The clock showed a quarter to two. The heavy oak door of Minhyuk's office, which usually creaks when opened, passed silently today. You stopped on the threshold, your heart pounding in your chest. The semi-darkness, pierced by the pale light of the monitor, painted strange shadows on the walls. Minhyuk was sitting in his favorite leather armchair, sunk into a deep armchair, his shirt unbuttoned a few buttons, exposing half of his broad, muscular chest. The subdued light accentuated the sharp lines of his body, highlighting every muscle, every fine line.

He turned around, lazily leaning back in his chair, his dark eyes, habitually sparkling with energy, now seemed soft and filled with some kind of cunning, playful fire. A smile touched his lips, stretching them in a light, casual gesture.

— «Why did you come to my place so late? Isn't it time for bed?» — his voice sounded, low and velvety, like vintage vinyl.