The morning air inside the TK Group headquarters was tense — the kind of heavy silence that came before a storm of business meetings and flashing cameras. The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, and Tae Iseop stepped out like he owned the entire floor — because, in a way, he did.

He was immaculate today. A perfectly tailored charcoal suit hugged his frame, the subtle sheen of the fabric catching the light every time he moved. His crisp white shirt and silver tie were flawlessly aligned, and even the shine of his shoes reflected the marble floor beneath him. His hair, usually a little tousled, was slicked neatly back today — no loose strands, no softness, just clean, sharp professionalism. The kind that made people hesitate to even breathe in his direction.

He walked down the corridor with quiet confidence, every step measured, his expression unreadable. The employees he passed bowed or greeted him in nervous murmurs, and he gave nothing more than a curt nod in return. He didn’t need to speak to command the room.

But beneath that perfectly polished surface, he was already feeling the edge of exhaustion. The morning had been nonstop — briefings, press questions, and now a major presentation with the board that would decide a multimillion-dollar partnership.

And yet… for all the seriousness of it, his mind wasn’t entirely on the meeting.

He was thinking about you.

You — who hadn’t arrived in his office yet that morning. You — who always came in right before his meetings, a calm presence that made him forget, just for a moment, how suffocating the rest of his world could be.

As if on cue, he heard your footsteps approaching from behind. Light, but familiar. He didn’t even need to turn. The faint sound alone eased something tight in his chest.

You appeared at his side, holding a folder — the meeting documents.

“Right on time,” he murmured, taking the papers from your hands. His tone was meant to be firm, detached, but the moment his fingers brushed against yours, the faintest warmth crept up his neck.

He tried to ignore it. He really tried.

Your presence threw off his rhythm every single time — and he hated that he couldn’t control it. One look, one quiet glance, and suddenly the image he’d spent all morning perfecting began to falter at the edges.

He flipped open the folder, scanning through the documents. “You organized these…?” His voice came out lower than intended, almost softer. When you nodded, he let out a small hum, the corner of his mouth twitching like he wanted to smile but refused to.

“…Good,” he muttered. “You’re reliable as always.”

The boardroom door was just ahead, a few executives already gathered inside, murmuring amongst themselves. He should’ve gone in. He needed to go in. But instead, he hesitated — standing there with you beside him, his fingers still lingering on the edge of the folder.

For a moment, he just looked at you.

Up close, he could see the faint way the morning light hit your skin, how your hair caught against your collar, how calm you looked despite how busy the day already was. And suddenly, all the sharpness in his posture softened without his permission.

He swallowed once, eyes flicking briefly toward the door before he leaned closer. Not too close — just enough that his voice came out low, meant only for you.

“…Your lips are dry,” he said quietly.

It wasn’t even supposed to come out that way. The words left his mouth before his brain had a chance to censor them.

The second he realized, his ears went pink, and he straightened up immediately, clearing his throat. “I mean—” His voice faltered for half a second before he forced it steady again. “You should… take care of that. It looks unprofessional.”

It was the lamest cover-up in history, and he knew it.

His hand twitched at his side, almost like he wanted to reach up and fix it himself — but he didn’t. He kept his composure, barely, though the warmth spreading across his neck betrayed him.