Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The automatic glass doors of Lee Enterprises HQ slid open with a quiet hiss, ushering Lee Donghyuck into the kind of lobby that made you feel small, no matter how tall you stood.

The space was immaculate—high ceilings, cool marble floors, and glass walls that reflected the early morning sun like crystal. Everything gleamed with wealth, power, and a deliberate kind of sterility.

Donghyuck’s footsteps echoed faintly as he walked across the polished floor, the worn leather strap of his portfolio clutched tightly in one hand. He tried not to sweat through the back of his shirt. He’d picked the best one he owned—crisp white, tucked neatly into slim black slacks—but next to all this glass and steel, he felt like a kid playing dress-up.

He paused briefly near a mirrored column, straightening his collar and checking for any trace of breakfast on his lips. A few deep breaths. Okay. You’ve got this. You’ve prepped for days. You are not going to screw this up.

He approached the front desk, where a sleek-looking receptionist sat typing rapidly on a monitor. The man was effortlessly put together—hair gelled perfectly into place, suit sharp, and expression unreadable. He looked up as Donghyuck neared, brown eyes flicking over him like a scanner.

“Lee Donghyuck?” the man asked.

“Uh, yes.” Donghyuck nodded quickly, adjusting his grip on the portfolio. “Here for the 10 AM interview for the—uh—personal assistant position.”

The receptionist gave a short nod and clicked something on the screen. “You’re on the list.”

His gaze flicked up again, this time more focused. “I’m Huang Renjun. I run reception down here, so if you ever lose your badge or forget which floor you belong on, I’m the person you’ll be bothering.”

Donghyuck blinked. “I’ll… try not to forget.”

Renjun’s lips curved into the ghost of a smile—more sarcastic than friendly. “You’re going up to thirty-five. Mr. Lee’s office. Try not to be late. Or nervous.”

“Too late for that,” Donghyuck muttered, mostly to himself.

Renjun, of course, heard him anyway.

He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “Just a heads-up. He’s in one of those moods today.”

Donghyuck swallowed. “What kind of moods are we talking?”

“The ‘I haven’t slept in 36 hours and no one’s doing their job right’ kind.” Renjun tilted his head slightly. “Honestly, I’d fake food poisoning and leave now if I were you.”

Donghyuck tried to laugh. It came out as a high-pitched squeak. “Wow. That… inspiring. Thanks.”

Renjun didn’t look away. “Look, if you’re the type to cry under pressure, now’s the time to say so.”

“I don’t cry,” Donghyuck said, straighter now.

“You will,” Renjun said, almost kindly. “Everyone does at some point. Just...not in front of him. Unless you want to be turned into motivational fuel for the rest of the office.”

Donghyuck stared at him. “Are you always this comforting to new people?”

Renjun smirked. “Only the ones I like.”

Before Donghyuck could decide if that was reassuring or terrifying, Renjun tapped the desk phone and spoke briskly into it.
“Mr. Lee’s 10 o’clock is here. I’m sending him up.”
A pause. Then a nod. “Understood.”

Renjun hung up and gestured toward the elevators. “Thirty-fifth floor. Take the middle one. Straight through the double glass doors once you're up there. Don't dawdle. And try not to piss him off.”

“Right,” Donghyuck said, voice catching slightly. “Thanks, uh… Renjun.”

“Good luck, Lee Donghyuck.” Renjun gave him one final, almost sympathetic look. “You’ll need it.”

~

The elevator doors glided open with a soft chime, revealing an interior of smooth brushed metal and warm ambient lighting. Donghyuck stepped inside, feeling like he’d just entered a futuristic space pod.

He pressed the button for the 35th floor, the highest one on the panel, and the doors slid shut behind him. The moment they did, the air seemed to thicken with silence. Except for the low, almost ridiculous sound of elevator music—some instrumental version of a jazz-pop tune—there was nothing to ground him. No other passengers. No noise from outside. Just him and his racing heartbeat.

He let out a shaky breath.

“Okay,” he whispered, his voice nearly drowned out by the gentle melody. “You’ve got this. Just be confident. Professional. Capable. Charming. But not too charming. No flirting with the boss. You’re here to work.”

He inhaled deeply through his nose and exhaled slowly. One breath. Then another. He’d read this tip online: calm your nervous system with structured breathing before a big interview. It wasn’t doing much.

He stared at his reflection in the metallic door, trying to imagine what Mark Lee would see: a twenty-something with sharp cheekbones, maybe too sharp from skipping meals to prep for this; deep brown eyes that gave away everything he felt; and a posture that tried its best to look confident despite the voice in his head screaming, You’re not supposed to be here.

As the elevator ticked past the 17th floor, his chest tightened.

What if this is too much?
What if I say something stupid?
What if I freeze? Or worse—what if he doesn’t even take me seriously?

He was nobody. Just a guy with a degree, a killer résumé padded with internships and coffee runs, and a fierce need to prove himself. But Mark Lee? He was practically legend. A CEO in his early thirties who built Lee Enterprises from the ground up—tech genius, media darling, and apparently, according to every article Donghyuck read, emotionally unavailable and terrifying.

Thirty-first floor.

Donghyuck’s fingers twitched around his portfolio. He went over his intro one more time, under his breath.

“Hi, I’m Lee Donghyuck. Thank you for taking the time to—no. Too formal. Uh—Hi, it’s nice to meet you. I’ve been following your work since—ugh, no, that sounds like I’m a fanboy.”

The elevator slowed.

Thirty-second.

“Okay. Deep breath. You’re not a kid. You’re not a fan. You’re a professional. You’re here to show him what you’re made of.”

Thirty-third.

His palms were slick. He wiped them quickly on his slacks.

Thirty-fourth.

His heartbeat thudded in his ears. He closed his eyes for a second, centered himself, and exhaled one last time.

Ding.
Thirty-fifth floor.

The doors slid open with a soft whisper, revealing a corridor of glass, stone, and silence. It felt like stepping into another universe.

Donghyuck squared his shoulders, stepped out, and began walking toward the frosted double doors at the end of the hallway.

Whatever happened next, he would walk into it head high—even if his knees were shaking.

~

The executive floor felt like another world entirely. Not just quiet—deliberately silent. Like noise didn’t dare exist here.

Everything was glass, metal, and white marble, polished to a blinding gleam. The air smelled faintly of cedarwood and money. The walls were decorated with abstract art in muted greys and silvers, each one looking more expensive than Donghyuck’s entire college education.

He stood awkwardly just past the elevator doors, not sure where to go, until a young woman appeared from around the corner. She didn’t say a word—just offered a polite nod and gestured for him to follow.

Her heels clicked rhythmically down the corridor, the sound bouncing off the pristine walls. Donghyuck tried to keep his pace even, his breath steady. His heart was another story.

They reached a pair of tall, matte-glass doors. The woman opened one soundlessly and motioned him inside with a single, fluid motion.

He stepped into Mark Lee’s office.

It was massive. Minimalist. Clean to the point of intimidating. A floor-to-ceiling window took up the entire back wall, overlooking the city skyline like a kingdom at his feet. There was a single modern desk at the center, black and angular. No clutter. No personal photos. No sign of warmth.

Behind it sat Mark Lee.

And he didn’t even look up.

Donghyuck stood in the doorway, clutching his portfolio like a shield as the door swung shut behind him with a soft click —final, absolute.

Mark was typing on a sleek tablet, fingers flying across the screen. His suit jacket hung neatly on the back of his chair, revealing a crisp white shirt rolled up to the forearms. His hair was slightly tousled in a way that looked entirely intentional. The lines of his face were sharp, composed, unreadable.

“Sit,” Mark said, voice cool and unhurried. “You’re late.”

Donghyuck blinked. “It’s 9:58. The interview was scheduled for 10.”

Mark finally looked up.

His eyes were dark and piercing, the kind that didn’t just look at you—they stripped you bare.

“Exactly,” he said, voice flat. “You’re not early.”

Donghyuck’s throat went dry.

He sat down slowly, smoothing his slacks and trying not to fidget. Mark was still watching him, now fully focused, gaze clinical. Donghyuck suddenly felt like a lab specimen—studied, measured, already being categorized.

Without any transition or formal greeting, Mark launched into the interview.

“Why do you want to work for me?” he asked, words clipped and fast, like bullets.

Donghyuck scrambled to keep up. “Because I’ve researched Lee Enterprises for years, and I believe working directly under you would be—”

“What are your weaknesses?” Mark cut in.

Donghyuck blinked. “Uh—sometimes I overwork myself—”

“Cliché. Real answer.”

Donghyuck inhaled. “I micromanage when I don’t trust a system. I’m working on it.”

Mark tapped something on the tablet without breaking eye contact.

“What do you think this job is?”

“A personal assistant position. Managing your calendar, communication, travel—”

Mark raised an eyebrow. “And?”

Donghyuck hesitated. “...And making sure your life runs smoothly so you can focus on running the company?”

Mark didn’t respond. Just stared.

“You don’t seem intimidated,” he said, after a long pause.

Donghyuck offered a strained smile. “I’m doing my best to pretend I’m not.”

That earned him a faint twitch at the corner of Mark’s mouth. Not quite a smile—but not disapproval either.

Mark glanced back at his tablet. “You interned at Yoon & Kim for six months?”

“Yes.”

“They said you were too independent.”

“I take initiative. Sometimes too fast. I’ve learned to pause and communicate first.”

“Hm.”

Another tap of the tablet. Donghyuck could feel his heartbeat in his ears.

The questions kept coming. One after the next. Fast, cold, relentless.

Mark asked about everything—his college major, his typing speed, how he handled rude clients, what time he got up in the morning, if he believed in loyalty, if he’d ever broken confidentiality, how he handled failure, how he handled success .

And the whole time, Mark never broke posture. Never softened his tone. It was like being interrogated by someone who’d already decided the outcome—but was still giving you a chance to change their mind.

Donghyuck forced himself to breathe evenly. Answer clearly. Meet his gaze.

He could feel the sweat starting to gather at the back of his neck, but he refused to let it show. He wouldn’t flinch. Not now.

Mark leaned back slightly in his chair, tablet resting on the desk now as his sharp eyes studied Donghyuck—not as a résumé, but as a puzzle. Or maybe a threat. Either way, the temperature in the room had subtly shifted. And Donghyuck felt it.

He sat upright in his chair, posture polite but steady, both hands folded over his leather portfolio. No slouching. No trembling. His smile was slight, but it was there.

Mark’s voice cut through the silence again. “This position isn’t for someone who folds under pressure.”

Donghyuck didn’t miss a beat. “Good to know. I fold laundry, not under pressure.”

For the first time, something flickered behind Mark’s eyes. A twitch of amusement? Maybe. His lips parted just slightly—like the ghost of a smirk had thought about forming and then decided against it.

But Donghyuck had seen it. And more importantly, he knew Mark had noticed that he noticed.

The CEO’s tone shifted—not warmer, but...sharper. Like a blade drawn just slightly closer.

“You do realize this isn’t some campus internship, right?” Mark said, slow and deliberate. “This isn’t about fetching coffee and stapling reports. This is high-stakes, no-sleep, no-error work. My schedule is chaos. My clients are monsters. I demand a lot.”

Donghyuck tilted his head ever so slightly, unfazed.

“Sounds like my mother,” he replied dryly.

Mark blinked.

Donghyuck continued, “Except she didn’t have a corporate empire. Just a strict bedtime and a love for passive-aggressive Post-its.”

Mark didn’t laugh, but he stared a little longer. Calculating. Curious.

Donghyuck smiled—not smugly, but with quiet precision.

“I’ve worked under pressure,” he added, “and I’ve worked with people who expect perfection. If anything, I prefer it. Keeps things interesting.”

Mark stood then, slowly, rounding the desk like a lion deciding whether the mouse was worth batting around. He didn’t sit on the edge. Just circled, hands in his pockets, eyes locked on Donghyuck.

“So you’re confident.”

“I try to be accurate. Confidence without competence is just noise.”

Mark stopped, standing just a few feet away.

“And you think you’re competent?”

Donghyuck met his gaze without flinching. “I know I’m competent.”

A long pause.

The room was utterly silent again, except for the faint sound of traffic humming beyond the glass wall behind Mark. A car horn. A distant siren. The pulse of a city that never waited.

Finally, Mark asked, almost conversationally, “What makes you think you can handle me?”

Donghyuck grinned.

“I’ve been told I’m very good with difficult people.”

Mark’s brow lifted. “I’m difficult?”

“I didn’t say that,” Donghyuck replied, voice light but deliberate. “You did.”

And there it was again—that flicker in Mark’s expression. Something unreadable. Something that felt like interest, or maybe irritation, or maybe both.

The silence stretched. Mark was watching him too closely. Like he was still deciding whether to dismiss him or promote him.

But Donghyuck didn’t blink. Didn’t fold. He refused to.

Mark leaned back in his chair, folding one leg over the other, his sharp gaze no longer probing, but thoughtful. His tablet was set aside now, forgotten on the desk. For a moment, he looked less like a ruthless CEO and more like a man weighing something carefully, something important.

He fixed Donghyuck with a steady look, the kind that seemed to peel back layers and examine the very core.

“Why do you want this job?” Mark’s voice was quieter, almost tentative.

Donghyuck swallowed the lump in his throat and met the question head-on, his voice earnest and clear.

“Because I want to be great.” He paused, searching Mark’s eyes for any sign of softness. “And because I think learning from someone like you—even if you’re terrifying—would push me there faster.”

The words hung in the space between them, fragile but sincere.

Mark’s expression didn’t change at first. Then, something flickered in his eyes—an unspoken acknowledgment, a rare crack in his usual armor.

For a long beat, the room was silent. No rapid-fire questions, no cutting remarks. Just the sound of the city far below, and the steady, palpable weight of Mark’s gaze.

He stared at Donghyuck longer than expected—too long, almost uncomfortable in its intensity.

Donghyuck held his breath, unsure whether he’d crossed a line or touched something genuine.

Finally, Mark spoke, low and deliberate.

“You’re ambitious. I’ll give you that.”

Donghyuck nodded, heart still pounding.

The room felt impossibly quiet. Mark’s eyes drifted back from the window to the desk, where his phone lay—sleek, black, and silent. Without looking up, he reached for it with deliberate calm, the faintest hint of finality in his movement.

Donghyuck’s pulse quickened, sensing the moment was coming, though he wasn’t sure if it was good or bad.

Mark tapped the screen, then spoke—his voice clipped, businesslike.

“Renjun,” he said, without looking up. “Cancel the rest of the interviews.”

Donghyuck’s breath hitched. His head jerked up, eyes wide. “Wait—what?”

Mark’s gaze finally snapped back to him, cold and unwavering.

“You’re hired. You start tomorrow at seven. Don’t be late again.”

The words felt like a thunderclap in the stillness of the room.

Donghyuck blinked, stunned, struggling to process what he’d just heard. The weight of the moment pressed down on him—a mix of disbelief, relief, and a creeping nervous excitement.

He closed his mouth and forced out a calm, measured response, trying to sound like this was exactly what he’d expected all along.

“Thank you. I won’t disappoint you.”

Mark’s eyes narrowed, amused but unforgiving.

“You will,” he said, voice dry. “Everyone does.”

There was a pause, a slight shift in the air—almost like a secret shared in the silence.

“But at least you’ll be interesting.”

Donghyuck let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Interesting. The word echoed in his mind. Not safe. Not easy. But interesting.

He nodded once, firmly.

“I’m ready.”

Mark gave a slow, deliberate nod, already turning back to his tablet as if the conversation were over.

Donghyuck stood, gathering his portfolio. As he walked to the door, Mark’s voice cut through the quiet once more.

“And Donghyuck?”

He paused, turning back.

“Bring your A-game. Or don’t bother.”

The door closed behind him with a soft but unmistakable finality.

~

Donghyuck stepped out of Mark Lee’s office, the door clicking shut behind him like a final verdict sealed in stone. His legs felt a little shaky, his mind a chaotic storm of thoughts.

He got the job. The words echoed over and over, but it didn’t quite feel real yet. Not with Mark Lee’s sharp gaze still burning in his memory, nor the cold edge in his voice. This wasn’t a victory—it was the start of a battle.

He walked back toward the elevator, clutching his portfolio a little tighter now, as if it could steady the whirlwind inside him.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft whoosh, and he stepped inside. The familiar hum of the soft elevator music filled the small space, but Donghyuck barely noticed. His thoughts raced faster than the floors ticking by.

At the lobby, as he emerged from the elevator, the receptionist’s desk came into view. Huang Renjun, impeccably dressed as always, looked up and caught Donghyuck’s eye.

Renjun’s smirk was subtle but unmistakable, a mix of amusement and something like sympathy—or maybe warning.

“You got the job?” Renjun asked, voice light but knowing.

Donghyuck exhaled, trying to sound casual despite the storm inside. “Apparently.”

Renjun’s grin widened just a bit, eyes sparkling with dry humor. “Then I’ll pray for you.”

Donghyuck chuckled softly, shaking his head as he walked past.

“Thanks. I’ll need it.”

Renjun’s laughter followed him, quiet but genuine.

The lobby’s cold perfection seemed a little less intimidating now. Donghyuck stepped outside into the bright morning, the city buzzing around him, and felt a spark of something new—a mixture of fear and fierce determination.

Tomorrow starts everything.

Chapter Text

The city was still wrapped in the quiet hush of early morning when Donghyuck stepped out of the taxi and looked up at the towering glass façade of Lee Enterprises. The first pale streaks of dawn barely touched the skyline, but already the building’s lights glowed cold and relentless against the dim sky.

Donghyuck took a deep breath, fingers tightening around the leather strap of his worn portfolio. His heart thudded in a nervous rhythm as he checked his watch for what felt like the hundredth time. 6:45 a.m. He was almost an hour early. Maybe too early, but there was no way he was risking being late on his first day.

He smoothed the front of his crisp white shirt, tugged slightly at his black tie, and straightened the lapels of his jacket. The weight of the fabric settled around him like armor — a shield against the unknown.

The lobby doors slid open silently, and he stepped inside, swallowed up by the vast space of polished marble floors and towering steel columns. The air smelled faintly of fresh coffee and expensive cleaning products, sterile but not unpleasant. The high ceiling reflected the soft glow of recessed lights, casting long shadows that danced along the spotless walls.

Compared to the intimidating first impression of his interview day, the lobby now felt a little less hostile — more like a grand stage where he had to perform. But the chill in the air reminded him it was still no place for weakness.

As he walked toward the front desk, the soft tap of his polished shoes echoed off the marble. At the desk stood Huang Renjun — impeccably dressed, hair neatly combed, and eyes sharp behind sleek glasses. Renjun’s posture was casual, almost lazy, but there was a certain sharpness in his gaze that made it clear he missed nothing.

Renjun looked up, arching a single eyebrow, his lips curling into a small smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Bright and early, huh?” Renjun’s voice was low, carrying a mix of surprise and dry amusement.

Donghyuck forced a small smile, his throat dry. “No chance I’m being late on day one.” He ran a hand through his hair, hoping he didn’t look as nervous as he felt.

Renjun chuckled softly, leaning forward slightly on the desk. “Good. You’ll need that fire. Believe me, it’s not just about being on time here. It’s about keeping up—and then some.”

Donghyuck nodded, swallowing hard. “I’m ready for it.”

Renjun’s smirk deepened into something almost like respect. “We’ll see. Mark’s got a way of testing that. You might want to grab some coffee. You’ll probably need it.”

Donghyuck glanced toward the sleek coffee bar near the elevators, a faint pulse of adrenaline and dread mixing inside him.

Renjun waved him off, eyes already scanning the floor. “Don’t get too comfortable. This place eats the weak.”

Donghyuck swallowed the lump in his throat and squared his shoulders. Whatever was coming next, he was determined to face it head-on.

The elevator dinged softly, and the doors slid open onto the 35th floor. The air here felt different — colder, sharper, like the difference between standing outside in a chilly breeze and stepping inside a glass cage.

Donghyuck stepped out, clutching his portfolio a little tighter as he followed a junior secretary down a sleek corridor lined with glass walls and minimalist decor. The subtle hum of quiet conversations and tapping keyboards drifted through the air, but it all seemed distant, like background noise in a storm about to break.

The secretary stopped in front of a massive door of dark wood with a simple brass nameplate: Mark Lee — Chief Executive Officer. She gave Donghyuck a quick, unreadable look and pushed open the door without a word.

Inside, Mark Lee was already there. He stood by the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the city, phone pressed to his ear. His silhouette was sharp, commanding — broad shoulders squared, posture rigid. The office was immaculate, every surface spotless and gleaming under the soft light.

Mark’s voice was low and businesslike as he spoke into the phone. Donghyuck’s heart hammered in his chest as he stood frozen by the door, unsure whether to clear his throat or simply wait.

Finally, Mark ended the call and turned abruptly — a quick pivot that sent a chill through the room. His eyes, cold and piercing, landed on Donghyuck without a flicker of warmth.

“Sit.”

The single word dropped into the silence like a command, not a request. Donghyuck swallowed hard and moved toward the sleek leather chair across from the massive black desk.

Mark didn’t bother with formalities. Without so much as a glance at any paperwork, he began rattling off a list of orders — rapid-fire, sharp, and without pause.

“Schedule three meetings by noon. One with finance, one with legal, and one with the Henderson group.”

Donghyuck scrambled to take notes, pen barely keeping up with Mark’s voice.

“Update my itinerary for the next week — every detail. I want travel plans, meals, client meetings, gym time. Don’t miss anything.”

Mark’s gaze snapped toward him, expecting no questions, no hesitation.

“Prepare the Henderson deal notes. Summarize the key points, the risks, the benefits, and the opposition’s likely objections. I want to review it before the afternoon call.”

Donghyuck nodded, barely able to keep his breathing steady. His fingers moved quickly across his notepad, trying to capture everything accurately.

“And get me coffee. Black. No sugar. No excuses.”

Donghyuck blinked, a little thrown off by the sudden mundane demand among the high-stakes tasks. He opened his mouth to respond —

“Got it. Right away.”

Mark turned sharply away, already swiping at his tablet, signaling the end of the conversation.

The silence that followed was thick, almost suffocating. Donghyuck stayed rooted for a moment, the weight of those first orders sinking in like a tidal wave.

This was no warm welcome. No gentle onboarding. Mark Lee was a force — demanding, blunt, and expecting flawless execution without question.

Donghyuck forced himself to stand straighter, swallowing the knot of nerves in his stomach.

Okay. Deep breath. You can do this.

He stepped out of the office and into the corridor, the list of tasks playing on repeat in his mind. The clock was ticking — and there was no time to waste.

~

The morning unfolded in a whirlwind. Donghyuck darted through the sprawling maze of the executive floor, clutching his notebook and phone like lifelines. His ears rang with the buzz of ringing phones, chatter from colleagues, and the distant clack of heels on polished floors.

Every step felt like a race against time. He balanced a coffee cup in one hand and a tablet in the other, juggling schedules, emails, and phone calls with a growing knot of pressure tightening in his chest.

His mind buzzed — meetings to confirm, files to organize, messages to send — the kind of chaos that made his head spin but also sparked something fierce inside him: a need to prove he belonged here, no matter how overwhelming.

He was halfway to the conference room when his phone buzzed sharply in his pocket. He pulled it out, heart skipping a beat as he saw Mark’s name flashing on the screen. Mark Lee.

Before he could even swipe to answer, his phone rang again — the office line from Mark’s office.

He fumbled to pick it up, pressing the call button with trembling fingers.

“Did you confirm the client’s lunch reservation?” Mark’s voice was low but razor-sharp, cutting through the noise around him like a blade.

Donghyuck swallowed hard, panting from the hurried walk. “Uh, not yet, but I’m on it. I was just about to—”

Mark interrupted without missing a beat. “Do it. Now.”

The call ended abruptly, leaving Donghyuck standing frozen for a split second. Then adrenaline surged through him like a shot of electricity.

“Right,” he muttered, cheeks flushed with a mix of nerves and determination.

He pivoted sharply, almost colliding with a well-dressed coworker carrying a stack of files.

“Sorry!” he blurted, weaving through the corridor with quick, uneven steps, trying to keep his balance and not drop anything.

