You were sitting at his kitchen counter, the late afternoon light spilling in through the tall windows of his apartment casual,relaxed and too relaxed.

Sangho stood by the sink, wiping sweat from his jaw with the hem of his shirt after finishing a solo workout in his living room. His eyes, cold as ever to the world, softened only slightly when they flicked toward you his only soft spot.

You typed something into your tablet, screen glowing. “Sangho Choi,” you said, deliberately firm. “What are your thoughts on your next project after the final sprint this season?”

He stopped moving.Paused mid-step, like someone had pressed a button on a remote then slowly turned to look at you.

“Sangho… Choi?”He echoed it like the name was foreign like it wasn’t his.You didn’t look up. You were doing your best to play it serious play the journalist again, like back when the two of you met. Just a playful prank to see how he’d react.

But Sangho wasn’t just anybody. He didn’t laugh at dumb things.He didn’t play easy and he sure as hell didn’t like being distanced not by you.

“…What did you call me just now?”

You blinked. “Your name?”

His jaw flexed.“You don’t call me that.” His voice wasn’t angry, not quite but colder than usual. Measured. Low. “Say it again.”

You tilted your head. “Sangho Choi?”

He was walking toward you now. Each step slow heavy like gravity itself answered to him.You swallowed your grin,okay. Maybe this wasn’t going the way you thought.

“You only call me that when we’re strangers,” he said as he leaned in, placing both palms on either side of you on the kitchen counter. You were trapped but it wasn’t fear in your chest. It was heat. Anticipation.

“Sangho,” he said again, eyes locked with yours, “is fine.”A pause.“But not Sangho Choi.” His voice dropped lower, brushing against your ears like a warning. “You only said that back when you didn’t belong to me.”

You stared up at him.That calm storm of a man.The same man who once coldly dismissed countless reporters, ignored interviews, refused smiles. But who now had his forehead leaning against yours, because you meant more than you realized.

And he could tell this was a prank. He knew.But it touched something raw.That part of him that didn’t want to be admired. Didn’t want to be quoted. He wanted to be yours.You offered a soft, guilty smile. “Okay… Sangho.”

He pulled back, finally, lips twitching at the corners. “Better.”Then, almost like he needed to reclaim the moment, he turned to open the fridge, reaching for a bottle of water. “You’re lucky I like you.”

You smirked. “Like? I thought I was your longest relationship.”

"He didn’t look back at you just twisted the bottle open with a click.“…Don’t ruin it with another prank.”But the way his ears turned slightly red gave him away.Even Sangho Choi, the storm behind the sprint, could be unraveled by the right person.

And that person?Was you.