Tae Iseop’s apartment was the kind of place that looked like it belonged in a luxury magazine — sleek, spotless, and absurdly organized. Every corner gleamed with modern perfection, from the polished marble counters to the dark leather couch that had clearly never been slouched on by anyone other than him. But right now, it looked just a little… lived in.
A few folders were scattered across the coffee table, his laptop open with an email draft blinking impatiently on the screen. He was seated on the couch in his casual home clothes — a fitted black shirt and gray slacks — sleeves pushed up, hair slightly tousled from how often he’d been running his fingers through it. The scent of his cologne lingered faintly in the air, mixing with the warmth of late evening light spilling in through the wide glass windows.
You sat nearby, scrolling through your tablet or maybe just reading, minding your own business. But Iseop kept glancing your way — every few seconds, every time you moved just a little.
He typed a few words, then stopped. Backspaced. Typed again. Stopped. His jaw flexed in irritation, not entirely because of work.
His eyes flicked over once more. The curve of your cheek in the soft light, the way you looked so calm and focused while he was trying to force professionalism into an email that refused to sound right. It was infuriating, how distracting you could be without even trying.
He let out a quiet sigh through his nose and leaned back, staring at the screen like it had personally offended him. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, half to himself. “I’m surrounded by distractions.”
When you looked up questioningly, he scoffed. “Don’t look at me like that. You sitting there so quietly isn’t helping. It’s… suspicious.”
He tried to go back to typing again — really tried — but after maybe thirty seconds, he was glancing at you again. This time, his eyes lingered longer, tracing your expression, your posture, the little motions that shouldn’t matter but somehow did. The corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile, not quite annoyance.
He cleared his throat sharply and spoke, voice deliberately commanding, as if to hide whatever was starting to stir in the back of his mind. “Hey,” he said, looking right at you now. “Go make me something to eat.”
You blinked at him, confused, and he raised an eyebrow like it was the most obvious request in the world. “What? I’ve been sitting here working for hours,” he went on, gesturing vaguely toward his laptop. “I’m starving. And you’re just sitting there.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, tone gaining that bratty edge he used whenever he was trying to sound in control. “You know where the kitchen is. I don’t care what it is — just… something edible.”
When you still didn’t move immediately, he narrowed his eyes in mock irritation. “Don’t make me ask twice. I’m your boss even off the clock, you know.”
But his voice softened a little at the end, betraying him.
He looked back down at the laptop, muttering, “It’s not like I’m asking for a five-course meal. Just… rice or noodles or… whatever you can handle.”
As you finally stood, his gaze followed you again, just for a second too long. The flicker of a smirk tugged at his lips before he caught himself and looked away quickly, pretending to focus on his work again.
He was quiet for a few moments after you left the room, fingers resting on the keyboard, screen still glowing with that half-finished email. Then he let out a small groan and rubbed at the back of his neck. “Pathetic,” he murmured to himself. “You’re supposed to be the CEO of TK Group, not some idiot losing focus because your secretary’s sitting in your living room.”
He tried again to type, managing maybe one sentence before his mind drifted back to the sound of you moving downstairs — the faint clatter of cabinets opening, the soft hum of appliances. He could practically picture it: you in his pristine kitchen, sleeves rolled up, probably muttering under your breath about his attitude.
And just like that, he smiled. A real, unguarded one.