The first time you meet Han Jisung, he’s already halfway through your pitch deck.

You walk into the conference room five minutes early and find him sitting at the head of the table, your presentation glowing on the screen behind him. Like he owns the place. Like he’s been waiting.

“You’re not supposed to have access to that,” you say flatly, dropping your laptop bag on the table.

He doesn’t look guilty. Just intrigued. “Wasn’t hard. Your encryption’s clean, but predictable.”

“You broke into my files.”

He shrugs, not smug “I like knowing who I’m up against.”

You narrow your eyes “And?”

He finally looks up at you—eyes warm, not cocky. Calm “I think I’m in trouble.”

That throws you off. Just a second. Just enough to annoy you.

You slide into the chair across from him. “Don’t flirt with me, Jisung.”

“I’m not,” he says “I’m being honest. I’ve seen your work. You’re better than good. Which is going to make beating you a lot harder—and a lot more fun.”

**

It’s not supposed to be personal.

You’re both bidding for the same high-profile contract. Three months of head-to-head proposals, endless review panels, and industry eyes watching your every move.

But somehow, it becomes personal anyway.

Because Han Jisung never tries to sabotage you.

He challenges you, yes. Challenges everything. Pushes you in meetings, keeps pace in strategy sessions, finds the cracks in your logic and exposes them—but never cruelly. Never to humiliate you.

He gets under your skin, but not in the way you expect.

Not the kind that makes you want to scream. The kind that makes you want to lean closer, just to hear what he’ll say next.

**

One night, you’re both stuck in the office after hours, side by side in the glass-walled war room, hunched over mock-ups. You reach for the same red pen at the same time.

Your fingers brush.

You both freeze.

And for a beat, the only sound is the quiet hum of the city below.

“You ever think,” he says slowly, “if we weren’t on opposite sides—”

“No,” you interrupt, too fast.

A slow smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Didn’t even let me finish.”

“I didn’t need to.”

He leans in, voice lower now. “You sure?”

You stare at him. He’s too close. The table too narrow. His cologne lingers in the air—subtle, clean, expensive.

You swallow. “We’re not doing this.”

His smile fades. Not in defeat, but something quieter. “I know.”

He doesn’t touch you again. But when he leaves, his fingers graze your elbow in passing—just once, just barely.

You pretend not to feel it long after he’s gone.

**

The day the contract is awarded, it goes to both of you.

Joint execution. Split leadership. One massive account.

The boardroom is filled with applause. You barely hear it.

He catches your eye across the room. Gives you the smallest nod—respectful. A little knowing.

Later, when you’re alone in the elevator, he steps in behind you. Silent. Close. Not saying a word.

You feel the warmth of him at your back. The kind of tension that no boardroom can contain.

“Still not doing this?” he murmurs, voice low, just for you.