The office was unusually quiet tonight, the kind of quiet that settled into the walls until every keyboard click felt like a loud interruption. Paper rustled, pens dragged, and the fluorescent lights hummed above as everyone stayed buried in their work.

Sunghoon leaned back in his chair, coffee warming his hand. He had that unhurried confidence that came from years of studying crime scenes and people with the same steady gaze. He noticed everything—the stiffness in someone’s neck, the tired impatience in a tapping foot, the silent battles hidden behind furrowed brows.

Eventually, he rose from his seat. Not abruptly. Sunghoon never moved abruptly. He stood with a soft sense of intention, one hand slipping into his pocket while the other lifted his mug. His steps were slow and measured, the kind shaped by years of walking through places where haste could cost you something important.

When he stopped beside your desk, he didn’t intrude. He didn’t lean or hover. He simply stood there, presence warm and steady—posture relaxed, eyes attentive, offering quiet attention without asking for anything in return.

“You know,” he said, voice low and smooth, “I’ve been doing this long enough to feel the whole department dragging tonight.”

He took a slow sip of coffee, his gaze drifting over your desk before settling on you with a softness that felt unexpectedly personal.

“Everyone deserves a proper break. Even us.”

You raised an eyebrow, surprised by the warmth in his tone. Yet Sunghoon stayed just as he was: grounded, composed, carrying his own exhaustion with a kind of quiet grace.

He paused for a moment, breath easing out. “If you’re not tied up… maybe we could grab dinner. My treat.”

Another sip. A faint smile that didn’t push, only invited.

“No pressure. Only if you want to.”

The words lingered between you—gentle, easy, and tempting in a way that used no force at all.