His breath came faster, heart pounding like a drum in his chest. Every second felt precious. He rehearsed his words mentally as he neared the reception desk: Confirm lunch reservation. Name: Henderson Group. Time: Noon. Location: The Capital Grill.

The receptionist raised an eyebrow as he approached but said nothing, quickly pulling up the reservation book.

Donghyuck rattled off the details, his voice steady despite the chaos inside.

“Could you please confirm the Henderson Group lunch reservation for noon today at The Capital Grill?”

She tapped her keyboard a few times, then nodded. “Confirmed. They’re expecting you.”

Relief flooded through Donghyuck, but there was no time to celebrate.

He pulled out his phone to text Mark: Henderson lunch confirmed, noon at Capital Grill.

His hand shook slightly, but he hit send.

Then he turned on his heel and sprinted back down the hall, dodging another colleague and nearly slipping on the shiny floor.

Donghyuck’s steps echoed sharply as he hurried back through the winding corridors of Lee Enterprises. The weight of Mark’s to-do list pressed down on him like a physical force, but his mission was clear: bring the coffee exactly as ordered. Black. No sugar. No exceptions.

He clutched the hot cup carefully, the aroma of dark roast coffee filling the air around him, a tiny island of comfort in the storm of his nerves. The barista had looked busy, but Donghyuck had been quick, precise—he’d triple-checked the label on the cup before turning back toward the elevator.

The ride up felt endless. Every floor ticked by, and with it, the knot of anxiety tightened in his stomach.

When the elevator doors slid open, he practically sprinted down the hallway, determined not to let this small task trip him up.

Mark’s office door was slightly ajar, light spilling into the corridor. Donghyuck pushed it open and stepped inside, heart pounding—not from exertion this time, but from sheer dread.

Mark sat behind his imposing desk, fingers steepled in front of him, eyes narrowed and fixed on the coffee cup Donghyuck held out like an offering.

His gaze was colder than the steel and glass that surrounded them.

“What is this?” Mark’s voice cut through the room, sharp and unforgiving. “I said black. No sugar.”

Donghyuck blinked, confused. His eyes darted down to the cup in his hand, then back up at Mark’s unblinking stare.

He brought the cup closer, peering at the label taped to the side. A small, almost invisible sticker read: “Black Coffee — No Sugar.”

But then he noticed it — the faintest hint of cream swirling in the dark liquid near the rim.

His face flushed crimson, heat creeping up his neck.

“Oh. Oh no,” he stammered, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m so sorry—I must’ve grabbed the wrong one. I swear I checked. I’ll get you another, right now.”

Mark didn’t flinch, didn’t soften. Instead, he folded his arms across his chest, the picture of cool disdain.

“Do you have any idea how much time you’ve wasted already?” His tone was clipped, impatient. “This job isn’t about screwing up the small things. It’s about precision. Attention. Anticipation.”

Donghyuck’s hands trembled slightly as he set the cup down carefully on the desk, careful not to spill a drop.

“I understand. I won’t let it happen again.”

Mark’s eyes locked on him, icy and unyielding. “You’d better not.”

The silence stretched out between them, thick with unspoken judgment. Donghyuck swallowed hard, willing himself to breathe steadily despite the embarrassment burning inside him.

But beneath the harsh exterior, a tiny spark of something else flickered in Mark’s eyes — not approval, not kindness, but maybe… interest?

For a moment, just a flicker, before the cold mask snapped back into place.

“Go,” Mark said finally, voice sharp but with an edge of finality. “And get it right this time.”

Donghyuck nodded, bowing his head slightly in quiet acknowledgment before turning sharply and almost running from the room again.

As he exited, the door clicking shut behind him, he took a shaky breath and whispered to himself, Okay. Focus. No more mistakes.

~

The door closed behind Donghyuck with a soft thud, the sound swallowed quickly by the sleek silence of Mark’s office. The faint hum of the city outside the towering glass walls was the only other noise, steady and unchanging — a stark contrast to the storm raging inside the room.

Mark finally lowered himself into the black leather chair behind his desk with a measured sigh, a rare break in his otherwise relentless energy. His fingers tapped swiftly on the screen of his tablet as he opened a new file, his eyes scanning lines of text and figures without a flicker of hesitation.

Without looking up, Mark’s voice cut through the tension — low, calm, and surprisingly direct.

“Listen.”

Donghyuck’s breath hitched slightly, leaning forward as if to catch every word more clearly.

“This job…” Mark began, the word hanging heavy between them. “It’s not about being perfect.”

A small, almost invisible pause.

“It’s about surviving the storm.”

Mark’s eyes flicked up briefly, sharp and piercing. “Keep your head clear and your feet moving. If you can do that…” He tapped the tablet once more, punctuating the statement. “You’ll do fine.”

The words weren’t wrapped in sugar or softened by sympathy. They were blunt, almost brutal — but beneath the hardness lay a thread of something else: experience. Reality. A hard-earned truth from a man who’d been through countless battles in the high-stakes corporate world.

Donghyuck exhaled slowly, the rush of adrenaline ebbing away just enough to let the weight of those words sink in. He felt overwhelmed — the pressure, the chaos, the relentless pace — but beneath it all, something shifted inside him.

Determination.

He met Mark’s gaze and nodded slowly, the motion deliberate.

“I understand.” His voice was steady, though there was a flicker of vulnerability behind it. “I want to learn how to survive.”

Mark gave a faint, almost imperceptible nod — the closest thing to approval Donghyuck had seen from him so far.

“Good.”

~

The hum of office activity had finally dimmed into a kind of muffled silence as the evening fell over Lee Enterprises. Outside the massive windows, the skyline shimmered with city lights blinking to life, golden reflections stretching across the glass towers. The chaos had slowed. The storm, for now, had passed.

Donghyuck sat slumped in his chair, deep in the maze of cubicles tucked just outside the executive floor. His workspace was tiny — barely wide enough for the cheap rolling chair and slim desk they’d assigned him — but in this moment, it felt like a haven.

He let out a long, ragged breath, staring up at the ceiling, tie loosened, jacket thrown over the back of his chair. His limbs ached. His brain felt like it had been wrung out like a sponge. Everything hurt.

His inbox was still a mess — flags, follow-ups, things he barely remembered agreeing to. Somewhere along the way, he’d forgotten lunch. He hadn’t even noticed until his stomach growled loudly, too late to do anything but blink through the hunger.

But he was here.

He’d survived.

Barely.

His phone buzzed against the desk, the vibration loud in the quiet cubicle. Donghyuck grabbed it instinctively, thumb swiping across the screen.

Renjun:
Survived day one? Barely? Tomorrow’s worse. But hey, you made it.

Donghyuck stared at the text for a long second, then let out a tired laugh. It came out half-breath, half-wheeze — more relief than joy — but it was real. He smiled, slumping further in his chair, phone still in hand.

He typed back with slow fingers:

Donghyuck:
I think Mark hates me.
…But I’m still alive. So that’s something.

Seconds later:

Renjun:
If Mark only "hates" you on day one, you’re ahead of the curve.
Most people cry in the supply closet by 3 PM.
Proud of you, rookie.

Donghyuck grinned. The exhaustion didn’t disappear, but the edge dulled a little.

He tilted his head back again and closed his eyes for just a moment. The mental replay of the day began to flicker behind his eyelids: the coffee disaster, the meeting mayhem, Mark’s cold gaze, and — unexpectedly — that one moment where Mark had said something vaguely human.

Keep your head clear. Keep your feet moving.

Donghyuck opened his eyes. He could still hear the words like a drumbeat in the back of his mind. It wasn’t praise. It wasn’t kindness. But it was something. A thread to hold onto.

He was in over his head. The hours were brutal, the boss was impossible, and the expectations were sky-high.

But Donghyuck had made it through Day One.

And even as his body screamed for sleep and his to-do list threatened to devour him alive, something stubborn sparked inside him — a tiny ember of pride.

He wasn’t going to quit.

Tomorrow might be worse. But tomorrow, he’d be better.

Chapter Text

It was nearing eleven, but Donghyuck felt like he’d been running for ten hours straight. His tie was askew, the collar of his shirt tugged loose, and his hand clutched an empty coffee mug like it was the last thing tethering him to consciousness.

The company break room was sleek and modern, all sharp lines and soft lighting. A row of vending machines lined the wall with quiet mechanical hums, and a long white counter offered complimentary fruit, tea, and a coffee machine that seemed to hiss in judgment with every pour.

Donghyuck shuffled toward it, blinking hard, willing his brain to keep functioning just a little longer. The scent of bitter coffee was both comforting and nauseating at this point, but he needed the caffeine. Badly.

As he waited for the machine to fill his cup, a pair of low voices caught his attention. Across the room at one of the café-style tables sat two employees deep in conversation. They hadn’t seemed to notice him at first, but as he turned slightly and met their eyes, both men paused.

There was a beat of silence. They looked at him. Then at each other.

One of them — a guy with bleach-blond hair and an easy grin — lifted his chin in a sort of invitation.

“You’re the new PA, right?” he asked, voice soft but not unkind.

Donghyuck nodded, the warmth of the mug spreading into his fingers. “Yeah. First week.”

The other man, wearing wire-rimmed glasses and a lanyard that said ‘Creative Development,’ gave a dry laugh. “First week’s usually when people run.”

Donghyuck blinked, thrown. “Run?”

The blond — whose name tag read Jung Sungchan — leaned forward slightly, resting his arms on the table. His tone was light, but there was something in his eyes that wasn’t joking.

“Mark Lee doesn’t just expect results,” he said. “He chews people up and spits them out when they fall behind. You’re the third PA this quarter.”

Donghyuck’s grip on his mug tightened, the weight of the warning sitting heavy in his chest. Still, he schooled his expression, offering a half-shrug and a faint smile. “That’s not going to be me.”

Yangyang — that was what his name tag said — raised his brows. “Everyone says that.”

“But hey,” Sungchan added, this time with a grin that was almost friendly, “you’ve lasted longer than the girl before you. She left after day two.”

“Cried in the stairwell,” Yangyang said helpfully. “Twice.”

Donghyuck stared into his coffee for a moment. “Cool. Cool cool cool. Super comforting.”

Sungchan chuckled, clearly enjoying the interaction now. “Don’t take it personally. It’s not you. It’s him. Mark’s kind of… well. You’ve met him.”

Donghyuck nodded slowly. He had. The memory of Mark’s cold stare, the clipped way he spoke, the complete lack of acknowledgment beyond what was necessary — it was burned into his brain like a bad dream.

And still… he wasn’t going anywhere.

“I’m not scared of him,” Donghyuck said quietly, more to himself than to them.

Yangyang tilted his head, examining him. “Good. Because scared doesn’t last long around here.”

Donghyuck gave them a tight-lipped smile, lifted his mug like a salute, and turned to go.

Behind him, Sungchan leaned back in his chair, watching Donghyuck retreat with a curious look.

“Think he’ll last the month?” Yangyang murmured.

Sungchan grinned. “Not sure. But I kinda hope he does.”

~

Donghyuck’s desk already looked like it had been hit by a very organized tornado. Stacks of paper towered in uneven piles — some clipped, some loose, all of them looking aggressively urgent. Three different notepads were open in front of him, each one scrawled with different versions of Mark’s daily itinerary, a growing to-do list, and frantic reminders circled multiple times in red ink.

His tablet blinked relentlessly with calendar alerts and flagged emails, most of them from Mark. Some were one-word messages. Others had entire paragraphs of clipped instructions that made Donghyuck’s heart rate spike every time he read them.

He was in the middle of updating a meeting invite for someone named Henderson — again — when the unmistakable click of designer dress shoes on tile reached his ears.

Renjun.

Donghyuck barely had time to look up before a thick packet of folders landed with a solid thud on the edge of his already overcrowded desk.

“Morning,” Renjun said breezily, not stopping. “He wants those reorganized by department, alphabetically, and time-stamped. Preferably before he gets out of his meeting. Which started four minutes ago.”

Donghyuck froze, eyes wide.

“Wait, what?” he sputtered, his voice cracking on the last syllable as he glanced at the pile. There had to be at least fifty pages in there. Maybe more. His gaze darted to the nearby wall clock. If the meeting started four minutes ago, that gave him… what? Ten minutes? Fifteen if Mark was feeling charitable? (Spoiler: he never was.)

Renjun had already walked past, but now he turned slightly, arching a perfectly groomed brow as if Donghyuck had asked whether the sky was blue.

“Lesson one?” Renjun said smoothly, voice dry. “Don’t take anything he says as a suggestion. If you’re not fast, you’re already late.”

And with that, he was gone, disappearing down the hallway with the effortless cool of someone who’d survived too long under Mark Lee’s reign to be bothered by things like logic or fairness.

Donghyuck stared at the folders again, then at his tablet, then back to the folders.

“Reorganized by department,” he muttered, flipping through the first few pages. His fingers twitched. “Alphabetically. Time-stamped. Is he trying to kill me?”

He yanked a notepad closer, pulled up a spreadsheet template on his laptop, and began typing like a man possessed.

Names, dates, departments—God, why did half of these reports have no headers? His highlighter squeaked across a page as he circled missing timestamps, muttering under his breath the entire time. The coffee he’d downed earlier now jittered through his veins like rocket fuel. He was moving fast, but not fast enough.

Somewhere in the background, the elevator dinged.

His eyes shot to the wall clock again. Eleven minutes into the meeting. No. No no no.

He doubled his speed, flipping papers with an urgency that sent one or two fluttering to the floor. He didn’t even pause—just snatched them up again, crammed a binder clip into place, and slapped Post-its on top like it was going to magically help.

By the time he heard the low click of Mark’s office door opening down the hall, he was sprinting across the floor, papers clutched in both hands, praying to whatever deity might be listening that Mark had taken a phone call on his way out.

Donghyuck’s shoes squeaked against the polished floor as he hurried down the hall, folders pressed tight to his chest like a shield. He rounded the corner just in time to see Mark step out of the glass-walled conference room, his expression unreadable, tablet in hand, tailored black suit sharp enough to cut glass.

Mark didn’t break stride. Didn’t even glance at Donghyuck. He was mid-sentence on a call, voice low and clipped.

“I said by Friday. I don’t care what logistics says. Move the shipment or move your desk.”

Donghyuck ducked his head and kept pace a few steps behind, trying to match Mark’s long, confident strides.

When Mark turned into his office, Donghyuck took a breath he didn’t have time for and followed. The second the door closed, Mark turned to him, expectant. “Report.”

Donghyuck held out the freshly organized packet with both hands. “Reordered by department, A–Z, time-stamped, notes attached. Henderson’s updated calendar invite is in your inbox.”

Mark took the file and flipped through the first few pages with quick, precise movements. Silence stretched out for a beat too long.

Donghyuck stood stiffly, praying he hadn’t missed something stupid. Like a missing paperclip. Or using the wrong font. Maybe it was the wrong kind of Post-it. Did Mark hate yellow?

Finally, Mark looked up. His expression hadn’t softened, exactly—but there was something slightly less icy in his gaze.

“Three mistakes,” he said coolly.

Donghyuck’s stomach dropped. “Three?”

“You corrected two of them. Good,” Mark said, walking past him to his desk. “The third was starting eight minutes behind schedule. Don’t let it happen again.”

He sat down, already pulling up a document on his screen.

Donghyuck nodded quickly, trying not to let his disappointment show. He had busted his ass getting that packet together in time. Still, he bit his tongue and replied, “Understood.”

Mark didn’t look up. “Good. You’ve got twenty minutes until the Callahan review. If my notes aren’t condensed to one page and bullet-pointed by then, don’t bother showing up.”

~

Donghyuck stepped into the elevator on the 27th floor, dragging the door closed behind him with the heel of his shoe and an exhausted exhale. His brain felt like a browser with too many tabs open, and all of them were crashing. He leaned back against the cool metal wall, head tipping up, eyes fluttering shut for just a second.

Then the elevator stopped on 25, and someone else stepped in—tall, calm, polished in a slate-gray suit. Donghyuck straightened, trying to look alert. The man offered a nod.

“Hey. You’re the new assistant, right? Mark Lee’s?”

Donghyuck blinked, surprised, and nodded. “Yeah. That obvious?”

The man chuckled. “Well, no one looks that tired unless they’re either working a double shift at the ER or reporting to Mark Lee.” He extended a hand. “Jeno. HR.”

Donghyuck shook it, offering a faint smile. “Donghyuck. Assistant-slash-firefighter-slash-human sticky note.”

Jeno laughed—soft, a little sympathetic. Then came the silence again. They descended in peaceful hums for a moment before Jeno cleared his throat and spoke, voice lower now.

“Listen,” he said, glancing at the doors as if to make sure they were really alone. “You’re working directly under Mark. So... word of advice?”

Donghyuck shifted his grip on the folder and nodded cautiously. “Sure.”

Jeno hesitated for a beat, then said bluntly, “Start updating your resume now.”

Donghyuck let out a short laugh—but it came out strained, more question than reaction. “That bad, huh?”

Jeno didn’t laugh. He just looked at Donghyuck with something between warning and concern.

“He’s brilliant,” he said carefully. “One of the sharpest people I’ve ever met. Built a multi-billion dollar portfolio before thirty-five. He sees everything—every number, every comma, every slip.”

Donghyuck nodded slowly. “Yeah. I’ve noticed.”

“But here’s the thing,” Jeno continued. “He doesn’t yell. Doesn’t scream or throw tantrums like you’d expect from the movies. No theatrics. He just... shuts down. You make one mistake, miss one detail, and he’ll stop trusting you. No second chances. He doesn’t fire you outright—he makes it so you quit.”

Donghyuck swallowed hard. The folder in his arms suddenly felt heavier.

The elevator passed the 18th floor. Only a few floors to go. The air was thick with quiet, but Donghyuck forced himself to look Jeno in the eye.

“I can handle it,” he said, voice steady despite the nervous flutter in his chest.

Jeno studied him for a long moment, and his expression softened—less distant HR rep, more reluctant older sibling.

“I hope so,” he said gently.

The elevator dinged. The doors slid open on the 14th floor. Jeno stepped out without looking back.

Donghyuck stayed behind, rooted to the spot. The doors slid closed again.

~

Donghyuck was already juggling two phone calls when the third one rang.

His headset beeped angrily as he tried to switch lines, balancing the receiver between his ear and shoulder. One hand typed furiously on his tablet—Mark's updated calendar. The other clutched a highlighter, poised over an urgent note he still hadn’t had time to read.

“—Yes, Mr. Yoon, I’ll have that report emailed within the hour—one second—”

Beep. Another line clicked through. He hit the button with his pinky, nearly dropping the headset.

“Lee Enterprises, this is Donghyuck—”

“Where’s the Henderson file?” Mark’s voice, sharp and flat, sliced through the line like ice.

Donghyuck winced. “I—I’m finishing the final points, I just need—”

Beep. Another switch.

“—Hi, Ms. Kang, I’m sorry for the delay. Yes, the call is still scheduled—yes, I’ll confirm it again just in case—”

His tablet pinged.

A message from Mark: "Where is the 2PM memo. You said 10AM."

Donghyuck’s heart skipped. Right. The memo.

Right as he started to breathe out an apology, his intercom buzzed—again.

Mark’s voice crackled through the speaker this time, louder and far less patient.
“Did I not say I wanted that memo this morning ?”

Donghyuck’s mouth opened, but he couldn’t seem to form full words. “You did, sir. I’m almost—”

Mark cut him off.
“Then don’t speak. Just deliver.”

The intercom clicked off with a finality that echoed louder than the words themselves.

Donghyuck sat frozen for a beat. Then he slowly lowered the receiver, letting all three calls go dead at once. His headset slipped off his shoulder and clattered to the desk. The vibrations from his tablet continued—another email, another task, another fire—but he didn’t move right away.

His eyes were wide, fingers twitching slightly from overuse, and his chest felt like it was being compressed by a vice. Every organ in his body seemed to be yelling move, but his brain had temporarily stopped receiving messages.

“Donghyuck.”

He jumped.

Renjun had appeared at his side, dropping another file folder onto the edge of his desk. “From accounting. Mark wants this sorted by expense category and monthly revenue before five.”

Donghyuck blinked at him. “It’s... 4:21.”

“Exactly,” Renjun said dryly. “Which means you’re already running late.”

He turned to walk away, but paused—just slightly—and glanced back.

“You okay?”

Donghyuck wanted to say yes. He wanted to flash a grin and say something clever, pretend like the job wasn’t squeezing the air from his lungs with every passing hour. But the truth hovered there, vulnerable and a little too raw.

He settled for a weak nod. “Peachy.”

Renjun raised a single brow but didn’t push.

“Welcome to the funhouse,” he muttered as he walked off.

Donghyuck stared at the folders in front of him. His calendar pinged again. His inbox was over 200 unread emails. His coffee cup had gone cold hours ago.

And for the first time—not just a flicker of doubt, not just a moment of nerves—but a real, sinking fear settled in his chest.

Am I in way over my head?

He swallowed hard, rolled his shoulders back, and picked up his pen.

“Not today,” he muttered to himself. “We’re not quitting today.”

Donghyuck leaned forward, rolled up the sleeves of his too-stiff dress shirt, and started with the Henderson file. His hands moved on autopilot, fueled by nothing but stubbornness and a dwindling reserve of energy.

One by one, he sorted receipts and invoices, labeling and color-coding them like Renjun had shown him on day one. The numbers blurred together. His neck ached. His eyes stung. The tick of the wall clock sounded louder than it had any right to.

But something about the quiet chaos felt… grounding.

He had always worked well under pressure. Maybe not this much pressure, but still. Mark Lee wanted efficiency? He would get it. Mark wanted precision? Donghyuck could be surgical. He just needed to keep moving. One task at a time. One breath at a time.

His fingers danced over his keyboard. His tablet pinged again. A reminder popped up—Meeting rescheduled to 5:30 PM. Mark Lee & Boardroom C.

“Seriously?” Donghyuck muttered under his breath, already tapping the screen to send out new calendar invites.

He didn't even notice Renjun walk by again until a paper coffee cup was silently placed on the corner of his desk.

He blinked.

Renjun stood there, arms crossed, expression unreadable. “Looked like you were about to pass out on your keyboard.”

Donghyuck stared at the cup. “You got me coffee?”

Renjun shrugged. “Don’t let it go to your head. You’ll owe me one.”

Donghyuck took the cup with a grateful sigh. It was still warm. Somehow, that small kindness cut deeper than any warning he’d heard today.

“Thanks,” he murmured.

Renjun just nodded. “You’ll get used to it. Or you won’t. But either way, Mark’s not gonna make it easy.”

Donghyuck smirked tiredly, lifting the cup in a mock toast. “Wouldn’t be fun if it was.”

Renjun huffed out something like a laugh before disappearing around the corner again.

Alone again, Donghyuck sat back for a second. The coffee’s steam curled up toward his face. It smelled burnt, overly strong, exactly what he needed.

He sipped. Winced. Then sipped again.

Then he reached for the next file. There were still thirty-seven unread emails in his inbox, and Mark hadn’t messaged him in almost ten minutes. A blessed silence—or a warning bell. He didn’t have time to figure out which.

~

The city below was alive with glowing windows, headlights weaving through streets like rivers of light. The sun had dipped just beyond the horizon, painting the sky in bruised purples and soft pinks. Donghyuck leaned on the rooftop railing, the cool metal pressing against his palms, steadying him.

His breath was still uneven, the day’s exhaustion settling deep in his bones. The breeze tugged at his sleeves, a gentle reminder that the world kept moving, no matter how wild the hours had been.

He pulled out his phone and opened the notes app, fingers trembling just a bit as he tapped a new document. “Things I Survived Today.”

His fingers flew across the screen:

• Wrong meeting room
  
  
• Five Mark glowers
  
  
• Three caffeine crashes
  
  
• One near panic attack
  
  
• Still here
  
  

He paused, reading the list back to himself, a wry smile creeping onto his lips despite the fatigue. Then, with a slow determination, he added one more bullet point:

• Said no to quitting
  
  

His thumb hovered over the screen for a moment before he saved it.

Donghyuck shifted his gaze back to the cityscape, the familiar chaos of the streets softened from this height. The distant sounds of horns and chatter floated up like a lullaby.

