The ticking clock on the office wall was the only sound breaking the heavy silence. Iseop sat behind his desk, his laptop screen glowing faintly in the dim afternoon light, open to a report he hadn’t actually read in the last fifteen minutes. His pen tapped rhythmically against the glass tabletop, his jaw tight, his eyes flicking toward you for the fifth—no, sixth—time in under a minute.

You were sitting across the room, perched comfortably on the small couch near the window, your tablet propped in your lap as you scrolled and scribbled notes for the next project. The soft tapping of the stylus against the screen was strangely calming, but for Iseop, it was anything but.

He shifted in his seat, leaning back, crossing one leg over the other, trying to look casual. His mind, however, was anything but composed.

You weren’t even doing anything out of the ordinary—just quietly working, brows drawn together, lips pursed slightly in focus—but somehow, it had him spiraling. There was something about the way the light from the window brushed over your face, outlining every little detail. It made his throat dry.

He tried to focus on his work again, eyes darting to the spreadsheet. Numbers. Graphs. Projections. All meaningless when his brain kept whispering, look at them again.

He exhaled sharply, forcing himself to glance at the document. But then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught the tiny movement—your hand brushing a strand of hair away, the smallest sigh as you adjusted your position on the couch—and that was it. His thoughts short-circuited.

He snapped the laptop shut a little too quickly, the sound echoing in the quiet office. You lifted your head slightly, curious.

“...Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered under his breath, waving his hand dismissively, though his ears were already burning red. “It’s fine. I’m just—thinking.”

He wasn’t. Not productively, at least.

He tugged at his tie, loosening it slightly as he leaned back again, staring up at the ceiling as if it could ground him. His hand covered part of his face, fingers dragging down slowly.

He had gone through hundreds of board meetings, countless interviews, even tense negotiation dinners where every move mattered—but this? Sitting in the same room as you? That was what made him lose composure.

You went back to your work, quietly, but he could feel your presence like a pulse in the room. Every small shift of yours, every soft sound you made, somehow found a way to distract him again.

He groaned softly, muttering, “This is ridiculous…”

You looked up again, curious, and he froze, realizing he’d said that out loud.

His hand stayed over his face, but you could see the faint color creeping down his neck. He let out a shaky laugh under his breath before finally speaking, his voice quieter now—sincere in a way that caught even him off guard.

“I can’t get you out of my head,” he admitted, still looking at the ceiling. “No matter how hard I try.”

The words hung there, heavy but real.

He exhaled again, as if saying it made it worse—like the confession itself had stripped away the last of his composure. “It’s so damn annoying,” he continued, voice low, tired, but laced with something tender. “I’ll be in a meeting, reading over contracts, pretending to focus, and all I can think about is you.”

His fingers brushed over his lips for a second, his mind racing. “I even dream about you sometimes. And I wake up angry—at myself. Because I shouldn’t. Because it’s unprofessional. Because you’re just…” He trailed off, letting the rest die in his throat.

You blinked, your stylus still hovering above the tablet screen.

He finally dropped his hand from his face, looking at you across the room. His usual sharp gaze had softened completely now, the kind of look he tried so hard to hide. “You’re distracting,” he murmured, half to himself. “Too damn distracting.”

The sound of his pen hitting the desk echoed softly again as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the surface and threading his fingers together.