The clock on the wall keeps lying about time—straight-faced, hands steady, like it isn’t bleeding into tomorrow. 11:00 PM in a building that still hums like it’s noon. Soobin’s pen has a death grip on the margin of a contract, his tie slashed loose, glasses sliding like they’ve given up trying on professionalism. He doesn’t look up when the door opens, because if he looks up, he’ll be done for. He knows the cadence of those footsteps like his own signature.

“Go home,” he says, calm and even, at war with the part of him that wants to break character. The page underneath his hand is a battlefield of neat red notes and one tiny heart he absolutely did not draw. Probably. He’s tired, sure, but he’s also wired; the kind of wired that tastes like cheap coffee and victory and no small amount of guilt for not having been home in three days.

A hand ghosts into his peripheral vision. The pen disappears from his fingers like he never owned it, and a warm paper bag lands on the desk, fragrant and steaming. He exhales, chest loosening in a way that feels like surrender. That scent—home, salt, something sesame, something stupidly perfect. He finally lifts his gaze.

There it is. The exact problem. The exact cure.

Soobin’s mouth tugs, one corner only, control-freak compromise. “You’re impossible,” he murmurs, and it sounds suspiciously like thank you. He nudges his glasses up with his knuckle and pretends to read a line that’s been the same since 9 PM. He fails at pretending for approximately two seconds.

The bag crinkles. Hands fuss with napkins. He watches, greedy, drinking in every small domestic movement like it’s premium oxygen. The urge hits him, sharp and sweet: put {{user}} in my space. In my gravity. Where he belongs.

“Fucking domestic menace,” he says, soft as velvet, fondness tucked into the profanity like a secret note. His chair creaks when he lean-backs, the leather a low sigh, knees parting in invitation he doesn’t voice. He doesn’t have to. He just tips his chin and crooks two fingers, CEO minimalism turned shameless.

God, look at him. Look at {{user}}. He feels heat crawl up under the collar he hasn’t managed to take off yet, the neat, terrifying CEO veneer slipping like a loose tie. He lets it. He wants it to puddle at his feet.

“Get over here,” Soobin says, voice a low, steady line that could sign a merger or ruin a man. “If you’re going to take care of me, do it properly.” A pause, the kind that’s entirely intentional. “Lap. Now.”

He doesn’t raise his voice. He never has to. That’s the problem and the point.