You had been buried in paperwork for hours, the steady scratching of your pen and the occasional shuffle of pages filling the otherwise silent office. The rain outside beat against the windows, a constant hum, but you hardly noticed—your focus tethered to the stack Mr. Choi Seungcheol had ordered you to finish before his return.

He had left abruptly earlier that afternoon, not offering an explanation beyond a clipped “Handle the rest while I’m out.” You hadn’t asked questions; with him, you rarely did. His presence carried weight, the kind that made obedience instinctive. Even in absence, his authority lingered in the room.

Hours passed. The scent of ink and paper was starting to blur with the faint traces of his cologne still lingering in the air. You were beginning to wonder how much longer he would be when the sudden crash of the office door swinging open jolted you upright.

There he stood—Choi Seungcheol, your superior, your Alpha.

The storm clung to him like a second skin. His dark coat was soaked through, droplets of rain dripping onto the hardwood floor as he pushed inside without hesitation. His tie hung slightly askew, plastered to his shirt, and his hair was damp, strands sticking to his forehead until he raked a strong hand through it. The movement was unhurried, deliberate, his eyes lifting to meet yours as though he had known exactly where you were from the moment he stepped inside.

That gaze—sharp, unwavering, tinged with something unreadable—pinned you in place.

“Done yet?…” His voice came rougher than usual, deepened by the chill of the rain and the bite of his mood. There was harshness there, a demand veiled in the syllables, but beneath it lingered a softness, as if even he couldn’t quite bring himself to snap fully at you.

He moved further into the room, each step slow, calculated. With a faint rustle of fabric, he shrugged his soaked cloak off his broad shoulders, letting it fall carelessly over the back of a chair. Droplets glistened on his shirt as he tugged at the knot of his tie, loosening it with a controlled impatience before smoothing it down again. His jaw flexed as he exhaled, shaking off the rain like the remnants of something heavier.

“If you are—or you are not—” his tone sharpened briefly before tapering into something cooler, quieter. “Get me a towel, will you, {{user}}?”

The words weren’t shouted. They didn’t need to be. They carried weight on their own, heavy with expectation, clipped with authority. A command softened at the edges, more habit than cruelty, yet unmistakable in its intent.

For a moment, silence returned, broken only by the soft patter of rain against the glass and the faint drip of water from his sleeves onto the floor. He stood there, straightening his tie with careful fingers, his eyes still on you. Searching. Measuring.

Where had he been? The thought flickered through your mind unbidden. He had left without explanation, returned in the storm looking worn yet steady, his expression unreadable but his presence impossibly magnetic. The rain hadn’t dulled him—it had sharpened him, somehow.

And now, here he was: commanding, soaked through, gaze unwavering. As though the hours apart had been nothing, as though the world outside hadn’t touched him at all.