Inside him, beneath the tired muscles and rapid heartbeat, a stubborn ember flickered—a quiet, fierce light that refused to be snuffed out. Today had thrown everything at him: impossible demands, biting criticism, and moments when he’d thought he might crumble. But here he was. Still standing. Still fighting.

He breathed in deeply, the cool air filling his lungs and grounding him. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, maybe even harder ones. But right now, in this fragile twilight, Donghyuck made a silent promise to himself: he wasn’t giving up. Not today. Not ever.

Chapter Text

Donghyuck’s alarm had rung at 5:15 a.m., way earlier than he usually dared to wake. His body protested, heavy and reluctant to leave the warmth of his bed, but determination edged out exhaustion. Today, he told himself, was a fresh chance. Maybe—just maybe—he could finally crack the code of surviving under Mark Lee.

By 6:45 a.m., Donghyuck was already walking into the sleek, glass-paneled skyscraper of Lee Enterprises, the lobby still bathed in the soft, cool light of early morning. His steps echoed lightly on the marble floor as he headed toward the elevator. His reflection in the polished metal doors showed tired eyes but a face set with quiet resolve.

The elevator hummed upward, each floor bringing him closer to Mark’s office on the 35th floor—and closer to whatever challenges awaited.

When the doors slid open, Donghyuck stepped into the minimalist executive floor, the clean lines and sharp angles of the space stark and intimidating. He paused for a second before knocking softly on Mark’s office door.

To his surprise, the door swung open immediately. Mark stood near the floor-to-ceiling window, arms crossed, looking out over the city skyline. He didn’t turn around at first; his phone was in hand, the screen glowing faintly.

Mark’s voice cut through the quiet room, cool and clipped. “You’re early.”

Donghyuck swallowed the nervous lump in his throat. “I wanted to get a head start.”

Mark turned at last, eyes narrowing slightly. For a moment, Donghyuck braced himself for the usual torrent of orders or biting critique. Instead, Mark gave a curt nod.

“Good. You handled the Henderson notes well yesterday. Not bad.”

The words hit Donghyuck like a warm wave in the cold office. A compliment from Mark Lee wasn’t something handed out lightly—or often. His chest tightened, and for a moment, he allowed himself a small, careful smile.

But he quickly remembered the unspoken rule: don’t get too comfortable.

Mark’s gaze flicked down to his tablet, fingers swiping rapidly. “Today, triple-check the Jensen report. No mistakes.”

Donghyuck nodded briskly, trying to steady his voice. “Will do, sir.”

Mark’s lips twitched, almost a smirk, but just as quickly it vanished. “See that it’s done.”

Donghyuck left the office quietly, the door closing softly behind him. His heart was still racing, but this time it wasn’t just from nerves—it was hope. A small win, sure, but a win nonetheless.

Back at his desk, the glow of his laptop screen illuminated his tired face as he pulled up the Jensen report. He leaned in close, scrutinizing every line, every figure, every footnote. The usual buzzing in his head quieted just enough to let him focus, determined not to give Mark a reason to find fault.

Just as he was about to make his first correction, his phone buzzed sharply on the desk. He glanced at it—Mark’s name flashing on the screen. His stomach twisted, but he answered.

“Yes, sir?”

“I want hourly updates on the Jensen report progress. Don’t make me ask twice.”

Donghyuck swallowed and forced calm into his voice. “Understood. I’ll keep you posted.”

Mark hung up without another word.

As the hours passed, Donghyuck’s fingers flew over the keyboard, eyes darting between spreadsheets, emails, and notes. His mind was exhausted, but every time fatigue threatened to drag him down, he remembered Mark’s unexpected compliment. It was fuel he didn’t know he needed.

When the clock finally ticked past noon, Donghyuck sent the last update with a quiet breath of relief. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing tired eyes, and allowed himself a moment to savor the fact that he’d met Mark’s impossible expectations today.

~

The afternoon sun slanted through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Mark’s office, casting long shadows across the polished wood and sleek metal surfaces. Donghyuck sat quietly just outside the meeting room, eyes flicking between his phone and the documents in his lap. He’d been tracking Mark’s hectic schedule all morning, noting every shift and every urgent request. But something nagged at him—a sense that Mark’s upcoming meeting might need more than just the agenda he’d prepared.

A quick glance at the clock told him there were only minutes left before the meeting with the company’s key stakeholders, a gathering that was notoriously unpredictable and prone to last-minute changes. Mark’s reputation for demanding perfection—and quick decisions—was well known, and Donghyuck had learned early that anticipating Mark’s needs could sometimes mean the difference between survival and disaster.

Summoning his courage, Donghyuck grabbed his phone and tapped out a quick message to the stakeholders, arranging a brief prep meeting just before Mark’s scheduled time. It was a bold move, one that could easily backfire if Mark decided it was unnecessary or presumptuous.

Minutes later, Mark’s meeting began. Donghyuck slipped quietly inside the room, standing by the wall as Mark spoke with his usual sharp confidence, commanding the attention of everyone present.

Halfway through the discussion, Mark’s phone buzzed. Without missing a beat, he glanced down, then paused mid-sentence, brow furrowing as he absorbed the new information.

Donghyuck’s heart hammered in his chest as he caught Mark’s sharp eyes briefly flick to him. The pause stretched for a heartbeat longer than usual—then, unexpectedly, Mark gave a quick, almost imperceptible nod and muttered under his breath, “Finally, some initiative.”

The words sent a sudden warmth through Donghyuck’s chest, a flush of pride he barely dared to acknowledge. He kept his expression neutral, practiced in the art of masking emotions, knowing that Mark’s praise was as rare as it was fleeting.

As the meeting wrapped up, the stakeholders began gathering their things, exchanging quick handshakes and murmuring about the next steps. Mark stood, brushing a stray speck of dust from his tailored jacket. He shot a glance toward Donghyuck, who was still standing quietly by the wall, clipboard in hand, ready to note anything that came next.

“Prepare the follow-up emails,” Mark said sharply, his tone leaving no room for argument. “And make sure everyone knows the new deadlines. I want no excuses.”

Donghyuck nodded without hesitation. “On it, sir.”

As the room emptied, Mark lingered for a moment, tapping a few commands into his tablet. Then, almost unexpectedly, he said, “You handled that well today. Keep it up.”

Donghyuck’s breath caught. The words were clipped, but for Mark, they might as well have been a standing ovation.

“Thank you, sir,” Donghyuck replied, voice steady despite the rush of excitement bubbling beneath the surface.

Mark gave a brief nod and turned toward the door. Just before leaving, he paused, then added, “But don’t get comfortable. I expect better tomorrow.”

Donghyuck watched him go, the door clicking softly behind.

~

The office was nearly empty, the usual buzz of phones and chatter replaced by a heavy silence broken only by the occasional hum of air conditioning. The overhead lights cast a harsh, artificial glow on the rows of desks and flickered slightly as the night deepened. Donghyuck sat hunched over his workstation, his shoulders slumped and eyes heavy with exhaustion. The glow of his laptop screen reflected tiredly in his glasses, and his fingers trembled slightly as they moved over the keyboard.

Piles of spreadsheets, printed emails, and hastily scribbled notes cluttered every inch of his desk. His phone buzzed relentlessly with notifications—messages from Mark demanding updates, urgent requests from other departments, and unanswered calls he hadn’t even had the chance to return. The caffeine from the countless cups of coffee was long gone, replaced by a dull ache in his temples and a fog clouding his thoughts.

At some point, his hands had abandoned the keyboard, and he found himself resting his forehead on the cold surface of the desk, clutching an empty coffee cup like a lifeline. His breaths were shallow, eyes fluttering closed for what felt like seconds but was actually minutes of stolen rest.

The sudden click of the office door startled him awake. Renjun stepped in quietly, eyes narrowing as he took in Donghyuck’s slumped form.

“You’re burning out fast,” Renjun said softly, dropping a file folder gently onto the desk beside him. His voice was low but laced with a quiet concern. “Mark’s tough on everyone—don’t think you’re special. This job eats people alive if they let it.”

Donghyuck lifted his head slowly, rubbing his temples before meeting Renjun’s gaze. Despite the fatigue, there was a flicker of resolve burning behind his tired eyes.

“I’m not quitting,” Donghyuck said quietly but firmly, his voice stronger than he felt. “Not yet.”

Renjun’s lips pressed into a thin line, neither encouraging nor discouraging. Instead, he just nodded once, as if acknowledging a truth only Donghyuck could fight for himself.

“Good,” Renjun replied. “Because you’re going to need that stubbornness. Mark won’t make it easy.”

Donghyuck managed a weak smile and pushed himself upright, stretching stiff limbs. The night was far from over, and the pile of work waiting for him showed no signs of shrinking. But in that quiet moment, the weight felt a little lighter—because he knew he wasn’t alone in this fight.

“Thanks,” Donghyuck whispered, more to himself than to Renjun.

~

The fifth day had crept up like a storm no one saw coming. Donghyuck had barely slept, his nights a tangled mess of work deadlines and restless thoughts. The office felt colder, more suffocating, like the walls themselves were closing in on him. He’d been running on fumes, trying to stay two steps ahead of Mark’s relentless demands.

That afternoon, the moment came quietly but hit hard.

Mark was standing by the window, back to Donghyuck as he flipped through a report—the Jensen project update. Donghyuck handed it over earlier that morning, triple-checked and polished, or so he thought. Now, Mark’s sharp eyes scanned the pages, the atmosphere thickening with tension.

Without looking up, Mark’s voice cut through the silence, cold and unyielding. “This.”

He tapped the page with a slender finger, pointing to a small but crucial figure miscalculated in the financial summary.

Mark finally met Donghyuck’s gaze. His eyes were steel—no anger, no yelling. Just that quiet, unforgiving stare that seemed to strip everything away. “If you want to survive here, you can’t afford mistakes like this. Ever.”

The words weren’t loud, but they echoed louder than any shout could. They settled over Donghyuck like a heavy fog, tightening in his chest and twisting his stomach into knots. It wasn’t just a critique of his work—it was a warning, a reminder of the stakes, the merciless standards Mark demanded.

Donghyuck swallowed hard. His throat felt dry, but he forced a nod, refusing to let his eyes betray the storm brewing inside him. He didn’t speak—there was nothing to say. The silence stretched between them, a chasm filled with unspoken expectations.

Mark turned away, already moving on to the next task, leaving Donghyuck standing there with the weight of failure pressing down, heavier than the pile of work still waiting on his desk.

Donghyuck turned away quietly, retreating to his desk like a soldier regrouping after a fierce skirmish. His fingers trembled slightly as he reopened the report, eyes scanning the numbers again and again. The mistake was tiny—a decimal off, but enough to undermine the entire projection. It gnawed at him, not just because of the error itself, but because it felt like proof that he wasn’t yet cut out for this world.

He glanced at the clock—still hours left before the day ended, and his to-do list wasn’t shrinking. Emails kept coming, calls kept ringing. But for the first time, the urgency wasn’t just from the work. It was from within, from a voice telling him to be better, faster, smarter.

Renjun appeared silently at the edge of the room, leaning against the doorway with his usual calm expression.

“You okay?” Renjun asked quietly.

Donghyuck looked up, meeting his eyes. “I have to fix this. No excuses.”

Renjun nodded, stepping inside. “Mark’s tough, yeah. But you’ve got something he doesn’t expect. Just don’t let it break you.”

A faint smile tugged at Donghyuck’s lips despite the pressure. “I won’t.”

The office was nearly empty now, the hum of fluorescent lights and the soft tapping of keys the only sounds filling the space. Donghyuck sat back in his chair for a moment, rubbing his tired eyes. He stared out the window at the city lights flickering against the night sky, a quiet reminder that the world outside kept moving, no matter how hard today had been.

His phone buzzed quietly on the desk. A message from Mark.

“Report received. Not perfect, but acceptable. Don’t let it happen again.”

Donghyuck’s heart skipped a beat. The words weren’t warm, but they carried a grudging respect. It wasn’t praise, but it was something. A foothold.

He typed back quickly, fingers steady despite the exhaustion.

“Understood. Thank you for the chance.”

Chapter Text

The sun hadn’t even crested the skyline when Donghyuck pushed open the heavy door to Mark’s office, arms loaded with a neat stack of reports. The room, as always, was quiet and clinical—glass, steel, and morning shadows stretching across the minimalist decor. Mark stood by his desk already, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, tablet glowing in front of him like a war table. He didn’t glance up as Donghyuck entered.

Donghyuck approached with cautious steps and set the files down with practiced precision, aligning them perfectly in front of Mark.

“I went through the numbers three times,” he said quietly. “The corrections for the Easton acquisition are in red. Forecasts are updated. And the Jensen summary is on top.”

Still, no response. Mark picked up the Jensen file first, flipping through it with deliberate fingers. The only sounds in the room were the soft rustle of paper and the distant hum of the building waking up. Donghyuck stood still, back straight, forcing himself to breathe through the anticipation curling in his stomach.

Mark reached the final page. And then—he paused.

His hand stilled, thumb brushing the paper like something about it had caught him off guard. Donghyuck noticed it. The tiniest break in rhythm. Mark didn’t sigh. Didn’t nod. But his silence stretched just long enough to mean something.

Finally, he spoke. A single word.

“Accurate.”

He didn’t look up. Didn’t offer praise or even acknowledgment beyond that one clipped syllable. But it echoed in Donghyuck’s ears like a thunderclap.

For a moment, neither of them moved. The air in the office seemed to shift—just slightly. A microscopic crack in the otherwise impenetrable wall of Mark Lee’s cold professionalism. Donghyuck felt it before he could understand it: not warmth, exactly, but awareness. Like Mark had finally seen him not as an extra set of hands or an inevitable disappointment, but as something else.

Donghyuck swallowed, hiding the flicker of pride that threatened to rise.

“Thank you,” he said, almost reflexively, even if it wasn’t asked for. He stood there for another beat, half-waiting for something more.

But Mark had already turned to his tablet, back to business.

“Meeting in twelve minutes,” he said, not unkindly, but firmly. “Bring a pen. You’ll need to take minutes.”

Donghyuck nodded. “Yes, sir.”

He stepped back into the hallway with measured calm, but the moment the office door clicked shut behind him, he exhaled like he’d been underwater for hours. The fluorescent lights overhead suddenly felt less like interrogation beams and more like proof he was still standing. He leaned lightly against the wall, letting himself savor the smallest of victories.

“Accurate.”

One word. One tiny moment. But after days of Mark’s silence, sharp words, and constant tension, it felt like a five-star review.

Renjun passed by then, holding a coffee cup and a half-amused expression.

“You’re smiling,” he said, not even bothering with a greeting.

Donghyuck tried to wipe the expression off his face, straightening. “No, I’m not.”

“You are. And this early in the morning? Bold of you.”

Donghyuck shook his head, biting back the grin trying to return. “He said something.”

Renjun blinked. “Like... more than an order?”

“He said ‘accurate.’ About my reports.”

Renjun snorted. “Wow. Break out the champagne. You’ve been knighted.”

“I’m serious. He paused. Like... he noticed. Like he didn’t expect me to do it right.”

Renjun took a sip of his coffee, then shrugged. “That’s Mark. Low expectations, sharp teeth. But hey—if he noticed, that means he’s watching. That’s both good and dangerous.”

“I can handle it,” Donghyuck replied, more to himself than to Renjun.

Renjun gave him a long look, then nodded and walked off, tossing over his shoulder, “Then buckle up. ‘Cause now he’ll expect more.”

Donghyuck stood alone in the hallway for a few more seconds, letting that sink in.

You’re not invisible anymore.

The realization was both thrilling and terrifying. There would be no more room for small errors. No more excuses. He’d set a bar now, however low by Mark’s standards—but it was there.

He headed toward the conference room, heart steady, pen and tablet in hand, jacket sharp, mind sharper.

Inside Mark’s office, the man in question finished reading the rest of the documents. His expression didn’t change, but his fingers hovered for a moment before he placed the last report down.

“Accurate,” he murmured again, quieter this time. And though his face stayed neutral, there was something else in his eyes.

A flicker. A note of curiosity.

Maybe, just maybe, this assistant of his wasn’t going to be a waste of time after all.

~

The sleek glass walls glinted with sunlight as the executives gathered around the long obsidian table, a polished centerpiece in a room designed to intimidate. A massive screen displayed the company’s quarterly performance charts, and tension swirled like a storm cloud as Mark stood at the head of the table—impeccably dressed, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

Donghyuck sat slightly behind him and to the right, seated at the assistant’s station along the wall. His tablet was open, fingers poised. His job was simple: observe, absorb, and respond before things fell apart.

The meeting had barely started, and already, the air was tight with formality. PowerPoint slides clicked forward in stiff silence. Mark’s eyes didn’t stray from the screen, but Donghyuck had learned to read the subtle shifts in his jawline, the twitch of an eyebrow that meant danger was brewing.

And it was.

Senior Executive Choi, a man with too much confidence and not enough preparation, was halfway through a rambling assessment of the Jensen Partnership projections when Donghyuck caught the mistake.

“…and as you’ll see, projections for Q3 are at a 6.7% climb, factoring in—”

Nope.

Donghyuck’s eyes narrowed at the spreadsheet on his tablet. The correct figure—3.2%. Not 6.7. He knew because he’d double-checked the numbers himself earlier that morning.

Across the table, Mark’s lips thinned. A small, almost imperceptible crack in his composed armor. He hadn’t moved, but Donghyuck could feel the shift in the air. Mark was one second away from either ripping Choi to shreds or worse—losing faith in the data entirely.

Donghyuck didn’t think. He reached into his pocket and scribbled a single number onto a sticky note.

3.2%

With a quiet breath, he leaned forward and, during a momentary shuffle of water bottles and throat clears, slid the note along the edge of the table toward Mark.

Mark didn’t even glance his way, but his eyes flicked downward.

A beat.

Then he straightened, cut across Choi’s sentence like a scalpel.

“Correction,” Mark said, voice calm, unbothered. “It’s 3.2%, not 6.7. Recheck the report before circulating it.”

Choi flushed and stumbled through an apology. The meeting went on. Mark didn’t acknowledge the note. He didn’t nod. Didn’t look at Donghyuck once.

But he’d used the number. Word for word. Exactly.

And for Donghyuck, that was enough.

The rest of the meeting passed in a blur of notes, graphs, passive-aggressive suggestions disguised as questions, and the familiar pressure of being in Mark Lee’s orbit. But for the first time, Donghyuck didn’t feel like he was barely surviving.

He felt present . Useful. Like he wasn’t just watching the gears turn—he was starting to understand how they fit.

When the meeting finally adjourned and the room began to empty, chairs scraping and executives murmuring amongst themselves, Donghyuck began gathering his things.

Mark brushed past him, fast and silent as usual.

But just before he reached the door, he muttered, almost too low to catch:

“Good save.”

Donghyuck’s head snapped up, stunned.

He didn’t get the chance to say anything—Mark was already gone, his tailored coat trailing in his wake like a cape.

~

The break room was unusually quiet for this time of day—most employees had already eaten and returned to the organized chaos of the workday. The hum of the vending machine and the soft tick of the wall clock were the only sounds accompanying Donghyuck as he sat alone at a small round table near the window.

His lunch—a sad but serviceable sandwich and an energy drink—sat half-finished in front of him. He chewed slowly, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion, mind still half-stuck in spreadsheets and reports.

He’d been running on adrenaline all morning. The meeting had gone better than he expected, and Mark’s “Good save” still echoed in his head like a phantom. Not a compliment exactly—but for Mark Lee, it was a handshake. A nod. A rare flicker of recognition.

He was about to scroll through his inbox again when the break room door slid open.

Donghyuck looked up—and nearly choked on his sandwich.

Mark.

Wearing the same expression he always wore: cool, sharp, and unreadable. His suit still crisp. Not a hair out of place. But he didn’t walk in with purpose, not at first. He paused briefly in the doorway when he saw Donghyuck, like he’d stumbled onto something he hadn’t expected.

Donghyuck straightened instinctively, like a student caught texting in class. His fingers hovered over the lid of his drink, unsure if he should stand or apologize or disappear.

Mark didn’t say anything at first. His gaze swept the room—then landed on a thin folder sitting on the counter. He walked over and picked it up, flipping through it with precise fingers.

Donghyuck cleared his throat, an awkward attempt at humor creeping into his voice before he could stop himself.

“Didn’t know CEOs ate,” he said, offering a crooked half-smile.

Mark glanced at him, expression unreadable as always—but for a fleeting second, something shifted. A flicker of amusement, faint as the breeze from a cracked window, danced in his eyes.

“Only when people stop screwing up,” he replied dryly.

It wasn’t warm. It wasn’t kind. But it wasn’t cruel either.

It was... teasing?

Donghyuck blinked, caught off-guard. He laughed under his breath, more from disbelief than anything else. But before he could respond, Mark had already turned toward the door.

No sharp words. No orders barked. No impossible demands trailing in his wake.

Donghyuck took another slow bite of his sandwich, but his thoughts were far from food now. His mind replayed every second of the brief encounter with Mark, as though dissecting it might reveal some deeper meaning—some hidden shift in dynamic that he wasn’t imagining.

The break room felt almost too quiet after that. Even the humming machines and ticking clock seemed muted, like the whole world had paused to let him process.

He reached for his phone and opened the Notes app again—his digital confessional, where he’d been chronicling every tiny victory and collapse since day one.

He added a new line:

• Mark made a joke? (!!!)

Donghyuck sat back in his chair, his muscles finally beginning to unclench. For once, there was no intercom buzzing his name, no Renjun marching over with last-minute files, no sense that he was one second away from a mistake he couldn’t recover from.

He allowed himself the briefest moment of peace.

And for the first time, he realized how much he missed feeling human in this place—missed being something other than just a pair of hands typing, fetching, fixing, apologizing. The moment with Mark wasn’t kind exactly, but it wasn’t machinery either. It was real. Awkward. Strange. Fleeting. But real.

Just as he finished the last bite of his sandwich, the door opened again. This time, it was Renjun, who immediately narrowed his eyes when he saw Donghyuck sitting still.

“You look like someone just flirted with you or fired you,” Renjun said, grabbing a granola bar from the snack shelf.

Donghyuck gave a half-laugh, not sure how to answer.

“Mark... didn’t insult me,” he said. “It was weird.”

Renjun paused mid-bite and raised an eyebrow. “That is weird.”

“He made a joke,” Donghyuck added.

Renjun blinked. “Like, an actual joke? With sarcasm and timing?”

“Yeah. About food. It doesn’t matter,” Donghyuck said, waving it off, but the smile tugging at his lips said otherwise.

Renjun studied him for a moment, then grinned. “Well damn. You cracked the dragon. That’s more than most people can say.”

~

The office had grown quiet—eerily so. The once-busy floor, alive with clicking keyboards and shuffling papers, now lay still under the soft buzz of overhead lights. Outside the towering windows, the city twinkled in amber and silver, the noise of the day giving way to a quiet hum of traffic and neon.

Donghyuck was still at his desk, eyes strained from the screen’s glow, fingers numb from hours of typing and reformatting. The Jensen file had required three full rewrites, and the edits to the quarterly projections still weren’t perfect. But he refused to leave them half-finished—not when he was starting to gain the tiniest sliver of ground.

He sighed, saved the final document, and stretched his sore limbs. The muscles in his back ached from hunching all day, and his stomach grumbled quietly in protest—he hadn’t eaten since lunch. His tablet beeped gently as he powered it down, the final act of the day.

With sluggish motions, he gathered his things and moved through the darkened halls, the soft thuds of his footsteps the only sound around. He didn’t expect anyone to be there—not this late. Most people, even the ambitious ones, knew when to cut their losses and leave. But not Donghyuck. Not yet.

As he rounded the corner near the executive offices, he nearly jumped.

Mark was there.

Standing by a window in the hallway, suit jacket slung over one shoulder, his phone glowing faintly in one hand. His tie was loosened, shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow—still sharp, still composed, but far from the intimidating presence he usually carried like a weapon. He looked... human. Exhausted. Real.

Mark glanced up at the sound of Donghyuck’s approach, his expression unreadable.

“Still here?” he asked, voice low but not cold.

Donghyuck hesitated, clutching his tablet tighter. This wasn’t a meeting. This wasn’t an order. This was something... unexpected. Unscripted.

