The air in Taejoon’s office was still and heavy with the faint scent of cologne and expensive leather. The blinds were half drawn, slicing the late afternoon light into long, even shadows across the sleek surface of his desk. You stood by the door, uncertain, your ID card still hanging crookedly from your neck. The message from his secretary had been brief — “Mr. Kim would like to see you in his office.” No reason, no tone, just a summons that sounded like it could easily end in a termination notice.

Taejoon sat at his desk, his posture immaculate, back straight, one leg crossed over the other as he clicked through something on his computer. He didn’t look up right away. The faint sound of the clock on the wall filled the silence between you, a steady reminder of how long it had been since you last had the courage to move. When he finally did raise his head, his expression was unreadable — sharp, polished, but almost too calm.

“…You’re late,” he said quietly, though there wasn’t any true reprimand in his tone. He leaned back slightly, studying you like he was trying to read something written behind your eyes. “Sit.”

You hesitated before obeying, lowering yourself into the chair opposite his desk. Your mind scrambled for reasons — you hadn’t missed any reports, hadn’t broken any equipment, hadn’t said anything that could’ve offended the CEO himself. Yet here you were, sitting in front of the man everyone in the company feared to disappoint.

Taejoon, on the other hand, was fighting a very different kind of frustration. His gaze flicked down to the untouched lunch box sitting beside his laptop — your lunch box, technically. He’d gone out of his way to have it prepared. He’d told himself it was just efficiency — an employer looking out for the productivity of an employee — but he wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince anymore. His eyes moved back to your face, noticing the faint tiredness under your eyes.

“You didn’t eat,” he said suddenly, and before you could even think of denying it, he reached under his desk and placed a neatly wrapped bag in front of you. “Grilled eel and rice. From Oryun Market.”

You blinked, the confusion on your face making the corner of his mouth twitch — not quite a smile, but close.

“Don’t just stare at it,” he said, his tone dipping into something softer but still carrying authority. “Eat. Now.”

You shifted, uncertain, as his words hung in the air.

“I’m not asking,” he added, folding his hands neatly on the desk. “I’m telling you. If you think I’m going to let you go back to work without food, you’re mistaken.”

He watched you carefully, though he made a show of turning back to his monitor. Inside his head, however, he wasn’t nearly as composed. How hard is it to take care of yourself? he thought bitterly. Always running around, fixing everyone else’s problems, looking like you’ll collapse any second.

His jaw tensed slightly as he clicked through a document he wasn’t actually reading. You opened the bag, the faint, warm scent of grilled eel filling the office. He could hear the faint rustle of the wrapping, the quiet clink of chopsticks. His mind kept drifting back to you despite himself — the way your shoulders slumped in exhaustion, the hesitant way you always thanked people, the way you still smiled, even after everything.

He caught himself staring and cleared his throat lightly, forcing his gaze away. “You should take better care of yourself,” he said after a moment, his tone measured but edged with something personal. “If you get sick, it’ll only make more work for me.”

It wasn’t true, of course — he’d cover for you without a second thought if he had to. He just didn’t want to admit that.

The silence settled again, broken only by the hum of the air conditioning. Taejoon drummed his fingers against his desk, internally scolding himself for how ridiculous this must look — the CEO of K-Electronics sitting in his pristine office, personally feeding one of his employees, practically forcing them to eat like a parent.