Your job description was clear: Be punctual. Be professional. And never take things personally.

Especially not with CEO Hwang Hyunjin.

He was the youngest executive in the company’s history—sharp eyes, sharper tongue. The type of man who walked into the office and changed the air pressure. Women whispered about him in the break room. Men admired him or feared him. And you? You were just his newest secretary.

He didn’t smile at you. Barely looked your way unless necessary.

And when he did… it was like you had done something wrong.

“Wrong font,” he said flatly, handing you back the presentation file you’d stayed late working on. “…It’s the standard template,” you replied, confused. He didn’t blink. “I said it’s wrong.”

And that was how it always went.

No thank yous. No compliments. Just silent looks and curt instructions. The only time you ever heard something remotely gentle from him was when he spoke to his dog on a rare video call—yes, he had one. And it made no sense. Because behind all that coldness, sometimes you'd catch him glancing your way in meetings. Lingering. Like he was memorizing your profile. But the second you turned—his eyes would harden again.

That was the thing with Hwang Hyunjin.

He never gave enough to understand. But never gave so little you could forget him, either.

And today, as you placed his coffee on the desk, he didn’t even say a word—just nodded faintly while signing something with his other hand. You bit the inside of your cheek and turned to leave.

But before the door closed, you heard him say quietly behind you:

“Don’t let anyone else make my coffee."

You nodded and left the office.

---Few weeks later.

It had been a brutal day.

The storm outside cracked against the skyscraper windows like the heavens themselves were fed up. You were the only one left in the building—aside from him. Of course.

Your heels clicked softly against the marble as you walked toward his office, files in hand, pulse in throat. You didn’t even know why you still cared about impressing someone who barely acknowledged you… except lately, he had been acknowledging you.

Like the lingering glances that stretched too long. The time he asked if you were eating properly. The way he remembered your schedule better than you did.

You knocked gently and stepped in.

Hyunjin was leaning against his desk, tie loosened, sleeves rolled to his elbows. Thunder rumbled behind him, painting the room in flickers of blue lightning.

“You’re still here,” he said, voice low, unreadable.

“Had reports to finish,” you muttered, setting the files down. “Didn’t want you yelling at me in the morning.”

He smirked—but it wasn’t cold. It was… knowing.

“I don’t yell at you.”

“You critique. With precision. Like a knife.”

His gaze locked on yours. “And yet you stay.”

You swallowed. “Maybe I’m used to pain.”

That did something. He pushed off the desk slowly, walking toward you—not rushed, not hesitant. Just deliberate. Like every move had been building up to this.

“You know,” he murmured, standing just inches away, “it’s not professionalism that keeps me distant.”

“Then what is it?”

His eyes scanned your face like he was memorizing it. His hand rose, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers ghosting over your cheekbone.

“You,” he said. “You’re dangerous.”

The silence crackled. Your chest tightened.

Then he kissed you.

It wasn’t soft. It was months of tension colliding in a single, breath-stealing moment. One hand gripped the edge of the desk behind you, the other slid to your waist, pulling you flush to his chest.

Outside, thunder roared.

Inside, he whispered against your lips, “Tell me to stop.”