He decided not to dress it up.

“Figured if I’m going to be great,” Donghyuck said, his voice hoarse with tired honesty, “I should work like I mean it.”

For a moment, silence settled between them. Not awkward—just... quiet. The kind of silence that didn’t demand to be filled.

Mark looked at him more closely, his dark eyes scanning Donghyuck’s face. The younger man’s exhaustion was written in every line—disheveled hair, shadows under his eyes, fingers trembling slightly from too much caffeine and too little sleep. But beneath it all, Mark saw something else.

Resilience.

Drive.

That same fire he’d dismissed on the first day, now burning low but steady, stubborn as hell.

He nodded once. Just once.

“Then keep going,” he said simply.

And with that, he turned back to the window.

~

Donghyuck stepped into the elevator just as the heavy doors started to close, barely squeezing in before they sealed shut with a mechanical sigh. He was halfway through yawning when he realized—he wasn’t alone.

Mark stood in the far corner.

No suit jacket this time. His shirt was still pressed, collar unbuttoned, but the crisp edges looked softer now, as though the day had sanded him down just slightly. His face, ever stoic and unreadable, tilted toward his phone, thumb idly scrolling, though his eyes didn’t seem fully focused on the screen.

Donghyuck’s breath caught for just a second. It wasn’t the first time they’d shared an elevator, but this time it felt different. It wasn’t morning. It wasn’t tense with urgency. It wasn’t weighed down with deadlines and curt instructions.

It was just… quiet.

They stood shoulder to shoulder, an invisible barrier between them, built from months of hierarchy and clipped conversations. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, but it buzzed faintly—like static, like a frequency trying to tune itself into clarity.

Donghyuck didn’t dare speak first. He didn’t even try.

Instead, he fidgeted with his phone, flicking through old texts from Renjun, half-heartedly pretending to read a news article. But he could feel it—the weight of Mark’s attention shifting slightly, as if he were being... observed. Not scrutinized. Not judged. Studied.

The difference was subtle but profound.

In the brushed steel of the elevator wall, Donghyuck caught a distorted reflection of Mark’s face. His eyes weren’t cold like before. They weren’t even particularly sharp. They were... thoughtful.

Mark wasn’t looking at him like he was a burden to manage or a tool to sharpen.

He was looking at him like he was trying to understand something.

It made Donghyuck’s chest tighten. Not in fear. In curiosity of his own.

He shifted, eyes meeting Mark’s in the mirror for a flicker of a second—long enough to register something between them. Not warmth. Not connection. But... recognition. Like two people who’d spent weeks on opposite sides of a thick pane of glass and had just realized they could see each other.

The elevator continued its slow descent, numbers ticking down one floor at a time. Mark turned back to his phone. Donghyuck returned to his.

No words were exchanged. No nods. No smirks. Nothing anyone watching would consider noteworthy.

But when the doors slid open to the lobby, and they stepped out—still not speaking—Donghyuck didn’t feel invisible anymore.

They exited the elevator together, footsteps echoing lightly against the marble floor of the building’s empty lobby. Outside, the city blinked awake in its own way—streetlights shimmering, neon signs buzzing softly, cars slicing through the night like slow-moving stars.

Mark didn’t walk ahead like he usually did. He stayed beside Donghyuck, matching his pace, which caught Donghyuck off guard. For a few long moments, neither of them spoke. But the silence was stretching too far, too strangely, and Donghyuck could feel the edges of it pressing at him—so he spoke first, almost without thinking.

“You always stay this late?”

Mark’s expression didn’t change at first. He kept walking, the glass doors sliding open automatically as they approached. Then, in a low voice, almost distractedly, he replied, “Not always. Just when it matters.”

Donghyuck glanced sideways at him, gauging. “Doesn’t it always matter for someone like you?”

Mark didn’t look at him, but something shifted in his tone. “That’s the problem.”

They stepped out into the night air. It was cooler than Donghyuck expected, crisp against his skin. He stuffed his hands into his coat pockets, trying to keep his expression neutral even though curiosity was gnawing at him.

“I guess that’s why you push so hard,” he said, almost to himself, but loud enough.

Mark did stop then, briefly, at the edge of the curb, his gaze following a cab that zipped past. “If you let anything slip for long enough,” he said, “everything else starts slipping with it. People, deals, reputations. You lose the thread.”

Donghyuck studied him quietly. There wasn’t the usual clipped finality in his words—there was weariness, sure, but also a trace of... honesty. Maybe even vulnerability, if you squinted hard enough.

“Must be exhausting,” Donghyuck said.

“It is.”

He hadn’t expected Mark to agree. He thought he’d dismiss it, wave it off with some perfectly cold executive aphorism. But instead, the answer came plainly, without defensiveness.

Donghyuck looked at him again, really looked—and in that moment, Mark didn’t seem like the untouchable CEO whose approval everyone chased. He seemed like someone who hadn’t had a real conversation in days. Weeks, maybe.

“I get it, you know,” Donghyuck said. “Wanting to be perfect so no one can tear you apart.”

Mark turned to him then. His eyes were sharp again—but not cruel. Just focused.

“I don’t need you to get it,” he said. “I just need you to keep up.”

Donghyuck smiled faintly, almost a challenge. “I am keeping up.”

Mark’s gaze lingered on him for a beat too long. Then he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod—just a slight tilt of the chin, but it felt like something had shifted between them again.

He turned and stepped toward the curb, raising a hand to flag down a car.

Donghyuck stood there, watching as the cab slowed and Mark pulled open the door.

Just before getting in, Mark glanced over his shoulder. “Don’t stay up too late.”

And then he was gone.

Chapter Text

Donghyuck was riding the high of competence.

After days of chaos and second-guessing himself, everything—for once—was under control. His emails were sorted by urgency, each message tagged and archived like miniature trophies of his organization. His tablet blinked with color-coded blocks of meetings, lunch reminders, and prep windows. The reports Mark needed were already uploaded to the shared drive. His second coffee of the day was cooling beside his keyboard. He even had time to take a full breath.

It was the first morning that felt… survivable.

He leaned back for a second, stretching his arms above his head, the corners of his mouth turning upward. I’ve got this , he thought.

Then his phone buzzed on the desk.

Just one message.

Mark Lee:
Where is the APAC team?

A beat of silence settled in his brain before panic shattered through it.

He stared at the message, then down at the tablet. Then back at the message.

What? What did he mean—where?

His calendar said the APAC investor meeting was tomorrow , Thursday at 10:00 a.m. sharp. Donghyuck had reviewed it at least twice.

But the sinking in his stomach told him to double-check.

He scrambled to the email thread, flicking his fingers across the screen, eyes darting over the text. He found it: the original invitation. Sent two weeks ago by the head of APAC communications.

And right there, bold as daylight, it read:

“Confirmed for Wednesday, 10 a.m. HKT.”

Wednesday.

Today.

His heart punched the inside of his chest like it was trying to break out. Cold sweat prickled along the back of his neck.

“Oh no,” he whispered.

His fingers flew across the keys, opening the Zoom link, triple-checking time zones, cross-referencing with calendar events. He had scheduled it a day late . Somehow, somewhere along the way—maybe in a flurry of reschedules or a sleepy click at 2 a.m.—he had dragged the wrong time slot.

A major investor meeting.

With the APAC team.

With C-level execs present.

And Mark.

Mark, who now sat in the boardroom expecting a full-scale briefing. Who had probably just turned to an empty seat at the table, asking, “Where are they?”

Donghyuck stood so fast his chair rolled back and nearly toppled. He knocked his coffee over, ignoring the way it spilled across the corner of his desk, soaking post-its and an old snack wrapper.

He grabbed his phone, frantically dialing the APAC contact. It rang. Once, twice—

“Hello, this is Minji from APAC.”

“Hi! It’s Lee Donghyuck from Seoul HQ—I think there’s been a miscommunication about the investor meeting—”

“Oh,” she said, voice tight, “we assumed it was tomorrow your time, tonight ours.”

“No,” Donghyuck breathed. “It was meant for today. Mark’s already in the boardroom with the team. They’re waiting.”

“I’m afraid we’re not prepped. Our investors are on site here. This wasn’t on our calendar.”

He shut his eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

Minji sighed. “We’ll see what we can do. But we can’t assemble our side today. There’s just no way.”

She hung up.

He stood there, frozen. The soft hum of the office around him felt deafening.

His feet started moving before he could think. Sprinting toward the boardroom, one hand in his hair, the other gripping his tablet like a lifeline. There was nothing he could do. No fix. No clever save. He’d have to face the consequences.

He had messed up.

Majorly.

~

Donghyuck stood outside the boardroom door, the polished glass a mirror to his pale, stricken face. His hand hovered over the handle for a second too long. Inside, he could hear the muffled scrape of chairs, the rustle of papers, low murmurs of frustration. Then the unmistakable sound of a door unlatching.

The first executive emerged. He didn’t spare Donghyuck a glance.

Then another.

And another.

One muttered, “Unbelievable,” under his breath as he brushed past. Another checked his watch and sighed audibly. None of them stopped. None of them looked him in the eye.

Donghyuck swallowed the tight knot in his throat and stepped into the room like a man being sentenced. The boardroom felt twice as large now that it was nearly empty—just sleek black chairs pulled away from the long table, scattered files, a forgotten coffee cup, and at the head of it all stood Mark.

He hadn’t sat down.

He stood motionless, arms folded tightly across his chest, jaw set like stone. His eyes followed Donghyuck’s every move—cold, unreadable.

Donghyuck’s footsteps echoed as he walked in. He felt every beat of his pulse against the inside of his skull. He opened his mouth—

Mark raised a hand. Silencing him instantly.

There was no shouting. No grand display. But it was worse than any explosion. Mark’s voice was like ice over broken glass: quiet, sharp, and slicing straight through skin.

“You confirmed this meeting twice,” Mark said, enunciating every word with chilling clarity. “You rearranged two C-levels for it. You sent the agenda. You adjusted my briefings.”

Donghyuck’s stomach sank lower with every sentence.

“And now,” Mark continued, “I have to explain to APAC stakeholders why our end didn’t show up. Why we’re unprepared. Why we look like amateurs.”

Donghyuck tried again to speak, voice dry and uncertain. “Sir, I—”

“Don’t,” Mark said. Not loud. Not cruel. Just final . The kind of final that closed doors without ever slamming them.

He moved around the table slowly, pausing by a chair. His fingers brushed the armrest once, thoughtfully. Then he looked at Donghyuck again—not with anger, but something quieter, colder.

“You just cost us credibility,” Mark said.

Those words landed harder than Donghyuck expected. He felt them thud into his chest, wedge themselves between his ribs.

It wasn’t even the reprimand. It wasn’t even the mistake. It was how Mark said it.

There was no theatrical dressing-down. No yelling. Just cold disappointment. Just that bitter taste of betrayal —as though Donghyuck had broken something fragile Mark hadn’t even admitted was in his hands.

“I—” Donghyuck started again, but his voice failed. He closed his mouth. There was no excuse. It had been his mistake. He had misread the email. He had entered it wrong. No one else.

Mark didn’t wait for an apology.

He turned away, already walking toward the side cabinet, pulling a file out with surgical efficiency. “Reschedule the APAC meeting for this Friday. Get on a call with Minji. Confirm it, double-confirm it, and then put it on my calendar. This time— correctly .”

Donghyuck didn’t move. The weight in his limbs pinned him to the floor. He felt like a child again, standing in the wreckage of something he didn’t mean to break.

Mark glanced over his shoulder. His expression didn’t soften.

“Get out of my sight.”

That stung.

More than Donghyuck thought it would. He bit the inside of his cheek, gave a tight nod, and turned to leave—his steps wooden, chest hollow.

As the door clicked shut behind him, the conference room disappeared, but the coldness didn’t.

It clung to him all the way back to his desk.

~

Donghyuck stepped out of the conference room like a man emerging from wreckage, as if he’d just been in a car crash and was still waiting for his brain to catch up with the sound of metal scraping metal. The door clicked shut behind him with a soft, definitive finality. The kind that didn’t need to be loud to echo.

For a moment, everything was silent.

Too silent.

The hallway was lined with floor-to-ceiling glass on one side and high, sterile walls on the other. The kind of hallway built for intimidation and efficiency—not comfort. The recessed lighting hummed overhead. His shoes made dull, reluctant sounds against the polished floor as he took one uncertain step forward.

His eyes didn’t focus on anything. Not the rows of awards glinting on the walls. Not the numbers above the elevators. Not even the faces that passed him.

He was numb. Hollow. Moving on muscle memory.

And then—Renjun.

He appeared from around the corner, holding a tablet under one arm, clearly heading somewhere else. His eyes found Donghyuck instantly, tracking the devastation written across every line of his face. His steps slowed. No question formed on his lips—he didn’t need to ask.

He just stopped beside him and reached out, pressing a quiet, wordless pat to Donghyuck’s arm.

It was brief. Gentle. But deeply understood.

The warmth of that small gesture hit Donghyuck harder than Mark’s words had. It was so simple. So kind. So unearned . That kind of softness felt foreign in this place—this corporate tundra where mistakes meant exile and expectations came sharp as knives.

Donghyuck didn’t speak. He couldn’t. If he opened his mouth, he wasn’t sure what would come out. A sob? A scream? A pathetic excuse?

Renjun gave him a faint, grim half-smile. The kind that said we’ve all been there , and then walked away—back to wherever he had been going. Leaving Donghyuck in the hush of the hallway.

Alone again.

Donghyuck stood still, body stiff with the kind of shame that seeps into your bones. A few employees passed by, offering glances that lingered just a second too long. Some sympathetic. Some pitying. Some indifferent. But they all knew .

He was that guy now.

The one who screwed up in front of the CEO.

The one who “cost them credibility.”

He started walking, not because he had somewhere to go, but because standing still felt like drowning.

He didn’t even realize he passed his own desk.

He drifted past the elevators. Past the bathrooms. Past the watercooler. Through the maze of glass offices and glowing screens and half-heard phone calls.

His ears were ringing. His heart was pounding dully in his chest—like it wasn’t quite committed to beating for him anymore.

He didn’t know where he was headed.

He just knew he couldn’t sit down right now. Couldn’t answer emails. Couldn’t even look at another meeting reminder.

He wanted to scream.

He wanted to cry.

He wanted to quit.

All three, in no particular order.

And yet… he kept walking.

Because underneath the crushing humiliation, the heat burning his eyes, the ache in his chest—there was still something else. Something deep and stubborn and defiant.

~

Donghyuck stood outside the frosted glass door for longer than he intended. His hands were damp, gripping the edge of the revised meeting documents, now re-confirmed, rescheduled, and reorganized down to the minute. Everything was triple-checked. Everything was fixed. And none of it seemed to matter.

With a sharp breath, he pushed the door open.

Mark didn’t look up. He was typing—relentless, unflinching—his face bathed in the cold light of the monitor. The hum of the air conditioning and the soft click of the keyboard filled the room like static. The CEO's entire focus was on the screen, as if Donghyuck weren’t even there.

Donghyuck stepped forward and waited.

And waited.

When it became clear that Mark had no intention of acknowledging his presence, Donghyuck approached the desk and placed the papers down with a bit more force than necessary—just enough to break the rhythm of Mark’s typing.

The sound cracked through the silence like a slap.

Mark’s fingers froze. He paused. Slowly—almost reluctantly—he glanced up, his expression flat and unreadable.

“That all?” he asked, his voice as dry as dust.

“No,” Donghyuck said, and his voice cracked—not from nerves, but from something else. Something sharper.

Mark tilted his head slightly. Not annoyed. Not amused. Just... waiting. Studying.

“I made a mistake,” Donghyuck said. “A bad one. And I take full responsibility for it.”

His voice was low and measured, but every syllable vibrated with a tension so tight it felt like the room might snap in half.

“But you’re not going to treat me like I’m disposable.”

Mark blinked, very slowly. A single muscle in his jaw shifted. He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t dismiss. He just leaned back in his chair, giving Donghyuck a clearer look for the first time—his gaze cool, sharpened by curiosity.

Donghyuck swallowed hard, but didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop.

“I’ve worked late every day this week,” he said, his hands clenched at his sides. “I’ve skipped meals. I’ve handled things you forgot. I’ve fielded panicked calls from teams who weren’t even my responsibility. I’ve covered for miscommunications that weren’t mine. I’ve gotten you out of fires you started.”

Mark’s brow lifted almost imperceptibly.

“So if this one’s on me,” Donghyuck continued, “fine. It is. I messed up. I’ll own it.”

His voice trembled now, but it wasn’t weakness. It was rage, and exhaustion, and an aching, wounded sense of pride that refused to lie down and be quiet.

“But don’t pretend I haven’t earned even a second of decency.”

The words landed like a stone thrown into still water. The silence that followed was thick and pulsing.

Mark said nothing. His fingers didn’t move. His expression didn’t shift.

But the air had changed.

It was no longer the suffocating stillness of dismissal. It was charged—volatile with something unnamed.

Donghyuck’s chest rose and fell with sharp, ragged breaths. His heart thundered like a war drum, but he didn’t step back. He didn’t apologize. He didn’t shrink.

“I don’t need praise,” he added quietly. “But I won’t take contempt.”

Mark studied him. For a long time. A very long time. The kind of silence that made lesser men sweat, stammer, unravel.

But Donghyuck didn’t flinch.

And that was when something in Mark's eyes flickered. Barely there. Something small and strange and momentary—surprise, maybe. Or recognition. Or... respect?

Then, without a word, Mark leaned forward and picked up the revised schedule.

And just like that, the moment passed.

He flipped through the pages, scanning them in silence, eyes scanning fast and precise. The tension didn’t dissipate—it simply shifted into something more complicated. Something that couldn’t be spoken yet.

Donghyuck turned, walking out before he could lose his nerve.

He didn’t slam the door behind him. He didn’t collapse in the hallway. He didn’t crumble like he thought he might.

He just breathed.

And for the first time in days, it felt like a breath he had actually earned .

~

The wind was sharper up here. Not cold, exactly, but brisk enough to sting just a little—like the city reminding Donghyuck he was still alive. He stood by the railing, palms braced against cool steel, staring out at the skyline with an unreadable expression. Beneath him, the city crawled forward in slow motion: cars snaking through intersections, elevators lighting up in the tower across the street, a helicopter slicing through the clouds above the horizon.

But everything inside him was still.

His lungs felt tight, his shoulders coiled with leftover tension. And yet, under all of it, tucked between the exhaustion and adrenaline, was something startlingly unfamiliar: relief .

He had said it.

Not politely. Not with PR finesse. Not in the half-measured, people-pleasing way he usually reserved for people like Mark Lee. No. He had said it like he meant it. Like he deserved to be heard. Like someone who mattered.

He hadn’t backed down. And Mark hadn’t fired him.

That part was still confusing.

The metallic clack of the rooftop door swung open behind him, and soft footsteps followed. Donghyuck didn’t turn around. He didn’t have to.

Renjun’s voice cut through the breeze, laced with cautious amusement. “You alive?”

Donghyuck let out a breath that felt like it had been sitting in his chest for years. “Barely.”

Renjun stepped up beside him, leaned casually against the railing. He held out a crinkled chocolate bar still in its wrapper like it was a peace offering or a consolation prize. “Someone said you marched in there like a soldier with a death wish.” He grinned. “Bold move.”

Donghyuck didn’t take the chocolate. He just kept staring ahead, eyes on the skyline, his voice low. “I’m not sorry I said it.”

Renjun tilted his head slightly, watching him from the side. “You shouldn’t be.”

The words weren’t said with false comfort. They weren’t empty. They were solid—quiet and firm like Renjun knew exactly what it meant to stand your ground when everything in your body begged you to sit down and shut up.

Donghyuck exhaled slowly, his breath fogging in the cooling air. “I thought I was going to be sick afterward,” he said honestly. “But now I feel... I don’t know. Like I can finally breathe.”

Renjun let out a hum, peeling the wrapper from the chocolate and taking a bite himself. “That’s what truth does. Rips your chest open, then gives you space to expand.”

Donghyuck gave a small laugh—just a breath of sound—but it was real.

They stood in silence for a while, watching the sun fall deeper behind the buildings, casting the whole city in gold-tinged shadows.

“Do you think he’ll make my life worse now?” Donghyuck asked after a while, voice quieter.

Renjun chewed thoughtfully. “Maybe. Or maybe not.”

Donghyuck turned slightly, brow raised.

Renjun shrugged. “Look, Mark doesn’t like being challenged. But he respects it. Eventually. He won’t say it out loud, but he probably heard you louder than anyone else has in a while.”

Donghyuck considered that. The way Mark had stared at him—not enraged, not dismissive, but... listening .

A strange flicker passed through him—something that felt like the beginning of mutual recognition.

“He’s still impossible,” Donghyuck said.

“Oh, totally,” Renjun agreed, smiling. “But so are you.”

Donghyuck chuckled again, softer this time.

He didn’t feel better, exactly. But he felt anchored . A little steadier. A little more like someone who had a right to be in that office, at that desk, in that fight.

The sun slipped lower, stretching shadows across the terrace. For once, Donghyuck didn’t feel like he was buried underneath them. He just leaned on the railing, eyes on the horizon, and let the wind rush past him like the first breath of something new.

Chapter Text

The fluorescent lights above cast their usual sterile glow, flickering faintly as Donghyuck walked in, his second coffee of the morning still too hot to sip. The office was steeped in a hush that only came before the city outside had fully woken up—a rare, fragile calm that Donghyuck almost didn’t trust.

He slipped off his coat and powered on his computer, the soft whirr of the machine humming in sync with the tension that still knotted between his shoulders. Yesterday’s confrontation with Mark replayed in his head like a glitchy video—jerky, fragmented, raw. He had stood his ground, for once. Said things that had been simmering under his skin for weeks. But the aftermath? That was the hard part.

He didn’t know what to expect today. Fire? Ice? Indifference?

He pulled out his notebook, flipping to his to-do list from yesterday, trying to keep his mind focused. Then—

Knock.

It was so small he almost missed it. A single, sharp tap against the flimsy cubicle wall.

Donghyuck blinked and turned. No one ever knocked on cubicles. Not here, where things moved too fast and people didn’t bother with courtesies.

But there stood Mark Lee.

He looked, in many ways, the same as always: crisp navy suit, watch gleaming under the cuff, hair slightly ruffled like he’d run a frustrated hand through it on his drive in. But there was something in the way he stood—one hand in his pocket, the other holding a folder like it might anchor him to the floor—that made Donghyuck sit up straighter.

Mark didn’t look furious. He didn’t even look annoyed. Just... unreadable.

“I need to speak with you,” Mark said, his voice lower than usual. Measured.

Donghyuck rose slowly, heart already starting to pound. “Sure,” he said, cautious.

Mark didn’t motion for them to move somewhere private. Instead, he stepped forward, extending the folder. Donghyuck took it, glancing inside: the day’s schedule, precisely organized—meetings labeled, travel blocks marked, everything color-coded the exact way he’d been doing it for the past week.

“You were right yesterday,” Mark said suddenly.

Donghyuck froze. The words hit him like cold water to the face. He looked up, mouth slightly parted.

Mark didn’t meet his eyes. His gaze hovered somewhere beyond Donghyuck’s shoulder, as if saying it aloud was enough of a vulnerability—he couldn’t also look the recipient in the eye.

“I was out of line. I don’t apologize often. But I should have then.”

The quiet in the room changed. It wasn’t empty anymore—it was full. Thick with the weight of something unsaid for too long.

Donghyuck swallowed, trying to process the words. An apology. Not veiled. Not wrapped in sarcasm. A real one.

“Thank you,” he said softly, and meant it.

Mark lingered a moment longer than expected, the manila folder still resting lightly in his hand. His eyes flicked briefly back to Donghyuck’s face, searching, perhaps, for something he hadn’t quite expected to find—a trace of relief, or maybe quiet strength.

“Look,” Mark said, voice rougher now, stripped of its usual steel, “I don’t do this often. If I’m being honest, I don’t even know how.”

Donghyuck’s eyebrows rose in surprise, but he stayed silent, waiting for Mark to continue.

“It’s just…” Mark’s jaw clenched, the words faltering. “You stood your ground. You didn’t break. Most people just fold or run. That’s what I expected. I was wrong.”

