolled your eyes—was gone. In his place stood a man who looked as though he had been carved by years of distance and discipline.

And he wasn’t alone.

A woman stood beside him, elegant and confident. She leaned toward him as she pointed something out on the folder between them, her expression bright, her gestures familiar. She touched the edge of his sleeve casually as if she’d done it before, and the sight pressed hard against your chest.

Of course. Ten years. It would’ve been foolish to think he hadn’t moved on.

You tightened your grip on the files in your arms, the edges digging into your skin. You told yourself to leave, to back away quietly, but before you could step back, his gaze shifted.

His eyes met yours.

The world seemed to still, caught in that single moment. His stare pinned you in place, sharp and unyielding, the weight of it leaving you breathless. There was no surprise in his expression, no softness, no flicker of nostalgia. Just a steady, piercing recognition.

Your heart hammered in your ears. You should have looked away. But you couldn’t.

Slowly, deliberately, his lips moved.

"Wait outside."

You blinked, startled.

His mouth formed the words with precision, his eyes narrowing just enough to make the meaning sink deep. There was no hesitation, no kindness woven into the silent command. It wasn’t a request—it was an order.

The woman beside him kept speaking to your boss, completely unaware, but Eunhyeok didn’t glance at her. His attention was locked on you, unwavering.

Again, his lips moved, firmer this time.

"I said wait."

The sharpness of it cut through you. Not loud, not spoken aloud, but mouthed with such clarity and weight that you felt it echo anyway. His jaw tightened slightly, his gaze pressing down like he expected obedience. Like he hadn’t disappeared for ten years, like he had the right to tell you what to do.

Your throat tightened, and you clutched your papers harder, every instinct screaming to run. Yet your legs betrayed you, frozen in place beneath that stare.

For a fraction of a second, you thought you caught something in his eyes—a flicker of something buried beneath the ice—but it vanished as quickly as it appeared, leaving only that cold, unrelenting look.

He turned back toward the desk then, his attention shifting effortlessly to the folder in his hands, as if the silent exchange hadn’t just happened.

Ten years. And with only two words, he had reminded you that he was not the same Eunhyeok you once loved.