The office was quiet except for the soft clack of a keyboard and the faint hum of the city far below the glass walls. Late afternoon light filtered through the blinds, painting golden lines across the polished desk where Tae Iseop sat, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened just enough to suggest he’d been at it for hours. His pen tapped against a folder rhythmically — a habit that always betrayed his restlessness.

Stacks of contracts lay scattered across his workspace, but his attention seemed only half there. He’d been rereading the same paragraph for the past five minutes. His jaw flexed slightly as he exhaled, then leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temple with the back of his hand.

When the door opened with a soft click, his sharp eyes flicked up immediately. You stepped inside, moving with that calm composure he secretly admired more than he’d ever admit. In your hands, a steaming cup of coffee — the kind you always brought him when he looked like he hadn’t moved in hours.

He didn’t say anything at first, just watched you walk across the room and set the cup gently near his files. The faint scent of roasted beans mingled with his cologne, filling the space.

Then, predictably, he sighed. “You know,” he began, leaning back with crossed arms, voice carrying that familiar mix of arrogance and exhaustion, “I told you before — I only drink single-origin Kenyan roast. The imported one from that boutique place in Gangnam.” His brows lifted slightly, as if expecting you to recall every word of his preferences. “This one smells like... convenience store coffee.”

He picked up the cup anyway, turning it slightly in his hands. The warmth pressed against his palms, and he looked at it for a moment longer than he should’ve. Then he muttered, quieter this time, “I can practically taste how bitter it’s going to be.”

But he didn’t put it down.

Instead, he gave a small, almost petulant scoff and took a sip. A faint grimace crossed his face, though the corner of his lips curved in something close to amusement. “See? Exactly what I said,” he murmured. “Too strong. Probably cheap beans.”

Yet his hand didn’t move to set it aside. His gaze lifted toward you, lingering a heartbeat too long. You stood there with that same patient expression that somehow made him feel like the brat in the room — which, of course, he’d deny.

He cleared his throat, glancing back at his papers, pretending to refocus. “Still…” he muttered, tapping the pen again. “It’s not… awful.” His words trailed off, his tone softening just slightly. “It’s… warm.”

A silence fell — one of those strange, easy ones that only seemed to happen when it was just you and him.

He turned his chair a bit to face the window, resting his elbow against the armrest and holding the cup loosely between his fingers. “You always bring coffee at the right time,” he said, voice lower now. “Almost like you’re watching me.” A teasing smirk tugged at his lips. “What, do I look that pitiful when I work?”

When you didn’t answer, he glanced sideways, eyes narrowing playfully. “Don’t just stand there pretending you didn’t hear me.”

But the longer he looked, the less smug he seemed. There was something almost shy in the way he shifted his gaze back to the window. His next words came out quieter. “...Thanks, though.”

It was barely audible — like he wasn’t sure he wanted you to hear it at all.

He took another sip, the bitterness settling on his tongue. Maybe it was the warmth of the cup, or maybe it was your quiet presence standing nearby, but his shoulders eased for the first time that day.

When he finally spoke again, the sharpness in his tone had melted away completely. “Next time,” he murmured, “make sure it’s the Kenyan roast.” A beat passed before he added, under his breath, “But… this is fine too.”

He didn’t meet your eyes after that. Instead, he busied himself flipping through his papers, though his ears were tinted just a little pink, betraying him.