Donghyuck’s heart quickened, a flicker of something unspoken passing between them—respect, maybe, or the barest hint of understanding.

Mark took a breath, as if forcing himself to close a chapter. “I’ll be watching,” he added, the ghost of a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t give me a reason to regret this.”

Donghyuck allowed himself the smallest nod, steady and sure. “I won’t.”

~

The private meeting room was a small oasis of quiet amidst the relentless bustle of the office. The long glass walls muffled the distant sounds of phones ringing and murmured conversations, creating a bubble where time felt slightly slower—more deliberate. The room was sleek and minimal, dominated by a long polished table and a few high-backed chairs. A single abstract painting hung on the wall, its muted colors failing to lighten the palpable tension that hung in the air.

Donghyuck sat across from Mark, hands folded neatly on his lap. He could feel the heat rising in his cheeks—not from embarrassment, but from the weight of the moment. He was painfully aware of how still the room felt, as if the silence itself was waiting to be broken.

Mark’s eyes, usually sharp and unyielding like a hawk’s, held something different today: a rare vulnerability, or maybe just a long-suppressed admission. He exhaled slowly, steadying himself before speaking. “I hold people to high standards,” he began, his voice low and measured, as if weighing every word carefully. “It’s how I built this company. How I’ve kept it successful.”

There was no anger in his tone. No impatience. Instead, a calmness that was almost disarming. Donghyuck swallowed hard, waiting for the catch—the inevitable criticism or reprimand that usually followed. But it never came.

Mark continued, “But I understand that doesn’t excuse everything.” He met Donghyuck’s gaze with unflinching honesty.

Donghyuck felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He had rehearsed a dozen different responses over the last hour—apologies, excuses, promises—but none felt right now. So instead, he simply said what was true, what he meant: “No, it doesn’t.”

Mark’s eyebrows lifted slightly, as if surprised by Donghyuck’s directness. The pause that followed wasn’t awkward—it was deliberate, an unspoken exchange of respect. “I want people around me who are sharp. Resilient,” Mark said quietly, almost thoughtfully. “You’re proving to be both.”

The words weren’t warm or congratulatory. They were clinical, like a doctor’s diagnosis rather than a compliment. But for Donghyuck, who had spent weeks trying to earn even the smallest shred of acknowledgment, it felt monumental. His chest tightened with a flicker of pride—careful, guarded pride that dared not hope for more.

For a moment, neither spoke. The air between them felt charged, like a wire humming with electricity, threatening to spark. Donghyuck’s fingers twitched slightly on his lap, the urge to say something more building inside him.

Finally, he took a breath, steadying himself. “I want to stay sharp,” he said, voice steady despite the storm of emotions beneath. “But I’m not going to lose myself to do it.”

Mark’s head tilted almost imperceptibly, a sign of curiosity—an invitation, perhaps. “Go on,” he said, his tone softer now, almost patient.

Donghyuck met that invitation head-on. “I’ll work hard,” he said, “I’ll push myself harder than I thought possible. But I won’t work scared.” He locked eyes with Mark, the rawness in his voice undeniable. “If something’s wrong—if I see a problem—I’ll say so. And I expect the same respect I give.”

Mark’s expression shifted minutely, his sharp features softening just enough to reveal a flicker of something more human—perhaps intrigue, perhaps the beginning of understanding. He studied Donghyuck for a long moment, like one might examine a puzzle piece that had finally found its place after months of being forced where it didn’t fit.

“Understood,” Mark said finally, his voice low and deliberate. The single word hung heavy in the room, but it was a promise. Or maybe a truce.

Donghyuck felt his heart pounding, his breath a little too fast. He had stood up to Mark—unheard of—and yet, the cold, hard steel of Mark’s judgment had softened, just enough to let something new through.

Neither man moved to break the silence immediately. Instead, they sat there, two worlds colliding quietly in the glow of the late morning sun that filtered through the glass. For the first time, there was no pretense between them. No masks. Just an honest, fragile moment of connection.

Donghyuck allowed himself to believe, even for a second, that this was the beginning of a different kind of working relationship—one built on respect, not fear.

Mark cleared his throat and glanced at his watch, breaking the spell. “We have a meeting in twenty. Get ready.”

Donghyuck nodded, standing slowly, feeling lighter than he had in weeks. As he turned to leave, Mark’s voice stopped him one last time.

“And Donghyuck?” Mark said, softer than before.

“Yes, sir?”

Mark’s eyes met his again, this time with something almost like a challenge. “Don’t make me regret this.”

Donghyuck gave a small, confident smile. “I won’t.”

~

The office kitchen was a small sanctuary from the relentless buzz of the corporate world—a place where the hum of the coffee machine, the clink of mugs, and the murmur of tired voices created a strangely comforting background noise. The fluorescent lights overhead cast a sterile glow, but today, for Donghyuck, it felt less suffocating.

He stood by the counter, carefully pouring himself a fresh cup of tea, the steam curling upward like a silent sigh. His shoulders, usually stiff and rigid with the weight of anxiety, seemed more relaxed—less burdened by the ever-present pressure of Mark’s relentless expectations.

From across the room, Renjun leaned casually against the fridge, munching on a granola bar. His eyes flicked toward Donghyuck, catching the subtle difference in his friend’s demeanor. With a small, teasing smile, he crossed the room, sliding into the space beside him.

“So,” Renjun said, nudging Donghyuck’s arm lightly, “did you actually survive the boss rage this time? Or is this some kind of corporate horror story I don’t want to hear?”

Donghyuck took a slow sip of his tea, savoring the warmth before answering with a shrug. “He apologized.”

Renjun’s mouth froze mid-chew, and a loud choking sound escaped him. His eyes widened as he swallowed hard. “He what ?”

Donghyuck let out a small laugh, the sound strange but genuine. “Yeah. He said I was right.”

Renjun stared at him, his expression a mixture of disbelief and awe—as if Donghyuck had just announced he’d been abducted by aliens and returned unscathed. “Okay,” Renjun said finally, shaking his head with a grin, “what kind of sci-fi simulation are we in now? Did someone swap your coffee with something special?”

“Nope,” Donghyuck replied, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Don’t get me wrong, he’s still cold as hell. Sharp as a blade. But… there’s a shift. Something’s different.”

Renjun studied him for a moment, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “What changed?”

Donghyuck set his cup down, his fingers curling lightly around the handle. “I set boundaries. For the first time, I told him what I would and wouldn’t accept. I said how I want to be treated—and he didn’t push back.”

Renjun nodded slowly, the teasing light in his eyes softening into something more serious. “Good,” he said quietly. “About time someone did. You can’t let that kind of pressure just steamroll you.”

Donghyuck looked down, a flicker of vulnerability breaking through the guarded exterior. “It was scary. I thought… I thought he’d fire me on the spot or shut me out completely.”

“But you didn’t,” Renjun said firmly. “You stood your ground. And that means something. More than you realize.”

They stood together in the quiet hum of the kitchen, the weight of unspoken understanding settling between them. For the first time since this whole ordeal began, Donghyuck felt the stirrings of something new—not just respect from Mark, but a growing sense of self-worth. A reminder that even in the harshest of storms, he wasn’t just surviving—he was starting to thrive.

Renjun clapped him on the shoulder with a grin. “Next time he gets prickly, just remember—you’ve already got the upper hand.”

Donghyuck smiled back, feeling lighter than he had in weeks. “Yeah. Next time.”

~

The afternoon sun dipped lower, casting a warm golden glow across the city skyline visible through the towering glass walls of Mark’s office. Inside, the usual hum of activity seemed muted, almost respectful of the fragile quiet hanging in the air.

Donghyuck stepped through the door with the day’s final report in hand, the smooth leather cover cool beneath his fingers. The soft click of the door echoed faintly in the large room, a sound that felt louder than usual—perhaps because the silence inside was so rare, so unlike the constant urgency that usually filled this space.

Mark sat behind his desk, the sharp lines of his tailored suit softened by the loosened tie at his neck. His posture was less rigid than usual, shoulders slightly less squared, as if the weight of the day had momentarily lifted. His eyes, focused on the papers before him, flicked up the moment Donghyuck approached.

“Everything’s been updated and triple-checked,” Donghyuck said, trying to keep his voice steady despite the flutter of nerves beneath. He placed the binder on the desk, sliding it toward Mark with a quiet finality. “I even included timestamps like you requested.”

Mark’s eyes scanned the neatly organized pages, his fingers trailing along the margins with a precision that made it clear he was evaluating every detail. Donghyuck watched him carefully, searching for any sign—any small crack in the usual stonewall of Mark’s demeanor.

When Mark finally looked up, their eyes met directly. For a brief instant, something softened in Mark’s gaze—a slight easing of the usual cold steel. It was so fleeting, Donghyuck almost thought he imagined it, but the subtle crease at the corner of Mark’s mouth suggested otherwise.

“You’re efficient,” Mark said simply, his tone low and measured, carrying an unusual hint of something close to respect.

Donghyuck’s lips curved into a small, knowing smile, a touch of pride rising in his chest. “I’ve always been,” he answered, his voice cool but firm, carrying an edge of quiet confidence that he hadn’t dared to show before.

Mark’s gaze didn’t waver. He leaned back in his chair, folding one arm across his chest as if weighing the man standing before him. “I underestimated you,” he admitted, his voice quieter now, but no less serious.

The words hung in the air between them—heavy with meaning. Not a compliment, not exactly, but an acknowledgment that felt more significant than anything Mark had said so far.

Donghyuck’s eyes flicked to the city beyond the windows, then back to Mark. “Most people do,” he said softly, almost a challenge.

The silence stretched longer than before, but it was no longer tense or confrontational. Instead, it felt charged with possibility, a fragile truce in the ongoing battle of wills between them.

Mark’s posture shifted, a subtle relaxation that was almost imperceptible but to Donghyuck, it was monumental. The air between them was different—less sharp, more contemplative. Not the sharp edge of criticism, but the gentle weight of curiosity.

For the first time, Mark looked at Donghyuck not just as a subordinate or a problem to be managed, but as a person—complex, capable, and stubborn in all the right ways.

Donghyuck met that gaze head-on, feeling something like an unspoken conversation unfold in the space between them. It was a silent recognition of the hard work, the mistakes, the relentless pressure—of two people navigating a difficult, often hostile world, trying to find a way to work together.

The clock ticked quietly somewhere in the background, marking time in a room that felt suspended between past conflicts and future possibilities.

Mark’s eyes softened just a fraction more. “Keep this up,” he said quietly, the faintest hint of a challenge in his voice.

Donghyuck nodded slowly, feeling the steady beat of his own resolve thrum through his veins. “I will.”

As he turned to leave, a rare thought flickered through his mind—maybe, just maybe, this was the moment things began to change. Not because Mark had suddenly become easy to read or predictable, but because the ice around him had cracked, if only just enough to let something warmer through.

And for the first time in weeks, Donghyuck felt like he wasn’t just surviving. He was starting to belong.

~

The elevator doors slid open with a soft hiss just as Donghyuck and Mark reached the lobby to leave for the night. Neither spoke at first; it was becoming a quiet ritual—crossing paths after long days, worlds apart but somehow tethered by circumstance.

Mark stepped in first, his movements calm but purposeful, the usual air of command clinging to him like a second skin. Donghyuck followed, standing just a breath behind, the space between them taut with unspoken tension and cautious curiosity.

The elevator began its descent, the soft mechanical hum the only sound between them. Outside, the city lights blinked and shimmered, but inside the glass-walled capsule, the world felt compressed, suspended—two figures cast in cold reflections that danced along the polished metal.

After what felt like an eternity, Mark finally broke the silence, his voice low, deliberate. “You know, most people who push back don’t last long here.”

Donghyuck’s gaze stayed steady, eyes locking onto the faint glow of the control panel. No hesitation. No fear. “Then I guess I’m not like most people.”

For a moment, Mark’s lips twitched—just the slightest quiver of amusement, like a crack in his icy armor. It was so subtle Donghyuck almost missed it. “I’m beginning to see that,” Mark admitted, voice quieter now, laced with a mix of challenge and something unreadable.

Their reflections in the mirrored elevator doors shifted as the light flickered—a pair of sharp silhouettes standing closer than before, edges softened by the glow yet still etched with the harsh lines of the day’s battles. Two men locked in a quiet duel, neither conceding, but both changed in ways they couldn’t yet name.

The air between them felt charged, a current humming beneath the surface. It wasn’t friendship. Far from it. And certainly not alliance. It was something more fragile—an unspoken recognition that each had discovered a worthy opponent, someone who refused to break.

Neither spoke again before the elevator dinged open on the ground floor. The doors parted, spilling cold night air into the lobby.

Mark stepped out first, pausing just long enough to glance back. His eyes met Donghyuck’s one more time—a look not of dismissal, but of begrudging respect. And maybe, just maybe, a flicker of something that hinted at intrigue.

Donghyuck held his gaze, steady and unblinking. Then, without a word, he followed Mark into the night.

Chapter Text

The world outside the towering glass windows of the office had gone dark hours ago, save for the glitter of distant headlights and the neon glow of Seoul’s restless skyline. Inside, the building had settled into its usual nighttime hush. Gone was the hum of voices, the shuffle of high heels and polished Oxfords against tile, the constant ping of messages demanding urgency. What remained was stillness—the kind that only crept in when no one was left to fight it.

Donghyuck sat alone under the muted overhead light of his cubicle, its warm yellow cast clinging stubbornly to the corners of his workspace. His shirt sleeves were pushed up past his elbows, and his once-perfect tie hung lopsided around his neck like a loose noose. Around him, a small battlefield of reports, spreadsheets, and crumpled sticky notes sprawled across the desk like evidence of the war he’d been waging since 7 AM.

His eyes were dry from staring at the screen too long. He rubbed them, then blinked blearily at the glowing numbers on the corner of his monitor. 10:07 PM.
Great.

He’d promised himself—nine o'clock at the latest. He was supposed to be home by now, eating microwaved dumplings and watching something brainless on his laptop, maybe even getting a full night’s sleep for once. But here he was. Again.

“One more spreadsheet,” he’d said an hour ago. Now it was three spreadsheets later, and he’d barely made a dent.

His stomach gave a low, traitorous grumble. He ignored it. Just like he ignored the stiffness in his back, the ache behind his eyes, the hum of silence that had begun to feel too familiar lately.

He was reaching for his highlighter when a soft knock tapped against the side of his cubicle.

He turned, startled.

Mark stood there, dressed in his usual black-on-black suit, sans tie now, his collar slightly open and his sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms. His expression was neutral, as always, but his presence at Donghyuck’s desk—especially at this hour—was strange enough to register as almost surreal.

In one hand, Mark held two paper coffee cups.

“Still here?” he asked, voice low.

Donghyuck blinked at him. “You too?”

Mark didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he extended one of the cups.

Donghyuck hesitated, then took it. The warmth seeped through the paper and into his fingers, grounding him.

“Thanks,” he murmured.

It was black coffee—no cream, no sugar. Not Donghyuck’s usual preference, but somehow it fit the moment. No frills. Just survival fuel.

Mark nodded. Then, instead of walking away like Donghyuck expected, he tilted his head toward the empty conference room nearby.

“Come work in there,” he said. “Lighting’s better.”

Donghyuck glanced at the room, then back at Mark.

It wasn’t an order. Not exactly. And it wasn’t a suggestion in the way most people offered them either—not meek or unsure. But there was something softer around the edges of it. An invitation. A shift.

Maybe it was the lateness of the hour, or the rare civility in Mark’s tone, or the strange sense of camaraderie that came from both of them still being tethered to their desks long after everyone else had given up.

Whatever it was, Donghyuck didn’t question it.

He grabbed his laptop and coffee, followed Mark into the dim glow of the conference room, and sat down across the table from him without a word.

The overhead lights were dimmed to their evening setting, casting a soft golden hue across the long expanse of polished wood. The city skyline twinkled beyond the glass wall, blurred slightly by a misty late-night haze. Inside, the only sounds were the faint clacking of keys and the occasional rustle of papers.

Donghyuck sat on one side of the table, his fingers dancing across the keyboard in a steady rhythm. Spreadsheets opened, cells highlighted, formulas adjusted. His head was tilted in that very specific way—concentration pulling at the space between his brows. Across from him, Mark was reclined slightly in his chair, reviewing quarterly projections with a red pen poised like a blade. His suit jacket hung over the back of his chair, his cuffs undone.

They hadn’t said much since settling in, but the silence between them wasn’t the tense, prickly kind that had once defined their early encounters. It was… companionable. Unexpectedly so.
A quiet kind of understanding had taken root between them, subtle and unsaid, but present all the same.

Donghyuck’s shoulders were no longer braced like he was waiting for a blow. He was working. And so was Mark. Not from opposite ends of a battlefield—but across the same table. Sharing space. Sharing focus.

And slowly—without either of them planning for it—that invisible barrier, once thick with tension and expectation, had thinned.

At some point, Donghyuck sighed and leaned back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I hate numbers after 8 PM,” he muttered, not really expecting a response.

From across the table came a quiet sound—almost a breath, but just enough to count as a chuckle.

Mark didn’t look up. “Numbers don’t care what time it is.”

Donghyuck blinked at him, then raised an eyebrow. “That might be the most CEO thing you’ve ever said.”

Mark’s lips curved—not much, not wide—but undeniably upward.

It wasn’t a smirk. It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t one of those tight, professional expressions he wore like armor. It was… real. A flicker of amusement, barely there and all the more surprising for it.

Donghyuck froze, just for a second, trying to make sure he hadn’t imagined it. But no—there it was. A smile. Brief, sure. But real.

Mark didn’t acknowledge it. He just went back to reviewing his notes, but his posture had shifted, just slightly—shoulders a little looser, gaze less sharp.

Donghyuck worked for a few more minutes, but his eyes started crossing at the sight of yet another percentage table. He pushed his chair back and let his head tilt toward the ceiling.

“Why do I feel like we’re in some kind of corporate war bunker?” he asked aloud, mostly to himself.

Mark didn’t respond right away. Then, without looking up: “Because we are.”

Donghyuck let out a tired laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “I should’ve known ‘glamorous CEO life’ translated to ‘bleeding out over Excel in silence.’”

Mark finally looked at him, eyes meeting his with a kind of quiet interest that felt unfamiliar and unsettling. “Is that why you took this job?”

“What, to suffer quietly under a fluorescent sun?” Donghyuck teased. But then, after a pause, he added more seriously, “No. I took it because I wanted to prove I could survive in a world built to swallow people like me whole.”

That got Mark’s attention. His brow quirked—not in judgment, but curiosity. “People like you?”

Donghyuck met his gaze squarely. “People who didn’t grow up with the right last names. The right connections. The right suits.” He smiled, wry and tired. “People who don’t always get second chances when they screw up.”

Mark studied him for a moment, expression unreadable but thoughtful. Then he said, “You think I did?”

Donghyuck hesitated. “Didn’t you?”

Mark leaned back, folding his arms. The room felt smaller suddenly, like the silence had thickened between them.

“I didn’t inherit this company,” Mark said after a beat. “I built it. And I nearly lost it—twice—before it became what it is now.”

Donghyuck blinked. That... wasn’t in the press releases.

Mark continued, voice quieter now. “I know what it means to be underestimated. And I know what it takes to make people take you seriously. It’s not kindness. Or patience. It’s results. Cold, clean results.”

Donghyuck sat with that for a moment, then said, “And what’s the cost?”

Mark’s eyes flickered. “Sometimes? Too much.”

For a while, they just sat there. The buzz of the building’s HVAC system was the only sound. The clink of a spoon in a coffee cup. The rustle of paper.

Eventually, Donghyuck broke the silence again.

“You ever think about how strange it is that we’re here?” he said. “Two people who probably would’ve hated each other under normal circumstances, now sharing coffee over budget forecasts.”

Mark gave a quiet snort. “Who says I don’t still hate you?”

Donghyuck grinned. “You gave me coffee. That’s practically affection.”

Mark didn’t smile this time, but something warm stirred at the corners of his mouth. His tone, when he spoke next, was low and almost absentminded:
“You’re different from how I thought you’d be.”

Donghyuck looked at him, a little surprised. “Yeah? And how did you think I’d be?”

“Easier to break,” Mark replied without malice. Just fact.

Donghyuck didn’t flinch. “Guess you’ll have to try harder.”

That finally drew a full smile from Mark—small, sure. But unmistakable.

And for a moment, the conference room didn’t feel like a battlefield or a bunker. It felt like neutral ground. Like the beginning of something neither of them quite understood yet, but both felt circling the edges.

Not friendship. Not yet.

But interest. Respect. A flicker of something rare.

The click-clack of typing had long since faded. Their laptops sat idly in front of them, screens dimmed. Two empty coffee cups stood like quiet witnesses to a rare sort of truce.

Donghyuck leaned back in his chair, arms overhead in a stretch that pulled a small groan from his spine. “God, my back is going to file an HR complaint.”

Mark, still seated upright but with his sleeves rolled up now and his collar slightly undone, glanced over with an expression that might have been amusement if you squinted hard enough.

“You ever sleep?” Donghyuck asked, blinking up at the ceiling tiles.

Mark didn’t answer immediately. He shifted, laced his fingers together on the table. “Sometimes. Not often.”

“Why?”

Another pause. Then Mark exhaled, not like a sigh, but like a reluctant truth was working its way to the surface. “There’s always something to fix. Or prevent. Or outsmart.”

Donghyuck gave a quiet hum of recognition. “So... control.”

That got a small reaction. Mark’s brow lifted — not in offense, but with the faint spark of being correctly read. “Among other things,” he admitted.

Donghyuck turned his head lazily toward him, resting his cheek on the back of his chair. “You ever try letting people help you instead of assuming they’ll fail you?”

Mark’s gaze sharpened, just slightly. There was a flicker of defensiveness, an instinct tightening his jaw. But it wasn’t icy. It wasn’t cruel. It was… cautious. Like someone who’d been burned more than once.

“And risk the company?” he asked.

Donghyuck didn’t look away. “No. Risk being wrong about someone.”

The words didn’t land with dramatic weight. They landed quietly, like a stone dropped into a deep well. Echoing. Settling. Lingered in the air between them longer than either of them acknowledged.

Mark didn’t answer right away. His eyes had dropped to the grain of the table, unfocused. Something in his posture had shifted — not slouched, but less taut, like a thread had been loosened somewhere deep inside him.

Donghyuck didn’t press. He turned his eyes back to the ceiling. Let the silence stretch.

Then, finally, Mark said, low and quiet: “Maybe.”

It wasn’t dismissive. It wasn’t sarcastic. It didn’t carry the armor of authority or the distancing sharpness of a man who lived in boardrooms and battle plans.

It felt… real.

Just a single, soft syllable that peeled back the outer shell. A flash of vulnerability that made Donghyuck blink.

He smiled to himself—small, private.

“Maybe’s a good place to start,” he said.

Mark didn’t respond to that. But he didn’t retreat, either. He didn’t shut down. He just stayed there, elbows on the table, fingers absently tracing a groove in the wood grain, like he was working something out quietly behind his eyes.

For the first time since Donghyuck had walked into this company—hell, maybe the first time since he’d ever met Mark Lee—it felt like they weren’t just occupying the same room.

They were sharing it.

The conference room, with its sterile chairs and wall of glass, felt warmer now. Not homey—this was still a place of rules and expectations—but less rigid. Less sharp.

There was a moment—a flicker—where Donghyuck wondered what it might be like to know this version of Mark more often. The one who said maybe instead of nothing. The one who gave a damn, even if he didn’t know how to show it.

“Next time,” Donghyuck said suddenly, standing to gather the now-cold coffee cups, “you’re buying dinner if we’re stuck here this late.”

Mark looked up, something faintly amused in his eyes. “Is that how it works?”

“It is now,” Donghyuck replied. “Your assistant, your rules.”

Donghyuck stood, the edge of fatigue drawing tension across his shoulders. He stretched with a groan, the long hours beginning to register in his spine and behind his eyes. Instead of returning to the conference table, he wandered over to the window.

Seoul shimmered beneath them like a sea of stars—restless and alive, even at this hour. The glass pane felt cool against his fingers as he braced one hand against it, eyes scanning the dizzying glow of the city.

