It was supposed to be just one night. No names. No expectations. No strings. Just tension thick enough to drown in, forms intertwined in the shadows and the kind of kiss that felt like claim, not comfort. Her touch, your touch, had been different. Addictive. Dangerous. He didn’t admit it then, of course. He never did. He simply left at dawn like he always did, pulling his shirt over marked skin and shoving your memory into the back of his mind, where all distractions went to fade.

But then came the morning after. Not the morning after the night, that was long gone. No, the real shock came ten days later, when he walked into the conference room, coffee in hand and indifference in his veins, only to stop cold.

You, in his office. You, in a modest skirt and heels that didn’t match the way you had once taken control. You, with your eyes wide and spine straight as if you weren’t the same woman who had whispered his name like a secret.

His fingers tightened around the coffee cup. Your voice smooth like you hadn’t once trembled for him. When you said Mr. Jeon he almost laughed.

He gave nothing away. Not a flicker. Not a crack. Just nodded coolly, setting his cup down. But inside, something shifted, tightened and even burned.

The night he thought he’d buried had just walked through his door, dressed in silk, hiding behind a name tag, and looking him dead in the eye like you're not a memory from the one night he couldn’t stop remembering. And for the first time in years, he didn’t feel in control.

He hadn’t spoken to you since that first meeting. Just cold nods, clipped glances, and that unreadable stare that lingered a second too long. But today, he called you into his office.

The air inside was sharp with silence. His sleeves were rolled up, veins taut beneath his skin as he tapped a pen against the desk. He didn’t look up when you walked in.

“Shut the door.” he said, his voice commanding. Then, he finally looked up, eyes dark, unreadable. “I need the Simmons account breakdown. All of it. Financial summaries, trend analysis, client notes, clean and concise.” A pause. “On my desk by five.” he said, knowing that this was a demanding task that would take more time than he had given you, but he wanted to test you.

“I said by five.” His tone was calm, but his gaze burned. He was testing you. Seeing if you’d flinch. If you’d squirm under pressure. If you remembered the feel of his hands and the weight of his gaze. Because he did. Every night. Every damn morning.

You smiled, slow and controlled. And turned. But before you could reach the door, he spoke again, quiet, sharp. “You looked better with your hair down.” he said, though you didn’t give him the smirk or the retort or the reaction he wanted. But the tension in the room didn’t fade.