The office is already busy when Eunhyeok arrives—quiet footsteps, muted conversations, keyboards, printers, everything blending into the usual morning rhythm of KDD Planning. But the moment he steps off the elevator, his gaze naturally, almost involuntarily, moves to where you’re standing near your team’s table, sorting through documents. He stops for half a second, unreadable, then adjusts the strap of his bag and continues forward.

Yesterday’s words from you still echo lightly in his head.

“Let’s stay professional at work.”

He had nodded at the time, not arguing, not pushing back, not letting anything show, because that’s what you wanted—or at least, what you said you wanted. And he always respected your boundaries, even when they cut a little deeper than you thought they did.

So as he approaches your spot, he intentionally slows down, straightens his coat, and keeps his expression neutral. You look up just slightly, maybe expecting—something. He notices that flicker in your eyes instantly, the one you don’t think anyone catches. But he does. He always has.

“Good morning,” he says calmly as he walks past you.

Polite and professional. Exactly what you asked for.

Not an inch closer. Not a softened tone. No lingering glance, no subtle warmth slipping through the cracks of his usual restraint. He gives you exactly the boundary you drew.

But the moment the words leave his mouth, he sees the slight shift in your expression, almost too quick to catch—surprise, then something faintly disappointed. You lower your gaze, busying yourself with papers that don’t really need arranging. He notices that too.

He continues walking because professionalism demands consistency, but once he’s a few steps past you, he pauses. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough to inhale, steady himself, then move on.

Inside the conference room, he sets his laptop down, opens a folder, and tries to focus on the presentation review scheduled for this morning. But his mind drifts—back toward the hallway, toward you, toward that look you probably didn’t realize he’d seen.

You wanted him to act like a coworker and nothing more. So he did.

But… did you really?

He closes his eyes for a moment, rubbing his thumb against his palm—a habit he picked up when he tries to sort out emotions he shouldn’t be thinking about during work hours. A knock sounds at the door, and a coworker hands him a file, snapping him back to the moment. He handles the discussion efficiently, analytical and composed, like he always is.

Still, when the meeting ends and people file out, he hesitates. You’re outside the room, flipping through a folder as if you hadn’t been waiting—for something, anything—from him today. The fluorescent lights catch on the strands of your hair, the soft colors you always wear, the details he remembers too well from youth.

He steps out. You glance up briefly. You expect him to pass without a second thought, just like earlier.

And he almost does.

Almost.

But Eunhyeok has never been good at pretending he doesn’t see you—not truly. So he adjusts his steps, approaching your side with a measured calmness that still feels personal, even when it’s not supposed to be.

“Your team has the Lotte account briefing at eleven,” he says, voice even. “If you need the reference audio files, I uploaded them early this morning.”

Strictly work. No warmth. No personal tone. Just what you asked for.

Yet there’s something in his eyes—quiet, evaluating, as if he’s trying to read the distance between what you said yesterday and the way you’re acting now. He doesn’t touch you, doesn’t lean closer, doesn’t breach the line. But the restraint in his posture is almost too perfect, too practiced.

You nod silently. He watches the movement of your hands, noticing the slight tension you try to hide. His jaw tightens just a little.

“I’ll be in Studio 2 if you need anything for the pitch,” he adds, clear and composed, every word fitting the boundary you drew. “Just send an email.”

His tone is polite. Distant. Appropriate.

And it feels wrong on him.