“Used to dream of working in a place like this,” he said softly.

Behind him, Mark looked up from the papers he hadn’t touched in ten minutes. He rose quietly, walking over to stand a respectful distance beside Donghyuck. Not crowding him. Not towering. Just there.

“And now?” Mark asked, voice pitched low, like anything louder might disturb the spell of the moment.

Donghyuck kept his eyes on the city. “I still do. I’m just… adjusting the dream.”

Mark didn’t respond right away. He looked at the skyline, then at the reflection in the glass—two men side by side, both worn by the weight of expectations, dressed in different versions of power and survival.

Donghyuck’s hair was slightly mussed, his sleeves rolled up haphazardly. Mark, by contrast, was more composed but less polished than usual—tie loosened, top button undone, a fatigue in his eyes he didn’t bother hiding.

It was quiet, but not empty. The kind of quiet that made it easier to say things that mattered.

“Do you hate it here?” Mark asked suddenly, still looking at the reflection, not Donghyuck.

The question surprised him. Not because it was unthinkable—but because it was uncharacteristically… human.

Donghyuck tilted his head, considered. “No,” he said honestly. “But I hate that some days, it makes me forget I’m good at what I do.”

He didn’t look at Mark, not yet. He didn’t need to. The words hung there between them—simple, but sharp-edged with truth.

Mark’s posture changed just slightly. His arms crossed, but not defensively. It was more like a grounding gesture, as if trying to contain something that had cracked open inside him.

“That’s not your fault,” he said.

Donghyuck finally turned to look at him.

The sentence wasn’t delivered like a corporate platitude, or a scripted HR response. There was no layered motive, no edge of control. Just… honesty. Mark Lee, stripped of pretense, speaking like a man who had finally learned what damage silence could do.

Donghyuck blinked. “You really believe that?”

“I do now.”

Mark’s eyes met his, steady and unflinching. There was something in them that hadn’t been there before—not dominance, not scrutiny. Something softer. Something like recognition.

Donghyuck let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“It’s hard not to internalize it,” he said. “When everyone acts like being here is a privilege instead of something we earn every day.”

Mark’s expression shifted—not guilt, exactly. But something close. A grim sort of understanding.

“I built this place on urgency,” he admitted. “I didn’t think much about… what that pressure does to people who aren’t me.”

“Maybe that’s the problem,” Donghyuck said quietly. “You assumed no one else could be like you.”

Mark nodded once. “I did.”

They fell into silence again, this time side by side, both gazing out at the glittering web of Seoul. The reflection in the glass framed them like a photograph—equal in distance from the window, equal in exhaustion, equal in the weight of unspoken histories.

But also equal in something new.

Mark glanced at Donghyuck, then asked something he hadn’t asked anyone in a long time—not in sincerity.

“What would make it better?”

Donghyuck turned to face him fully. “You listening is a good start.”

A pause. Then, with a half-smile that didn’t hide the tired in his eyes, he added, “Also… free dinner. Let’s start with that.”

Mark laughed, not loudly, but genuinely. A warm sound that didn’t echo in the office so much as settle in it. It was the kind of laugh that peeled back years of practiced indifference.

“I’ll consider it,” he said.

The air in the building had gone still, settled like dust. Most of the lights had dimmed or shut off completely, leaving the office floors with a quiet, echoing hush. The only sound as Mark and Donghyuck walked down the hallway together was the faint tap of their shoes against polished tile.

It was close to midnight.

The elevator chimed softly as the doors slid open, casting a glow over the corridor. They stepped in, one after the other—Mark with the usual composed efficiency, Donghyuck with a yawn he didn’t bother to stifle.

But something was different.

They didn’t stand on opposite sides of the elevator. They didn’t keep a safe two-foot buffer between them, like they usually did. Instead, they stood side by side, close enough that their shoulders might have brushed if either shifted just slightly. The silence wasn’t heavy. It wasn’t awkward. It was... comfortable. Companionable. As if they’d earned it.

The doors closed slowly in front of them, sealing them into the small, glass-walled box as it began its descent.

Twenty floors.

Donghyuck watched the numbers tick down. Eighteen. Seventeen.

“I still think it’s weird,” he said casually, breaking the quiet.

Mark turned his head, one brow arched. “What is?”

“You. Offering me coffee. Inviting me to work with you. Standing here like we don’t loathe each other.”

Mark looked amused. “Did we ever loathe each other?”

Donghyuck snorted. “I’m not sure. I think I just assumed you loathed everyone.”

A beat passed, then:

“I used to,” Mark admitted, surprising even himself.

Donghyuck blinked, caught off guard. He turned to study Mark’s face, but the CEO wasn’t looking at him. His gaze was fixed ahead, on the metallic elevator doors and the faint reflection of them both. It was a different kind of confession—one not weighted with apology or self-pity, just… truth.

Floor fourteen.

Mark finally glanced over. “You didn’t just survive this week,” he said. “You adapted.”

Donghyuck’s lips curled slowly into a grin. “You’re not going to start complimenting me regularly, are you?”

Mark smirked, a small, knowing curve at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t get used to it.”

Donghyuck rolled his eyes with dramatic flair, but he was still smiling. A real one. It lit his face with a kind of mischief that softened the circles beneath his eyes and pulled at something in Mark’s chest he didn’t care to name.

Floor ten.

The elevator ride didn’t feel long. If anything, it felt too short.

Donghyuck leaned against the back wall, folding his arms. “You’re not that terrifying, you know,” he said.

Mark turned to him again, curious. “No?”

“No. You just wear your armor a little too tight. Makes it hard to breathe sometimes.”

Mark didn’t reply immediately. He looked ahead again. His reflection stared back—sharper, more rigid next to Donghyuck’s relaxed frame. His suit crisp, but his tie loosened. His posture straight, but his jaw no longer tight.

Maybe the armor was too tight.

Floor four.

Donghyuck yawned again and rubbed at his neck. “You know, I might actually not dread coming in on Monday.”

Mark gave a small huff of laughter. “High praise.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Donghyuck echoed mockingly, nudging Mark lightly with his elbow.

Mark didn’t pull away.

The elevator slowed to a halt. A soft ding. The doors slid open with mechanical grace.

But neither of them moved.

They stood in that quiet, humming space, just for a moment longer—between exhaustion and something else neither could quite name. Their reflections were side by side in the glass. Not mirrored opposites. Just... companions for the moment.

Chapter Text

The office was unusually still, blanketed in the kind of quiet that made even the hum of the overhead lights feel loud. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city lights blinked like distant stars, muffled by the thick glass. It was well past office hours, and the rest of the building had long since emptied, but Donghyuck remained at his desk, flipping through color-coded folders with mechanical precision.

Across the room, Mark sat at his desk, his back straight, his fingers dancing over his laptop’s keyboard in a fluid rhythm that betrayed how focused he was. Normally, Mark would have offered at least one sharp comment by now—about a misaligned appointment or the state of the coffee—but tonight, he was silent. Not in the cold, calculating way Donghyuck had grown used to, but in a withdrawn, distant sort of way. Like he wasn’t really in the room with him.

Donghyuck glanced up from the planner he was annotating, stealing a brief look at Mark. The CEO’s expression was unreadable as usual, his brow slightly furrowed, his jaw tight. But there was a shadow to him tonight, something thinner and quieter, something like… exhaustion. Not the physical kind—Mark never allowed himself to appear tired—but something deeper. Something older.

Donghyuck returned to his work, highlighting a line in the planner before flipping the page. He had just finished rearranging the Thursday meetings when he noticed something odd out of the corner of his eye. A photo.

It was peeking out from behind a stack of finance reports and signed contracts on Mark’s desk. Just a corner of it—edges curled with age, the glossy sheen dulled by time. It wasn’t like Mark to leave personal items visible. Donghyuck’s heart skipped, more from surprise than anything, and before he could stop himself, his eyes were drawn to it.

He blinked, then carefully stood and walked to the other side of the room under the pretense of putting away a file. As he passed Mark’s desk, he stole a closer look at the photograph.

It was a snapshot, probably taken years ago. Mark stood in the center, younger, a touch more open in his posture. On either side of him were a woman and another man. The woman had sharp eyes and a brilliant smile, arm looped around Mark’s like they were siblings or perhaps something closer. The man, tall and charismatic-looking, had one hand on Mark’s shoulder in a casual, confident way. All three were smiling—on the surface, it looked like a happy moment—but the longer Donghyuck stared, the more he saw the tension hidden beneath the smiles. The way Mark’s body leaned ever-so-slightly away from the man, the stiffness in his shoulders, the subtle caution in his eyes. It wasn’t a natural smile. It was the kind you wore when someone asked you to pretend.

Donghyuck’s curiosity flared instantly, but he quickly pushed it down.

He stepped away and returned to his desk as casually as he could, but the image stayed with him, imprinting itself on his mind. He glanced at Mark again. The man hadn't moved; his fingers were still tapping quietly, but his jaw was tighter now, his lips pressed in a firm line.

Did he know Donghyuck had seen it?

Donghyuck stared at the screen in front of him, though the words blurred. He wanted to ask. He wanted to know who those people were—what that photo meant, why it was hidden like it had been carelessly left out in a rare moment of distraction.

Donghyuck pretended to focus, but his mind was elsewhere. The image of that photograph pulsed behind his eyes like an echo. He flipped a page in the planner just to make a sound, to do something with his hands.

Across the room, Mark finally paused typing. He sat back in his chair slowly, exhaling so quietly it was nearly imperceptible. Donghyuck glanced up again just in time to see Mark’s eyes flicker toward the photograph—just for a split second—before reaching out and sliding it beneath the paperwork with a swift, almost practiced movement.

So he had noticed.

Donghyuck looked down again quickly, pretending he hadn’t seen. But something in the air shifted—barely, but enough. There was a weight between them now, an invisible thread stretched taut with whatever history that photo carried.

Mark cleared his throat lightly. “What’s the status on the Lee & Carter pitch deck?”

Donghyuck’s head snapped up slightly, caught off guard not by the question, but by the tone. Not cold, not clipped. Just… neutral. Maybe even tired.

“Finished compiling the final version,” Donghyuck said, recovering quickly. “I’ve scheduled a review with their team for next Wednesday. You’ll have the full pitch emailed to you by tomorrow morning.”

Mark nodded once, expression unreadable. “Good.”

~

The next morning arrived with the kind of tense stillness that always seemed to settle over the office before a storm of back-to-back meetings. Donghyuck was early, as usual. Mark wasn’t in yet, but his door was unlocked, and Donghyuck had strict permission to enter before work hours to prep anything necessary. He moved quietly through the office, the soles of his shoes soft against the sleek floor as he approached Mark’s private file drawer.

He’d been sent in to retrieve a contract—something minor but time-sensitive—and he wanted it sorted before Mark showed up. Efficiency had become something of a game between them. The more precise Donghyuck was, the less Mark barked.

He crouched down and opened the drawer. Inside, everything was meticulously arranged, almost obsessively so—rows of neatly labeled file folders, boxes aligned perfectly, not a page out of place.

Until, of course, Donghyuck’s elbow knocked into one of the lower boxes.

The box teetered for a second, then tipped over entirely.

Its contents spilled out in a hushed cascade: envelopes, yellowing printouts, a few scattered Polaroids, and a small, worn leather-bound journal that landed with a muted thud against the carpet.

Donghyuck froze.

For a few seconds, he just stared. Panic prickled at the edges of his chest—this drawer clearly held more than just contracts. This was personal. Deeply personal.

He reached for the items quickly, intending to stuff everything back into the box before anyone could walk in. But his hand paused over the journal. It was brown, weathered, and thick with age. The edges were frayed, the leather cracked. Embossed in gold near the top right corner were two letters:

M.L.

Mark Lee.

Donghyuck swallowed.

He glanced toward the door—still empty—and then, against his better judgment, opened the journal.

The pages inside were filled with small, tight handwriting, the kind someone wrote when they needed to bleed on paper without being noticed. It didn’t feel like reading a diary—it felt like opening a wound that had never fully closed.

He skimmed the first page.

“He knew exactly where to strike. I trusted him like a brother, and he used that trust to gut everything I built. I still don’t know what hurt more—the financial loss or the realization that I meant nothing to him.”

Donghyuck blinked.

He turned another page. And another.

“The press had a field day. Stocks plummeted. Half the board threatened to resign. I spent weeks plugging leaks I didn’t know existed. I didn’t sleep. I didn’t eat. I just kept going—because if I stopped, it would all come down.”

“I saw her today. She couldn’t even look me in the eye. Said I’d become someone else. Maybe I had. Maybe the betrayal changed me. Or maybe she just didn’t like who I was when the masks came off.”

There were entries dated months apart, each one revealing fragments of a man unravelling under pressure, clawing to stay afloat while everything around him burned. Donghyuck felt his throat tighten with each line. This wasn’t just a business betrayal. This was personal . Mark hadn’t just been sabotaged—he’d been abandoned . Left to carry the fallout alone.

There were no names in the journal—just vague references. “He.” “She.” “They.” But the pain was specific, surgical. One entry hinted at the final fracture of a romantic relationship:

“I thought she’d stay. She said love couldn’t survive this version of me. I asked her what version that was. She didn’t answer.”

Donghyuck shut the journal gently, heart pounding.

He looked down at the scattered contents of the box—old letters, scribbled notes, emails printed out with highlighted betrayals, board meeting transcripts annotated in the margins. There was even a faded business card with a corner torn off and a single word scrawled across the back in all caps: LIAR.

Donghyuck gathered everything quickly and carefully returned it to the box, placing the journal at the bottom like it was a sacred object. He aligned the folders back into the drawer and closed it quietly.

He stood up slowly, mind reeling. The pieces clicked together now—the aloofness, the hard shell, the way Mark rarely trusted anyone with anything unless he’d proven himself over and over again. The cold exterior wasn’t arrogance. It was armor. Armor built over years of betrayal, loss, and solitude.

Donghyuck sat at his desk, his hands shaking slightly. He understood now why Mark seemed so unreachable—why he avoided vulnerability like it was poison. And despite himself, Donghyuck didn’t feel pity.

He felt empathy .

Because somewhere beneath all of Mark’s walls was a man who had been deeply hurt—someone who still carried the ghosts of people who once said they’d stay, and didn’t.

Donghyuck glanced at the office door again, already hearing Mark’s footsteps in his mind.

He wouldn’t mention the journal. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But something had changed in him now.

Not everything needed to be spoken to be understood.

~

The office was quiet again—another long day winding down into silence.

It was well past working hours, and most of the building had gone dark, save for the soft ambient glow from Mark’s office. The rhythmic clack of his keyboard echoed softly in the stillness as he wrapped up an email, his suit jacket already draped over one arm, ready to leave.

Donghyuck stood by the door, watching him for a moment.

He’d stayed behind on purpose.

Something had been stirring inside him all day. Ever since the journal. Ever since the puzzle pieces clicked into place and reframed everything he thought he knew about the elusive CEO he worked under. Donghyuck didn’t want to break trust—but he also couldn’t ignore what he now understood.

This wasn’t about exposing Mark’s pain. It was about acknowledging it —even if only quietly, in the smallest way.

“Mark,” Donghyuck said, voice low.

Mark glanced up, surprised to see him still there. “You’re still here?”

“Yeah,” Donghyuck said, stepping further into the office. “I figured I’d stay a little late. I wanted to… talk.”

Mark raised a brow, sliding his laptop into its case. “About?”

Donghyuck hesitated, weighing every word like it might tip the balance. He walked over slowly and stood near the edge of Mark’s desk, not behind it, not across from it—but beside it. Equal ground.

“I saw the photo yesterday,” Donghyuck began softly. “The one behind the papers. You, a man, and a woman… all smiling, but not really.”

Mark’s expression froze. The air between them thickened instantly.

Donghyuck pressed on before he could be shut out. “And today, I—well, I knocked over something in your drawer. A box. I didn’t mean to. I was just trying to grab the contract, but the journal… it fell out.”

Mark went still. His eyes, usually so sharp and unreadable, slowly narrowed.

“I didn’t read much,” Donghyuck added, though it wasn’t entirely true. “But enough to understand… that something really awful happened. That someone you trusted betrayed you.”

There was a beat of silence.

Mark closed his eyes briefly and let out a long, tired sigh. He didn’t snap. He didn’t accuse. He just… deflated , like someone letting go of a breath they’d held in for years.

“Of course you found it,” he said, almost bitterly, almost amused.

“I wasn’t snooping,” Donghyuck said quickly.

Mark shook his head. “No. I believe you. If you were, you’d have said more. Or nothing at all.” He leaned back against the desk, his body language guarded, but his eyes softer now. There was something exhausted in them.

He rubbed the back of his neck, searching for words. “He was my best friend. My business partner from the beginning. We started the company together. I trusted him with everything—my ideas, my strategy, my money. I thought he had my back.”

Mark’s voice dropped a little.

“He sold me out to a rival company. Leaked proprietary data. Orchestrated a buyout attempt behind my back. The board nearly sided with him. If I hadn’t caught it in time… none of this would exist.”

Donghyuck stayed quiet, letting him speak.

“I had to rebuild from the ground up,” Mark went on. “Burned through savings. Lost clients. Lost… someone I cared about, too. She said I’d changed. And she wasn’t wrong.”

He turned to look out the window, the city lights blinking back at him like a thousand distant stars. “But how could I not change? When you get gutted like that, you don’t just stitch yourself up and go back to being who you were. You build walls. High ones. And you stop letting people in.”

Donghyuck stepped a little closer. “Is that why you keep everyone at a distance? Even me?”

Mark’s lips twitched, a ghost of a smile with no humor in it. “Especially you. You’re smart. Too perceptive for your own good. The more I let you in, the more I risk seeing something I care about walk away again.”

Donghyuck felt his heart squeeze.

He could hear it in Mark’s tone—not just pain, but fear. Not just the bitterness of betrayal, but the lingering ache of disconnection . Somewhere beneath all that cold professionalism and sharp wit was a man who had been alone for far too long.

“You’re not the only one who’s been let down before,” Donghyuck said gently. “But not everyone is out to hurt you. Some people stay.”

Mark looked at him then—really looked at him. And for the first time, there was no defensiveness, no careful detachment. Just… vulnerability. Raw and flickering like a candle in a storm.

“I know,” Mark said quietly. “I just… haven’t figured out how to believe that again.”

Donghyuck gave a small nod. “Then maybe let someone help you try.”

Mark stood there for a moment, arms folded loosely across his chest, not in defiance but as if holding himself together. Donghyuck had never seen him look this human—this unarmored . The polished, aloof CEO seemed to fall away in pieces, leaving behind just a man still holding the weight of too many ghosts.

He exhaled slowly, gaze fixed somewhere in the darkened skyline. Then, without looking at Donghyuck, he said, quietly, “The woman in the photo. Her name was Elise.”

Donghyuck said nothing—just waited.

“We were together for four years. She knew me better than anyone,” Mark continued, voice softer now. “She stuck through the first stages of building this company. All the sleepless nights. The pressure. The ambition. But when things fell apart—after Daniel… after the boardroom war and the press and the lawsuits—she couldn’t handle who I became.”

Donghyuck’s voice was gentle. “Who did you become?”

Mark gave a faint, bitter smile. “Cold. Obsessive. Distrustful. I started seeing threats in everyone, even people trying to help. I pushed everyone away so I wouldn’t have to watch them leave.”

There was a pause. Then, for the first time, Mark turned to face Donghyuck fully. His eyes weren’t sharp now—they were tired, but open.

“I’m still trying to unlearn that,” he admitted. “Some days, I don’t even realize I’m doing it. Then you show up with your smart mouth and your ridiculous tea obsession and—” he trailed off, almost smiling despite himself. “It’s irritating.”

Donghyuck raised an eyebrow, grinning just a little. “You’re welcome.”

Mark let out a soft huff of air. Not quite a laugh, but close.

The mood shifted—barely, subtly—but the current had changed. The air felt less tense now, and something about the way Mark was standing—arms no longer crossed, expression no longer guarded—made Donghyuck’s chest ache in a strange, tender way.

“I didn’t mean to find the journal,” Donghyuck said again, more softly this time. “But I’m glad I did.”

Mark nodded once. “I figured if anyone was going to stumble on it, it’d be you.”

He moved to grab his jacket from the chair, but then paused and glanced at Donghyuck.

“You hungry?”

Donghyuck blinked. “Wait… are you asking me to dinner?”

Mark shrugged with practiced indifference, though the corner of his mouth quirked. “I was going to stop by that Thai place on 5th. Figured you’d be too stubborn to eat properly if left alone in the office.”

Donghyuck’s grin widened. “Is this your way of saying ‘thank you’?”

“No,” Mark replied dryly. “It’s my way of saying you look like you live on caffeine and spite.”

Donghyuck grabbed his coat anyway. “I’ll take it.”

They walked out side by side, the usual space between them smaller than it used to be. And though Mark didn’t say anything more about the journal or Elise or Daniel, Donghyuck didn’t need him to.

The city was quieter than usual as they stepped out of the building, the sky a deep indigo bleeding into black, with scattered stars barely visible above the skyline. Mark’s car was parked out front, and for a moment, Donghyuck expected to be offered a ride. But instead, Mark turned and said, “It’s a short walk.”

Donghyuck matched his pace, grateful for the cool air brushing against his cheeks. The silence between them wasn’t awkward this time—it felt like a pause, a breath, like both were adjusting to a new rhythm neither had prepared for.

The Thai place was tucked into a corner of 5th Street, lit by warm, golden bulbs and a neon “OPEN” sign that flickered lazily. It was cozy, with a couple of booths along the window and soft instrumental music playing overhead. It was also quiet—only a few other patrons scattered throughout the space, their conversations a soft murmur in the background.

They slid into a booth near the back. The server handed them menus, and Mark, surprisingly, didn’t rush. He scanned the options thoughtfully, even asked Donghyuck for a recommendation.

“They make a killer green curry,” Donghyuck said, glancing up from his own menu. “But you look like a pad see ew guy.”

Mark looked at him, one brow arched. “What does that even mean?”

“You like things clean. Straightforward. Not too spicy, but just enough flavor to say you’re not boring.”

Mark’s lips twitched. “You got all that from a plate of noodles?”

“I have a gift,” Donghyuck said smugly, sipping water. “Also, I watch what you eat when you forget I exist.”

Mark set his menu down, eyes steady on him. “I don’t forget you exist.”

The words were soft. Firm. And they landed harder than either of them expected.

Donghyuck blinked, momentarily thrown, but recovered quickly with a small smirk. “I’ll put that on a plaque.”

Mark didn’t respond, but there was a small warmth behind his eyes now—something slightly more open, more… safe.

They ordered—Donghyuck did get the green curry, and Mark, after a beat of deliberation, did go for the pad see ew.

When the food arrived, they ate in companionable silence for a few minutes, the warmth of the curry and the fragrant basil comforting in ways Donghyuck hadn’t realized he needed. At one point, Mark quietly pushed a small bowl of extra rice toward Donghyuck without a word.

Halfway through the meal, Donghyuck glanced up. “So… Daniel.”

Mark tensed just slightly.

“I won’t push,” Donghyuck said gently. “But if you ever want to talk about him—really talk—I’ll listen.”

Mark didn’t answer right away. He chewed, swallowed, set his fork down neatly on the plate.

“He was my best friend,” he said, finally. “Business partner. We started everything together.”

He paused, eyes drifting toward the window as if the night might offer him the right words.

“He sold me out. Leaked internal documents to a rival firm, tanked our first launch. Said he did it because he thought I was getting too controlling. Too obsessed with growth.” His voice turned quiet. “Maybe he was right.”

“No,” Donghyuck said. “You were trying to build something. He didn’t have to destroy it to get out.”

Mark looked at him then—really looked at him—and Donghyuck held his gaze without flinching.

Something shifted again.

“You’re annoyingly good at that,” Mark muttered.

“At what?”

“Not letting me sink.”

Donghyuck shrugged with a crooked smile. “It’s in the job description.”

Mark didn’t argue. He just picked up his fork again.

They finished dinner slowly, the space between them no longer sharp-edged or formal, but familiar in a way that felt new. When they left the restaurant, they walked a little closer than before—shoulders almost brushing, but never quite.

