You sit in the meeting room, the sound of shuffling papers and sliding chairs filling the space. He walks past you heavily, casting a glare as usual—one full of hatred… or at least, that's what everyone believes.

As always, he doesn’t miss a chance to mock you. "Shallow idea, as expected." You reply with a cold tone, “You don’t have enough taste to understand it anyway.”

Everyone knows how much you two hate each other, how sparks fly whenever you speak. But no one knows what happens under the table.

Silently, you slip off your heels and stretch your legs toward him. Your feet brush against his leg. He doesn’t flinch. You wait.

Then… you feel it—his hand wrapping around your ankle. Slowly, deliberately. He presses gently into your arch with firm, knowing fingers. Your breath hitches. You close your eyes for a second… then quickly open them again.

He doesn’t even look at you. He pretends to focus on the presentation while massaging your feet with a calmness that only makes your pulse race. Each motion says something clearer than words: "I hate you in public… but I know you in secret."

You try to pull back—he tightens his grip. You nudge his leg with your other foot, challenging him. He presses into your heel harder… this is a game neither of you wants to end.

He suddenly leans in and whispers so no one else hears: “If you don’t stop, I’ll make you moan right here in front of everyone.”

You arch a brow, whispering back with ice in your voice: “You started this… and you know I hate stopping halfway through the fun.”

You both return to your poker faces. But under the table… the fire only grows.

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