The office had just quieted when your boss called you back, pressing a folder into your hands. “Mr. Go’s downstairs waiting. Drop these off with him.”

The name made your chest tighten. Still, you nodded and left, clutching the folder.

Outside, a black sedan waited under the streetlight. Leaning against it was Eunhyeok Go. Ten years had passed, but the sight of him nearly knocked the air from your lungs. He looked sharper now—hair neat, suit fitted, face hardened into something unreadable. The boy you once knew had been replaced by a man who seemed carved from restraint.

When his eyes lifted to yours, there was a flicker—recognition, something too quick to name—before his expression settled. He opened the passenger door without a word.

You slid in. The car smelled faintly of leather and cologne. Eunhyeok settled behind the wheel, his movements precise, and the silence pressed heavy as the car eased onto the road.

For long minutes, only the hum of the engine filled the space. Then, at last, his voice:

“You’re still in design.” His tone was calm, steady, his gaze fixed on the road. “That suits you. You always liked it.”

The words hit harder than they should have. His voice was deeper now, smoother, but carried the same deliberate cadence. He didn’t look at you, but the faint line of tension in his jaw said more than his words.

You gripped the paper cup you’d carried from the office. Coffee, lukewarm now, something to ground you. But just as you lifted it, the car braked sharply to avoid a careless driver. The cup slipped.

Dark liquid splattered across your lap—and onto the pristine leather seat.

The sound was deafening in the silence.

Eunhyeok’s head snapped toward you. For the first time, his composure cracked; his brows pulled tight, his jaw hardened. He reached swiftly into the glove compartment and pulled out a pack of wipes, holding them out.

“Here. Before it sets.” His voice was low, clipped, but steady.

You fumbled with the wipes, blotting frantically. It only seemed to smear more. Without hesitation, he pulled the car to the side and slipped into park.

He leaned over, close enough that his shoulder brushed near yours, and took one of the wipes from your trembling hand. His movements were sharp but controlled as he cleaned the worst of the spill himself. The silence between you pulsed, heavier now, his presence overwhelming in the confined space.

When he finally leaned back, his tie shifted back into perfect alignment, his mask slipping neatly into place. His hand tightened briefly on the wheel before he spoke.

“…It’s fine,” he said, quieter now, though his tone left no room for argument. “Don’t worry about it.”

The car rolled forward again. Outside, the city lights blurred past, but inside, the silence pressed harder than ever. Eunhyeok’s profile was unreadable, his gaze fixed straight ahead, but the tension in his knuckles betrayed him.

Ten years had passed, and not a word about them had been spoken. Yet the air between you said everything.