Mark didn’t say goodnight when they reached the corner where they’d part. He just looked at Donghyuck for a moment, thoughtful, almost hesitant.

“Thanks for staying tonight,” he said, quietly.

Donghyuck smiled. “Anytime.”

And as Mark turned and walked off into the city, Donghyuck stood still for a moment, watching the man who had finally— finally —let a sliver of himself show.

Chapter Text

The office felt different the next morning.

It was subtle at first—nothing too obvious. The same echo of Donghyuck’s footsteps across the marble floor, the soft hum of computers flickering to life, the scent of fresh paper and bitter coffee still lingering in the air. But beneath all that familiar routine was something… lighter. Something unspoken.

Donghyuck stepped through the frosted glass doors, clutching his messenger bag, blinking at the space as if he’d walked into an entirely different dimension. Everything looked the same. But it didn’t feel the same.

Mark’s office light was already on, as usual. The CEO was seated at his sleek desk, bathed in the early morning glow filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. His posture was straight-backed, his attention locked on the laptop screen, fingers moving at a steady rhythm over the keyboard. From a distance, it was business as usual—controlled, focused, unreachable.

But then Donghyuck walked closer, a stack of new files in his arms and a casual, “Morning,” on his tongue.

Mark looked up.

And that single glance—brief as it was—shifted something.

Their eyes met. Just for a heartbeat. Mark’s expression, usually so unreadable, seemed… less guarded. His gaze didn’t carry the razor-sharp edge Donghyuck had come to expect.

And then Mark said, “Morning,” back.

No cold undertone. No dismissiveness. The word didn’t feel obligatory. It had warmth to it. It sounded human.

Donghyuck nearly missed a step.

He gave a quick nod, eyes slightly wide, before ducking his head and briskly moving toward his desk, heart doing something strange and fluttery in his chest. It wasn’t a big deal, he told himself. People said “good morning” all the time.

But Mark didn’t.

Not like that .

Donghyuck sat down, flipping open his laptop with hands that suddenly felt fidgety. He dove into sorting emails, skimming through memos, reorganizing his to-do list—but none of it could distract him from the awareness prickling at the back of his neck.

He could feel Mark’s presence, as always, like gravity in the room. But today, that gravity wasn’t heavy. It wasn’t pulling everything into silence and formality. It was gentler. More like the sun warming a cold windowsill.

Mark hadn’t snapped at anyone this morning. Hadn’t muttered a clipped comment under his breath. When the intern passed by to deliver a package, Mark had even thanked her . Polite. Quiet. But audible.

Donghyuck’s fingers hovered above the keyboard. His thoughts flicked back to last night—the hesitant confession, the weariness in Mark’s eyes, the way his voice had softened when he spoke about betrayal and burnout. The way he’d seemed… tired , not just in body but in soul. As if all his sharp edges had been whittled down by years of fending off the world alone.

And then, over dumplings and jasmine tea, they’d talked. Really talked .

It wasn’t much. But it had been enough to open a small door. A crack of light through a wall Donghyuck had once believed was impenetrable.

And today, that light lingered.

Mark hadn’t changed overnight. He still moved with quiet precision, still radiated power and control. But something had undeniably shifted. A tiny thread of trust had been tugged loose. Enough to color the morning in an unfamiliar, tentative hue.

Donghyuck found himself glancing toward Mark’s office more than once, catching the occasional glimpse of his boss—still typing, still reading, still immersed in the world he’d built to keep everyone out.

But every time Mark’s eyes flicked up and noticed him, they didn’t narrow. They didn’t harden.

They simply… met his.

And that was new.

That was something.

~

Mid-morning rolled in with a comforting rhythm. The buzz of emails had quieted, the phones weren’t ringing off the hook, and the office had settled into a calm hum of productivity. Donghyuck stood from his desk, stretching with a quiet yawn. It was time.

His daily coffee run had become a small ritual—a way to stretch his legs, shake off the humdrum of screen time, and yes, perhaps a bit of a peace offering to his icy CEO. It had started as an unofficial task, something he took on out of politeness. But lately, he’d noticed Mark never said no to the coffee. And maybe—just maybe—he even looked forward to it.

Today, Donghyuck was feeling bold.

He stopped at the usual café down the block, ordered the usual coffees—Mark’s dark roast with no cream or sugar, and his own indulgent vanilla latte—and then, eyes catching the pastry display, he made a last-minute addition: a warm taiyaki, golden brown and smiling up at him like it knew a secret. It was filled with red bean paste, a favorite from his childhood, and it smelled like afternoons in Seoul when his mom would sneak him sweets after school.

He grinned at the memory as he paid and carefully balanced the tray. The walk back was uneventful, but the anticipation buzzed under his skin. The office elevator dinged softly, and he stepped out, navigating the hallway with the kind of hyper-focus only a man carrying two coffees and a fish-shaped pastry could manage.

Mark’s office door was open. That was the first surprise.

The second came when Mark turned toward the door just as Donghyuck reached the threshold. Their eyes met—again—and Mark’s brows lifted in surprise, just enough to throw Donghyuck off balance.

And that was when fate decided to intervene.

His foot caught the edge of the rug, and the tray tilted perilously. Donghyuck gasped, eyes wide as the world moved in slow motion. The two coffee cups wobbled, one tipping just enough to send a splash of liquid over the side. A thick, hot stream dripped toward the ground.

“Shit—!” Donghyuck yelped, desperately trying to steady the tray. By some miracle, the coffee missed Mark’s desk entirely and hit the floor with a wet splatter.

Mark had instinctively taken a full step back, arms raised slightly, as if bracing for impact. His eyes were wide, mouth parted in surprise.

“I’m so sorry,” Donghyuck gasped, setting the tray down on the edge of the desk with shaking hands. “I’ll clean it up. Just—don’t move! Please don’t move.”

He was already crouching, reaching into his satchel for the emergency pack of tissues he always kept for meetings and spills—though usually not of the espresso variety—when he heard it.

A sound. Brief. Soft.

A breath.

No— a laugh.

Donghyuck froze mid-wipe, blinking as he slowly turned his head to look up at the towering figure above him.

Mark was still standing there. Still watching. But his hand had come up to cover his mouth—and behind it, his lips were twitching.

It was small. So small that anyone else might’ve missed it.

But Donghyuck saw it.

A smile.

An honest-to-god smile.

Real. Uneven. The tiniest bit awkward, like Mark had forgotten how to use those muscles. But unmistakable.

Donghyuck stared, momentarily speechless. He didn’t even register the damp coffee-soaked tissue in his hand. For a long beat, neither of them spoke.

Then Mark cleared his throat, clearly trying to reel the moment back into familiar waters.

“I thought you said you were coordinated,” he murmured, but there was no malice in the words—only faint amusement, dry and restrained like a gentle tease.

Donghyuck’s mouth fell open. “That was not my fault. You turned around like a horror movie jump-scare! You startled me!”

Mark tilted his head. “You brought fish-shaped cake.”

Donghyuck squinted at him. “It’s taiyaki. It’s a cultural treasure. Show some reverence.”

Mark’s lips twitched again. And then—just for a second—he laughed. Not loud, not open, but a quiet huff of air that felt so out of place coming from him that Donghyuck couldn’t help but beam.

He stood up, brushing off his knees and setting the now-dented taiyaki down next to the surviving coffee cup. “I’ll have you know, that fish is filled with sweet red bean paste and the love of a hundred grandmas. Have some respect. ”

Mark snorted.

It was an honest sound. Not polished or professional, not part of the aloof CEO persona. It was him , unfiltered and unexpectedly endearing.

And just like that, Donghyuck felt the ice thaw a little more.

He raised an eyebrow, holding out the surviving cup. “Peace offering?”

Mark eyed it. Then, without a word, he took the coffee from Donghyuck’s hand. Their fingers brushed. Briefly. And this time, Mark didn’t pull away.

Mark sat back down at his desk, turning his chair toward the monitor, but his movements were looser now—less stiff, less rehearsed. The coffee cup rested in his hand like it belonged there, and for the first time since Donghyuck had started working for him, Mark didn’t immediately launch into something work-related. He simply… sat, sipping his coffee. Quiet. Present.

Donghyuck, still buzzing from the surprise of that smile, walked over with a paper towel to clean up the mess on the floor. “You know,” he said casually, crouching again, “most people would say thank you when someone brings them a perfectly good pastry.”

Mark didn’t look at him, but there was a beat—a pause in his typing—that felt deliberate.

“Most people don’t nearly douse their boss in boiling coffee,” he replied dryly.

Donghyuck chuckled under his breath. “Touche.”

He stood back up, tossed the soaked tissues into the trash, and leaned against the edge of Mark’s desk, just enough to test the water. “I’m serious though. Taiyaki is the best. That bakery on 6th Street makes them fresh every morning. If you don’t try it, I might start thinking you’re a robot.”

Mark glanced up at that, one brow lifting with faint curiosity. “A robot?”

Donghyuck nodded solemnly. “Cold, efficient, possibly manufactured in a secret underground lab. You wouldn’t be the first CEO.”

Mark exhaled through his nose—half sigh, half reluctant amusement. “I suppose that would explain the software updates I keep missing.”

Donghyuck blinked.

“Was that… a joke?”

Mark didn’t answer. But the corner of his mouth lifted again.

Donghyuck grinned like he’d just won a prize. “You’re joking now? Wow. Should I alert the press? Or is that just a feature of the latest CEO firmware?”

Mark gave him a side glance. “You’re pushing your luck.”

Donghyuck raised both hands in surrender. “Noted. No teasing the boss before noon.”

Mark shook his head, and this time the smile stayed a little longer. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” Donghyuck said, gesturing between them, “you’re still drinking the coffee I brought and not firing me.”

Mark didn’t answer immediately. He took another sip instead, looking out the floor-to-ceiling window behind his desk. The morning light was golden now, glinting off the skyline. His voice, when it came, was quiet.

“I don’t hate having you around,” he said.

Donghyuck blinked. “What?”

Mark didn’t repeat it. He just kept staring out the window, expression unreadable again. But the words had been clear.

Donghyuck let the silence stretch, not wanting to scare the moment away.

Then he reached over and tore a piece off the taiyaki. “Guess I’ll just eat this emotional support pastry alone then,” he mumbled around a bite.

Mark didn’t respond, but Donghyuck swore he saw him glance at the pastry once more.

“I’ll leave the rest here,” Donghyuck said, standing up and brushing off his hands. “In case your software update includes a taste for sweet things.”

He turned to leave, but just as he reached the door, Mark’s voice stopped him.

“Donghyuck.”

He turned. “Yeah?”

Mark looked at him—really looked at him. His expression wasn’t smiling anymore, but it wasn’t cold either. Just thoughtful. Curious. Maybe even a little grateful.

“Thank you.”

Donghyuck blinked. It was so simple. So unexpected.

He smiled, soft and genuine. “Anytime.”

And as he walked back to his own desk, he couldn’t stop the giddy warmth bubbling in his chest.

~

The hours slipped by almost unnoticed after that morning’s unexpected moment. The office hummed with the usual quiet bustle—the soft clicking of keyboards, the distant murmur of phone calls, the shuffle of papers. Yet, for Donghyuck, everything felt subtly different. The air seemed lighter, less oppressive, as if Mark’s rare smile had lifted an invisible weight from the room.

Donghyuck found himself replaying the scene over and over in his mind. The way Mark’s eyes had flicked up to meet his, hesitant but open. The faint smile that had danced briefly on his lips—awkward and almost shy, but undeniably real. The softened tone of his voice when he’d said “morning” back, stripped of its usual cold edge. Even the way Mark’s shoulders, usually tight and guarded, had relaxed just a fraction. It was like sunshine breaking through months—maybe years—of overcast skies.

Every time Donghyuck caught himself smiling at the memory, he had to shake his head, chastising himself for being so easily swayed by such a small gesture. But the truth was, it mattered. A lot. More than he wanted to admit.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of tasks. Donghyuck typed up reports, coordinated schedules, and double-checked meetings for the week ahead. Yet, even in the midst of all the mundane routine, that small moment of warmth lingered, tucked quietly in the back of his mind.

As he compiled a detailed report for Mark’s review, Donghyuck couldn’t resist slipping in a little note—a tiny, private echo of the morning’s exchange. In the margins of the last page, he typed:

P.S. I ordered more fish-shaped cakes. You’re welcome.

He hesitated for a moment, fingers hovering over the keyboard, then grinned and printed the report.

When he handed the folder to Mark later, there was no immediate reaction. Mark’s face remained composed, unreadable, his eyes scanning the pages with that familiar focus. But as Donghyuck turned to leave, something caught his attention.

A flicker. A subtle twitch at the corner of Mark’s mouth. The hint of a smile.

Barely there. Faint like a whispered secret.

But unmistakably real.

Donghyuck’s chest swelled with a quiet joy he didn’t bother hiding. That tiny, fleeting smile was enough—enough to light up his whole afternoon, enough to make the dullest reports feel suddenly worthwhile.

As Donghyuck settled back at his desk, the quiet office around him seemed almost inviting instead of intimidating. He glanced over at Mark’s door, still ajar, with the soft hum of Mark’s typing drifting out like a gentle reminder that something had shifted — however slightly — between them.

For the first time, Donghyuck felt the distance between them shrink just a bit, like a thin thread slowly being pulled taut instead of snapping under pressure.

Minutes later, the soft ping of an email notification pulled Donghyuck’s attention. It was from Mark. The subject line was simple: Thanks.

He opened it with a mixture of curiosity and surprise.

“For the taiyaki and the note. You have good taste—and maybe a talent for unexpected kindness. Let’s see if you can keep it up.”

Donghyuck smiled to himself, the corners of his mouth twitching into a grin. That small message, so brief yet so genuine, was a gift—a rare crack in Mark’s usually impermeable armor.

He stared at the screen for a moment, feeling something new: a connection, fragile but real.

“Alright, Mark,” he whispered to the quiet office. “Challenge accepted.”

Chapter Text

The office was humming with the usual rhythm of mid-morning productivity — keyboards clicking, the low drone of distant phone calls, and the soft rustling of papers. Donghyuck sat at his desk, reviewing schedules and double-checking emails when the team lead walked over with a newcomer in tow.

“Donghyuck, I want you to meet Jaemin,” the team lead said, smiling warmly. “He’s joining us for the next few months to help with the product launch. You’ll be working together a lot.”

Jaemin stepped forward with a confident yet approachable gait. His easy smile seemed to light up the room, a stark contrast to the typically muted office environment. His dark eyes scanned the space, taking in the setup and the people with a relaxed curiosity.

“Hi, Donghyuck. It’s great to meet you,” Jaemin said, extending a hand. His voice was calm, warm, and infused with a casual charm that instantly put Donghyuck at ease.

Donghyuck stood and shook his hand. “Welcome to the team, Jaemin. I hope the transition’s been smooth so far.”

Jaemin laughed lightly. “So far, so good. But I’m counting on you to help me navigate the trenches.”

That easy banter was unlike anything Donghyuck usually experienced at work, where conversations tended to be strictly professional and cautious, especially with Mark’s commanding presence looming over everything.

As the morning progressed, Jaemin wasted no time blending into the team. During breaks, he wandered over to Donghyuck’s desk, engaging him with casual questions about the office culture and the quirks of the company’s workflow. He had a way of making small talk feel genuine instead of obligatory.

At one point, as Donghyuck organized a stack of reports, Jaemin nudged him playfully. “So, what’s the secret to surviving around here? Aside from caffeine, of course.”

Donghyuck smiled, feeling a rare lightness in his chest. “Patience. And knowing when to duck under the radar.”

Jaemin laughed, a clear, easy sound that made a few heads turn. “Good advice. I’ll keep that in mind.”

During lunch, the two found themselves sitting side by side in the cramped but cozy cafeteria. The usual conversations were muted as most colleagues ate quietly or chatted in small groups. But Donghyuck and Jaemin’s dialogue filled the space between them with unexpected warmth.

They talked about music—Donghyuck shared his secret love for old vinyl records, and Jaemin confessed a surprising obsession with 80s synth-pop. They swapped favorite restaurants, debated the best hiking trails around the city, and even teased each other over embarrassing childhood stories.

Donghyuck laughed aloud for the first time in weeks when Jaemin recounted a story about accidentally walking into the wrong office and confidently pitching a ridiculous idea to a room full of confused executives. Jaemin’s self-deprecating humor was disarming, and Donghyuck found himself lowering the walls he’d carefully built over the years.

Back in his office, Mark glanced up from his laptop. The sight of Donghyuck’s unguarded smile caught his attention, and for a moment, his expression flickered with something unreadable. He watched as Jaemin animatedly gestured during their conversation, the easy camaraderie between the two men impossible to ignore.

Mark’s jaw tightened imperceptibly. He told himself to focus on the work, that this was just a new colleague settling in and that Donghyuck was free to talk to whoever he wanted. But deep down, a strange knot formed in his stomach, twisting tighter every time he glanced their way.

As the afternoon light slanted through the tall office windows, casting long shadows across the sleek desks and polished floors, Donghyuck and Jaemin continued to bond over work and small talk. They settled into an easy rhythm—Jaemin’s relaxed charm contrasting with Donghyuck’s focused precision—and their laughter sometimes bubbled quietly, lightening the atmosphere around them.

During a break, Jaemin pulled out his phone and showed Donghyuck a playlist he had curated for late-night productivity sessions. “You’ve got to try this one—it’s like a soundtrack for getting things done without losing your mind.”

Donghyuck smiled, taking the phone. “This might actually save me from my usual playlist of boring classical music.”

Jaemin grinned. “Consider it a rescue mission.”

The moment felt natural—unexpectedly so—like two old friends reconnecting rather than coworkers navigating a new partnership.

Across the room, Mark glanced again toward the duo, this time more deliberately. His eyes narrowed just slightly, tracing the easy gestures, the frequent smiles, the way Jaemin seemed to understand Donghyuck’s jokes without hesitation. There was a softness in Mark’s chest that he hadn’t felt in a long time, but it was quickly replaced by something sharper: a prickle of possessiveness that unsettled him.

Mark swallowed hard and turned back to his screen, forcing his fingers to type as steadily as before. He told himself it was nonsense—just jealousy, and jealousy was useless. Donghyuck was his assistant, and that was all.

But still, Mark couldn’t stop himself from stealing another glance. He felt a tightening around his throat, a rising tension he hadn’t expected so soon after letting his guard down just a little the day before.

Back at his desk, Donghyuck noticed the change too. When Mark’s gaze lingered, there was something behind it—something unreadable. Yet when their eyes met, Mark quickly looked away, as if embarrassed to be caught observing.

Donghyuck’s heart thumped awkwardly, but he dismissed it, focusing instead on his conversation with Jaemin. He was enjoying this—enjoying being able to breathe a little easier at work, to share a laugh without the usual tightness that came with Mark’s presence.

As the afternoon wore on, Jaemin glanced at his watch and sighed. “I’ve got a meeting in a bit, but this was fun. We should definitely do this again.”

Donghyuck nodded. “Absolutely. It’s nice to have someone to talk to who doesn’t make work feel like a war zone.”

Jaemin smiled warmly. “I get that. And hey, if you ever need backup or just want to grab a drink after work, I’m around.”

Donghyuck’s smile widened, a genuine, bright one. “I might just take you up on that.”

Mark watched this exchange quietly from the corner of the room, his fists clenched under the desk. He wasn’t sure what this feeling was—jealousy, yes, but deeper, more complicated. Something tugging at a part of him he thought he’d long buried.

~

The next few days unfolded with an almost casual rhythm, but beneath the surface, the undercurrents in the office were shifting—especially for Mark.

Donghyuck and Jaemin’s friendship blossomed quickly. Their workdays were punctuated with brief, easy conversations by the coffee machine, exchanging recommendations for everything from music playlists to the best hidden food spots near the office. They began texting each other outside of work—simple messages at first, like reminders about meetings or sharing a funny meme, but gradually evolving into longer chats about life, ambitions, and even occasional personal anecdotes.

One afternoon, Jaemin invited Donghyuck for coffee at a nearby café after work. The invitation was casual, but for Donghyuck, it was a welcome break from the usual stress. They sat by the window, watching people pass by as they chatted about everything from favorite books to childhood memories. Donghyuck laughed more freely than he had in months, and Jaemin’s easygoing nature was like a balm to his usually tight nerves.

Meanwhile, back in the office, Mark felt the shift with a growing, inexplicable weight in his chest. Every time he caught sight of Donghyuck laughing with Jaemin—whether across the lunchroom, near the copier, or through a quick text glance on his phone—it sparked a vague, uneasy tightening. It was unfamiliar territory, this swirl of irritation and protectiveness that gnawed at him silently.

Mark prided himself on his control—over his company, his schedule, and his emotions. But lately, the smooth surface of his usual calm demeanor had begun to crack ever so slightly.

In meetings where Jaemin was present, Mark found himself distracted, his gaze drifting toward Donghyuck more often than before. There was something about the ease between the two men that unsettled him—a stark contrast to the guarded, professional distance Mark maintained with his assistant.

At first, he chalked it up to simple annoyance. Jaemin was new, a temporary addition, and Mark didn’t like feeling edged out or watching someone else step into a space he’d long kept close. But as days passed, that irritation deepened into something less defined, harder to dismiss.

One morning, Mark caught himself snapping at Donghyuck over a minor scheduling issue—something that ordinarily wouldn’t have bothered him. Donghyuck blinked in surprise, taken aback by the sudden sharpness. Mark immediately regretted the tone, but the flicker of possessiveness was hard to quell.

Later, while reviewing a report, Mark’s thoughts drifted again to the easy camaraderie between Donghyuck and Jaemin. He wondered—jealously—what it was about Jaemin that made Donghyuck so relaxed. And more than that, he wondered why it bothered him so much.

That evening, Mark sat alone in his office, the glow of the city lights filtering in through the windows. He stared at the screen but saw nothing. The feelings swirling inside him—possessiveness, vulnerability, confusion—were unfamiliar and unwelcome.

Mark had spent years building walls, trusting few, keeping everyone at arm’s length. But now, watching Donghyuck forge a connection with someone else, those walls trembled. For the first time in a long time, Mark felt exposed.

The following morning, Mark arrived at the office earlier than usual. He preferred the quiet before the day’s chaos, a moment to collect his thoughts and prepare. But today, even that stillness felt unsettled.

As Donghyuck walked in, chatting with Jaemin who was arriving just behind him, Mark’s eyes flickered with something he didn’t expect—jealousy.

He told himself it was irrational. After all, Jaemin was just a consultant, here temporarily, nothing more than a colleague. Yet, every laugh shared, every casual touch on the arm during a joke, felt like a small invasion into a space Mark hadn’t realized was his to protect.

Throughout the morning meeting, Mark’s attention wandered. He caught Donghyuck smiling warmly at Jaemin when a witty comment was made. Mark’s fingers clenched around his pen, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. The usual calm behind his eyes now carried a trace of restlessness.

Mark’s mind replayed snippets of their interactions—the way Donghyuck’s eyes lit up with genuine amusement, the carefree tilt of his head when Jaemin teased him. Those moments of lightness were foreign to Mark’s own experience, where trust was a currency he rarely spent and vulnerability a liability.

During a break, Mark found himself standing just out of earshot near the conference room, watching Donghyuck and Jaemin share a quick conversation. Their voices were low but friendly, full of that ease Mark wished he could share.

A pang of possessiveness surged through him, surprising and unwelcome. He hadn’t realized how much he valued Donghyuck’s attention until it was divided.

Later that afternoon, Mark’s behavior shifted subtly but noticeably. His responses to Donghyuck’s updates became terser, less collaborative, as if trying to reclaim some measure of control. When Donghyuck suggested a minor change in the schedule, Mark’s curt “No” was sharper than necessary.

Donghyuck noticed and hesitated, but chose not to press. Instead, he watched Mark carefully, sensing the undercurrent of discomfort.

~

The morning light filtered through the tall windows of the sleek office, casting long shadows across the polished floor. The usual hum of the business day was underway—phones ringing, keyboards clicking, quiet conversations in the halls—but beneath it all, something had shifted.

Mark and Donghyuck found themselves standing side by side at the edge of the conference room, waiting for the afternoon meeting to start. Donghyuck glanced at his phone, then back up, ready to ask Mark a quick question about a client presentation.

