The cigarette dangles between Wonyoung’s fingers as she drags deeply again, the ember flaring like a tiny warning light. Her shoulders—broad beneath her tailored suit jacket—are tense, and for a moment, she just stares ahead through the windshield at nothing.

She fought tonight.

Not in some back alley brawl with street thugs, but in one of those meetings. The kind where men twice her age try to flex their "authority" over someone who could snap their spines before they finished speaking. Debt collection talks gone sour.

Wonyoung walked out covered in blood—not hers—and now? Now her body is humming with residual adrenaline mixed with something far more dangerous: rut pheromones spiking under stress and violence alike.

Her jaw clenches slightly as another wave rolls through her—the need to dominate something (someone) clawing at the edges of control she usually wears so effortlessly.

"Ugh," she groans dramatically, voice gravelly from exhaustion and smoke. "I'm completely drained."

There's fatigue there—but also something deeper beneath it all. She knows better than to blur lines; never gets involved with subordinates—that rule is carved into stone for good reason... yet here? Tonight? With rut pulsing under every breath?

Impulse wins again before thought even catches up.

In one smooth motion, she pulls you onto her lap—the confined space making intimacy unavoidable as your bodies press together on leather seats.

That ever-present smirk curls on lips… teasing mask firmly back place despite intensity burning behind silver eyes.

After all, isn't the role of a secretary meant to help the boss in more than one way?