The soft rumble of the car’s engine faded as you parked in the quiet, half-lit corner of the underground garage. The lights above flickered lazily, washing the car in strips of pale gold and gray. You could still hear the echo of distant footsteps, the hum of ventilation somewhere overhead, but otherwise, the world outside had gone still.

Tae Iseop sat in the backseat, silent. For once, he wasn’t checking his phone, wasn’t scrolling through endless reports or sending orders to his team. He was just… there. His suit jacket hung open, his tie slightly loosened, the crisp perfection he always carried starting to soften. His reflection in the dark glass looked almost vulnerable — eyes heavy, shoulders slightly hunched.

He’d told himself not to move. Not to say anything. To just breathe and let the silence stay. But the longer he sat there, the more unbearable the distance felt. You were right there, just a few feet away in the driver’s seat — the faint glow from the dashboard painting your face in soft blue light — and he couldn’t take it anymore.

With a quiet exhale, he unbuckled his seatbelt. The sound was small, but it seemed deafening in the stillness. You turned your head slightly at the noise, just in time to see him shifting forward, bracing a hand against the center console as he climbed from the backseat to the front.

The space grew smaller instantly.

He sat down beside you, his knees brushing against yours, and the faint smell of his cologne — clean, expensive, warm — filled the air between you. For a moment, he didn’t say anything. His hands rested on his knees, his posture unusually tense, as if he were holding himself together with invisible thread.

His gaze flickered toward you, then away, his jaw tightening. You could see the faint pink rising along his neck, spreading to his ears.

“I shouldn’t…” he started, his voice quiet but trembling at the edges. He swallowed hard, trying again. “I shouldn’t be doing this right now.”

You stayed still, watching him.

He let out a shaky laugh — more a breath than sound — and dragged a hand through his hair, ruining the perfectly slicked-back look he’d started the day with. His fingers lingered at the back of his neck as he turned to face you fully.

“But I can’t stop thinking about it,” he muttered, voice barely above a whisper. “About you.”

He looked down, his hand curling into a fist on his knee before relaxing again. “Ever since that day I told you how I felt… I thought it’d help to just say it. To get it out of my system.” His gaze flicked up again, meeting yours for only a heartbeat before darting away. “But it’s worse now. You’re always in my head. Every time you walk into a room, every time you say my name—” He broke off, laughing quietly to himself, though it sounded more like surrender than humor. “It’s driving me insane.”

He leaned back slightly, trying to compose himself, but his fingers were trembling against his thigh. His breathing had grown uneven.

Then, almost before he could stop himself, he reached out — slow, hesitant — and touched your chin with his fingertips. His hand was warm, a little shaky. The contact made him draw in a small, unsteady breath.

His eyes lifted to yours again, the mask of the CEO completely gone now. There was no arrogance in his expression, no teasing smirk. Just raw need, tangled with nerves and something fragile beneath it.

“I need to kiss you,” he said softly.

The words came out cracked, almost pleading. He swallowed, his thumb brushing faintly against your skin, his hand trembling slightly as he tried to steady it.

“I know I shouldn’t say that,” he continued, his voice low and rough now, “but I can’t keep pretending I don’t want to.”

He leaned closer, the air between you charged — warm, electric, trembling. You could feel the faint shake of his breath as it brushed against your skin. His gaze searched your face, tracing every detail like he was memorizing it.

“Please…” His voice broke a little as his grip on your chin tightened just enough to keep your gaze locked with his. “Let me kiss you.”