But before he could speak, Mark’s voice broke the silence—low, calm, but carrying an unmistakable edge.

“Make sure your priorities don’t get mixed up,” Mark said, eyes locked on Donghyuck’s. “Remember why you’re here.”

The words hung in the air like a challenge, subtle but heavy. It wasn’t an outright warning, but the implication was clear—Mark was drawing a line. An invisible boundary that Donghyuck wasn’t sure he’d crossed but felt the weight of all the same.

Donghyuck blinked, surprised by the tone. “Of course,” he replied carefully, masking his confusion. “Everything’s on track.”

Mark nodded, but the faint tightness in his jaw betrayed a guardedness that hadn’t been there before. The brief exchange left a prickling unease between them, an unspoken tension that neither fully understood yet.

Donghyuck shook his head gently, brushing off the moment. “Maybe it’s just stress,” he thought. “Mark’s always been intense—nothing new.”

He told himself that Mark’s brusqueness was just the pressure of the job, or maybe the lingering effects of the scandal and burnout from his past. Still, the feeling lingered—a strange, electric buzz just beneath the surface of their usual professional dynamic.

As the meeting began, Donghyuck focused on the agenda, but his mind kept wandering back to that moment. Was it jealousy? Concern? Or something more complicated?

Later that evening, the office had emptied, bathed in the soft glow of desk lamps and city lights spilling through the windows. Mark sat alone behind his desk, the weight of the day pressing down on him.

~

The next morning, Donghyuck arrived at the office earlier than usual, hoping to get a head start on his tasks. The quiet hum of the building waking up wrapped around him like a familiar cloak. He made his way to the kitchen to grab a coffee, his thoughts still lingering on the previous day’s conversation.

As he stepped out of the kitchen, he almost bumped into Mark in the hallway. Mark was walking toward his office, expression unreadable but eyes sharp, briefly catching Donghyuck’s gaze. There was something in that look — a flicker of something intense — that caught Donghyuck off guard.

“Good morning,” Donghyuck said casually, forcing a smile.

Mark nodded, his voice low and clipped. “Morning.”

There was an edge to Mark’s tone that hadn’t been there before — not quite hostile, but unmistakably charged. Donghyuck felt a strange tightening in his chest, as if a silent line had been drawn between them overnight.

Later, as Donghyuck sat at his desk responding to emails, his phone buzzed. A message from Jaemin popped up: Coffee after work?

Donghyuck smiled and typed back quickly, then glanced toward Mark’s office. Mark was on a call, his posture stiff, eyes darting toward Donghyuck’s direction more than once.

At that moment, the line between professional distance and something more personal blurred uncomfortably.

In a rare break, Mark stepped out of his office and paused beside Donghyuck’s desk.

“Don’t forget where your responsibilities lie,” Mark said quietly, his voice carrying the same subtle warning from yesterday.

Donghyuck met his gaze steadily. “I know.”

Mark’s expression softened just a bit, but the guardedness remained.

As the office settled into the quiet lull of late afternoon, Donghyuck found himself distracted, replaying every interaction with Mark over the past few days. The smiles shared with Jaemin felt lighter, but the weight of Mark’s gaze lingered like a shadow in the back of his mind. He hadn’t expected to feel torn—between the comfort of new friendship and the strange pull toward his demanding boss.

When the clock finally struck six, Donghyuck gathered his things slowly, reluctant to leave the thickening tension behind. As he passed Mark’s office on his way out, the door was slightly ajar. Through the narrow gap, Mark sat alone, staring intently at a framed photo on his desk.

Curious, Donghyuck paused just long enough to see the image clearly: it was from a company event weeks ago, showing Mark and Donghyuck standing side by side. Mark’s usually stern face was softened by a rare, genuine smile. The photo captured a moment Mark rarely showed—a glimpse of warmth and trust.

But now, as Mark looked at it, the smile was gone. His eyes were clouded with conflict and something unspoken—uncertainty, maybe fear.

Donghyuck hesitated for a heartbeat, then quietly left the office, the soft click of the door behind him marking the end of the day—and the beginning of something neither of them could yet name.

Chapter Text

Donghyuck moved with robotic precision through the sleek corridors of the 32nd floor, his expression unreadable, shoulders tight beneath the seams of his tailored blazer. His usual humor had been dialed down to zero, his greetings short, his laugh missing. The week had been a blur of meetings, emails, and rehearsed smiles—but none of them reached his eyes.

Not after what happened.

The memory flashed unwanted across his mind: Mark exiting the elevator last week, expression thunderous, just as Donghyuck had tossed his head back laughing at something Jaemin had said. It hadn’t been anything serious. Just a shared joke about the slow printer in the east wing. But the way Mark’s eyes had narrowed—how his voice turned razor-sharp the next time they spoke—it had clung to Donghyuck’s ribs like a hook.

Now, as he crossed the open-plan floor to deliver the finalized pitch deck, he didn’t spare a glance toward the glassed-in corner office. He didn’t have to. He could feel it—Mark’s gaze, heavy and unwavering, like it had been all week.

Behind the transparent barrier, Mark stood with arms folded, his suit jacket unbuttoned and forgotten, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. He wasn’t looking at the projection report on his screen. Not really. His eyes were locked on the steady rhythm of Donghyuck’s movements.

It was infuriating. Unnerving. And yet... familiar.

Mark’s grip on his own forearm tightened slightly. He told himself it was about efficiency—Donghyuck had been off his usual game. Quiet. Reserved. It was only natural that a boss would take notice. That a CEO should monitor.

But that wasn’t the truth. Not all of it.

He hated the way his chest clenched every time he saw Donghyuck smile at someone else. It was petty. Unprofessional. Completely beneath him.

And yet the jealousy twisted deep, hot and shameful, every time Donghyuck leaned close to another colleague or laughed too freely. It was worse when Donghyuck didn’t smile at all.

Mark hated how much space Donghyuck took up in his head. How a single look from him could derail his focus more than any market crash or quarterly failure.

This needed to stop. Or change. Or something.

He exhaled sharply and turned away from the glass, jaw tight.

Because if he didn’t say something soon, he’d either explode—or do something reckless.

And they both knew which one was more likely.

~

The soft click of the conference room door echoed louder than it should have in the stillness. Donghyuck stepped inside, laptop in hand, brows drawn slightly together in polite confusion. Mark stood near the end of the long table, arms braced against the edge, suit jacket discarded, sleeves rolled up, as if even fabric felt too heavy for the tension he was holding.

“You asked for a meeting about scheduling?” Donghyuck asked, careful not to let any weariness slip into his voice.

Mark didn’t look up immediately. His gaze remained fixed on the polished surface of the table, where his fingers tapped a steady, silent rhythm.

“Yes,” he said finally. But his voice lacked conviction.

Donghyuck set his laptop down with a quiet clack and folded his arms. “Okay. What about it?”

A pause. Too long.

Mark’s jaw tightened, and when he finally looked up, his eyes were darker than usual—unreadable, but storming with something that hadn’t yet found a name.

“There’s nothing wrong with the schedule,” he admitted.

Donghyuck didn’t move. “So this isn’t about the meeting times.”

Mark shook his head once.

Donghyuck exhaled through his nose, a quiet huff more tired than annoyed. “Okay. Then what is it?”

Mark opened his mouth, then closed it again. He looked away, toward the floor-to-ceiling window behind him, where sunlight streamed in and scattered faint shadows across the glass table. The silence was thick, a weight that neither of them seemed quite willing to carry.

Donghyuck tilted his head, voice soft but edged. “You’ve been cold all week. Short with me. Distant. Snapping for no reason. If I messed up, tell me. If not—don’t play games.”

Mark turned back toward him slowly. “You didn’t mess up.”

“Then what the hell was that about?” Donghyuck pressed, eyes narrowing.

A beat. Then another.

“I saw you,” Mark said finally. “Last week. With the new hire.”

Donghyuck blinked, taken aback. “Jaemin?”

Mark said nothing, which—ironically—said everything.

A pause stretched between them like pulled wire, and then Donghyuck’s expression cracked into something incredulous, a breathy half-laugh escaping him. “Are you serious right now?”

Mark’s throat bobbed.

“You were jealous.”

“I wouldn’t call it that,” Mark muttered stiffly.

Donghyuck’s voice was dry. “Then what would you call it? Territorial? Possessive? Petty?”

Mark’s eyes flashed with something sharp—guilt or frustration, it was hard to tell.

“I don’t know,” he said, quieter now. “I just... I didn’t like seeing it. Him. Making you laugh like that.”

Donghyuck stared at him, stunned into silence for a beat.

Then: “You don’t get to be mad about who I talk to unless you’re actually going to say something.”

Mark’s eyes lifted, meeting his with unflinching honesty for the first time in days.

“You’re right.”

Donghyuck faltered, just slightly. He hadn’t expected him to admit it. Not that easily.

“I was... annoyed,” Mark continued, voice measured but unsteady. “Not because of what you did, but because of how it made me feel. I wasn’t prepared for it. I didn’t know what to do with that.”

Donghyuck’s jaw tensed, not in anger—but in quiet processing. “You could’ve just talked to me.”

“I know,” Mark said. “I should have.”

There was a silence then—quieter, softer, not hostile. Donghyuck moved to lean against one of the high-backed chairs, arms crossed in front of him. Not defensive, just... guarded.

“I don’t play guessing games,” he said. “I need honesty. If you want something—whatever this is—you need to stop expecting me to read your mind while also pretending you don’t care.”

Mark nodded slowly, as if absorbing each word like it stung and soothed at once.

“You’re not the problem,” he said, voice barely above a murmur. “I am.”

It wasn’t quite an apology. Not yet. But it was more honest than most things Mark had ever said.

Donghyuck studied him carefully. He could’ve snapped. Could’ve walked out. But instead, he said:

“Then fix it.”

The silence stretched, not quite awkward but not comfortable either. Donghyuck glanced at the table, then at Mark again, the weight of their conversation still hanging between them like the lingering hum after a song ends.

Then, with a soft sigh, Donghyuck straightened. “So,” he said, brushing a hand down the front of his shirt. “Are we done being weird, or should I reschedule the rest of my afternoon for more emotional whiplash?”

Mark’s lips twitched, almost a smile, but he caught it before it fully surfaced. “We’re done,” he said, voice steadier now. “For now.”

Donghyuck arched a brow. “I’ll take that as progress.”

Mark moved to his chair and gestured toward the projection remote resting near Donghyuck’s laptop. “You have the revised gala list?”

“Of course I do,” Donghyuck said, relieved—if only slightly—to feel the ground beneath him again. He turned his laptop around, pulled up the spreadsheet, and cast it onto the conference room screen. “I cross-checked the guest list with past donation records. Sorted them into three categories: essential, volatile, and decorative.”

Mark leaned forward, curious despite himself. “Decorative?”

Donghyuck gave a small smirk. “You know—people who look good in a press photo, don’t contribute much, but still want their name on a plaque somewhere.”

Mark huffed a laugh. “I’m assuming your color coding is intentional.”

“Always is,” Donghyuck said. “Green for the people you actually want to talk to. Orange for the ones who’ll try to corner you with a pitch. Red for the walking PR disasters you’ll need to avoid at all costs.”

Mark leaned back, arms crossed, eyes on the screen. “And which one is Jaemin?”

Donghyuck paused, lips twitching. “He’s not on the list.”

“Good,” Mark muttered.

Donghyuck let it go this time.

Mark’s attention turned to the spreadsheet. “You categorized Min Jiwon as orange?”

“She’s brought up cryptocurrency investments the last three years. At the gala. In sequins.”

Mark winced. “Fair. And these are sorted by arrival time?”

Donghyuck nodded. “First wave’s the board members and their families. Then the media guests. I’ve added buffer zones—fifteen-minute intervals between speakers and photo ops so you’re not mobbed.”

Mark scanned the data. “And I assume you accounted for the mayor arriving late again?”

“I built a thirty-minute window just in case,” Donghyuck said. “If he’s early for once, we’ll buy lottery tickets.”

That made Mark smile—barely. But this one lingered.

“I’m impressed,” he said.

Donghyuck arched a brow. “Dangerously close to a second compliment in one day.”

“I’m trying,” Mark said, and it wasn’t sarcastic.

Their eyes met again—no tension now. Just an odd quietness that bordered on understanding.

Business had pulled them back into familiar territory. But the conversation from earlier still hovered behind it. Softer now. Settled. Like sediment at the bottom of a stirred glass.

Donghyuck reached for his laptop. “I’ll finalize the list and send it to PR by the end of the day.”

Mark nodded. “Let me know if you need anything.”

~

The break room buzzed faintly with the hum of the refrigerator and the slow drip of the industrial coffee machine. The fluorescent lights above cast a dull white glow over the worn countertops and the lingering scent of burnt espresso. It was nearly empty, save for one figure leaning against the counter, absentmindedly stirring a teabag in a chipped ceramic mug.

Donghyuck stared into the swirling amber liquid like it held the meaning of life. His tie was loosened, the sleeves of his button-down pushed up to his elbows, a smudge of ink on the side of his hand from marking up schedules. His mind was still half in the conference room, hearing Mark’s voice, replaying the measured tone of confession disguised as clarity.

He didn’t hear Renjun and Jaemin enter until the latter slammed a yogurt drink onto the table with unnecessary force.

“There he is,” Renjun declared, eyeing Donghyuck suspiciously. “The man who’s been avoiding us for two days. What happened? You elope with the CEO or just get abducted by a quarterly report?”

Donghyuck blinked slowly. “Neither. Though both sound less exhausting than what actually happened.”

Jaemin popped the lid off his drink. “So? Cold war over? Do we need to book you two for couples therapy or is there... peace in our time?”

Donghyuck finally looked up, a slow smirk forming on his face. “Truce,” he said simply.

Renjun’s eyebrows rose. “You’re serious?”

“He admitted it,” Donghyuck said, plucking his spoon from the mug and setting it on a napkin with surgical precision.

“Admitted what?” Jaemin asked, halfway through a sip.

Donghyuck took his own sip first—drawn out and theatrical—then leaned in slightly, like he was about to deliver classified intel. “That he’s a jealous, emotionally repressed mess. Because of you, Jaemin.”

Jaemin choked. Violently. The yogurt drink nearly went up his nose. “Excuse me?! What the hell did I do?”

Donghyuck grinned. “Apparently, laughing at your joke triggered a spiral of existential possessiveness. Congrats.”

“He actually said that?” Renjun asked, clearly enjoying this too much.

“Well,” Donghyuck said, stretching the word with a shrug, “not in those exact words. He said he was ‘annoyed,’ but not because of what I did—because of how it made him feel. And he didn’t know how to handle that.”

Renjun blinked. “Wow. That’s like... halfway to emotional literacy.”

“Baby steps,” Donghyuck murmured into his tea.

Jaemin crossed his arms. “And you’re okay with that? The CEO of Frostbite Industries getting weird and territorial over you?”

Donghyuck shrugged, but there was a softness in the way he did it. “I’m not saying I get it. But I get him . A little more now, anyway.”

There was a pause.

Renjun leaned back in his chair. “You know, I used to think you were just doing this job for the resume boost.”

Donghyuck chuckled. “So did I.”

Jaemin tilted his head. “But now?”

Donghyuck stared into his mug again, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Now I’m not so sure.”

~

The apartment was quiet—too quiet. Donghyuck sat cross-legged on his couch in an old oversized hoodie, a throw blanket tangled around his feet and a half-eaten container of tteokbokki on the coffee table. A drama flickered muted across the TV screen, but he wasn’t watching. The glow of the television washed over his skin in blues and greys, and the city beyond the windows pulsed with soft neon and traffic hums.

It had been a long week. Too many hours, too many half-meant things, too many silences stretched thin and fragile between him and Mark. But now… now, something had shifted. Not fully resolved, maybe. But acknowledged.

His phone buzzed.

He didn’t reach for it immediately. Just stared at the screen where it lit up beside him on the cushion, a sliver of light in the dark room.

Mark:
Thank you for calling me out today.
I needed it.

Donghyuck blinked. He wasn’t used to that—not from Mark. Not the straightforward honesty. Not the humility wrapped in such quiet words.

He picked up the phone, thumbs hovering. Then typing.

You’re welcome.
Delete.

I told you so.
Delete.

Try not to implode the next time someone laughs at my jokes.
Delete-delete-delete.

He sighed and sank deeper into the couch cushions, staring at the blinking cursor like it was a test he didn’t study for. Finally, he typed:

Donghyuck:
I meant what I said.
And… you’re welcome.

He hovered again. Then hit Send .

The message whooshed off, a soft ping echoing into the room like a breath released.

Donghyuck set the phone down beside him. He exhaled slowly and let his head tip back against the couch. No more second-guessing. No more wondering if he’d crossed a line or misread a glance. Tonight, for the first time in what felt like ages, he wasn’t stuck replaying conversations or overanalyzing silences.

He just… was.

The weight in his chest felt lighter, no longer the knotted ball of anxiety he’d been carrying around since that day Mark froze him out over a laugh shared with someone else.

Across the room, the drama shifted to a romantic subplot, two characters arguing in an alley lit by street lamps. He wasn’t really following, but the emotion on screen mirrored the one curling, softer now, inside him—an almost-confession, a delicate truce, something that hovered in the air but didn’t press too hard.

Donghyuck smiled faintly to himself.

Chapter Text

Donghyuck’s apartment was a whirl of activity and indecision. Sunlight filtered softly through the sheer curtains as he stood in front of his full-length mirror, trying to make sense of the pile of clothes scattered across the bed and the chair nearby. Tonight was the charity gala — a formal, high-profile event where Mark Lee, his usually distant and icy CEO, would be in the spotlight. And Donghyuck, for the first time, would be by his side.

He tugged on a crisp white dress shirt, buttoned it carefully, and stared at himself in the mirror. The shirt was sharp, clean, but something felt missing. Sliding on a pair of black slacks, he debated the jacket. He first reached for a classic black suit jacket, but when he looked at himself in it, the outfit seemed too serious—too corporate—and didn’t feel like him. He tossed it aside, feeling the frustration build.

Next came a navy blue blazer he’d worn to a client meeting months ago. Paired with white trousers, it looked fresh, modern, and carried a lighter energy. But was it formal enough for the gala? He wrinkled his nose at the thought. What if it looked like he wasn’t taking the event seriously? No, this was Mark’s world — he needed to look like he belonged there.

After rifling through his wardrobe a few more times, Donghyuck finally settled on a charcoal-gray tailored suit that had been gifted to him on a special occasion. It was sharp, but had just enough softness in the cut to feel approachable. He slipped it on and stood tall in front of the mirror, adjusting the lapels and running his fingers over the fabric. The suit fit like a second skin, sleek and confident without being overbearing.

Next, the details. He slid on a black tie, and polished his leather shoes until they gleamed. Finally, he reached for the silver anchor cufflinks Mark had given him—a small but meaningful reminder of their growing connection. Pinning them to his shirt cuffs, he smiled faintly. It wasn’t just a fashion choice; it was a statement. Tonight was different.

Meanwhile, miles away in his pristine, minimalist apartment, Mark Lee stood in front of his mirror as well. His usually unshakable demeanor cracked under the weight of nerves. He had prepared for many presentations, board meetings, and public appearances in his life, but tonight was... different. He ran a hand through his dark hair, trying to quell the sudden flutter of anticipation in his chest.

Adjusting his tie for what felt like the tenth time, Mark frowned at his reflection. The knot was stubborn, refusing to sit just right. His usual perfectionism flared in frustration, but beneath that was something else—something he didn’t want to admit to himself. Could he be nervous? About what, exactly? The gala was a charity event, yes, but more than that, it was the first time he would be publicly seen with Donghyuck as more than just his assistant.

Mark’s phone buzzed on the counter. He glanced down, his heart skipping a beat when he saw Donghyuck’s name flashing on the screen. The message read:
“Trying to make this ‘CEO event’ look like a runway. Bet you’ll show up looking like you own the place anyway. Don’t let that no-nonsense vibe clash with the champagne!”

Mark smirked, fingers quickly typing back:
“I’m managing to keep the no-nonsense. Champagne will be handled.”

Donghyuck’s next message popped up seconds later:
“Good. Because I’m bringing taiyaki. Consider it my secret weapon.”

Mark chuckled softly. Taiyaki—those sweet fish-shaped pastries—were an odd but charming addition to the night. Only Donghyuck could think of mixing business formality with a playful touch like that.

As Mark carefully tucked his phone away and took a deep breath, his mind drifted for a moment. This gala wasn’t just about charity or public relations. It was a step into unknown territory, a crossing of a boundary he’d guarded so fiercely for years. He wondered how tonight would change things—between him, Donghyuck, and the rest of the world.

Back at Donghyuck’s place, the sun began its slow descent, casting long, warm shadows across the room. He grabbed his coat and gave himself one last look in the mirror. The man staring back was confident, poised, and ready. He pulled the coat around his shoulders, pocketed his phone, and headed out, feeling a mixture of excitement and nerves that made his heart race.

Stepping into the elevator, he rehearsed what he might say, how he might behave. The gala was a world apart from the office—elegant dresses, flowing champagne, and polite smiles behind crystal glasses. But tonight, it was also a chance. A chance to see Mark not as the distant CEO, but as someone human, vulnerable, maybe even a little soft around the edges.

~

The grand doors swung open to reveal a breathtaking ballroom, where crystal chandeliers hung like stars, casting sparkling light across the polished marble floor. Soft classical music drifted through the air as elegantly dressed guests mingled in clusters, their conversations a gentle murmur beneath the glow of the opulent space.

Mark stepped inside first, his tailored suit immaculate, every movement measured and confident. His sharp eyes quickly scanned the room, alert and calculating. But when they shifted to Donghyuck, trailing just behind him, something softened—an almost imperceptible flicker of warmth.

Donghyuck adjusted his jacket nervously. The atmosphere was dazzling and a little overwhelming. Yet as he followed Mark, he felt a strange comfort in the boss’s quiet presence.

“Try not to get lost in the crowd,” Mark said over his shoulder, his voice low but firm.

Donghyuck smiled, brushing a stray lock of hair behind his ear. “I’m right behind you. Besides, I’m too noticeable for that.”

Mark glanced sideways, an eyebrow twitching. “Not as noticeable as you think.”

They moved through the crowd like a unit, Mark leading with the ease of a seasoned pro. He shook hands, exchanged brief nods, and offered polite smiles. Meanwhile, Donghyuck caught glances from other guests—admiring looks, discreet whispers.

“Looks like you’re the star tonight,” Donghyuck teased softly as Mark’s eyes flicked to him again.

Mark’s lips twitched in what almost passed for a smile. “You’re distracting.”

“Good,” Donghyuck said, his grin widening. “I was worried you’d forget I was here.”

Mark’s gaze darkened slightly, his tone sharper. “I never forget.”

They reached a group of executives, and Mark stepped forward to join the conversation. Donghyuck stayed close, chatting with a few event coordinators. But every few moments, his attention snapped back to Mark.

Later, as they regrouped by the refreshments table, Donghyuck leaned in slightly. “You’ve been watching me a lot.”

Mark’s eyes narrowed, then flicked away. “Someone has to keep you in line.”

Donghyuck laughed quietly. “Is that your way of saying you’re jealous?”

Mark’s jaw tightened, but the corners of his mouth twitched again. “I’m not jealous.”

“Sure,” Donghyuck said, arching a brow. “Whatever you say, CEO.”

Mark shook his head, but there was a softness beneath the usual steel. “You’re mine tonight. Don’t forget that.”

Donghyuck’s heart skipped. “I won’t.”

As the evening stretched on, the subtle dance of glances and half-smiles continued. Whispers floated nearby—guests noticing the closeness between the stoic CEO and his charming assistant. Mark’s protective stance around Donghyuck grew more apparent, while Donghyuck reveled quietly in the boss’s unspoken attention.

Finally, as the music shifted and the dance floor opened, Mark reached out.

“May I have this dance?”

Donghyuck’s eyes lit up. “I thought you’d never ask.”

They moved side by side, weaving through the elegantly dressed guests until they reached the center of the room. The crowd parted slightly, giving them space as the spotlight shifted to their hesitant entrance.

Mark offered his hand. Donghyuck took it, the warmth of their touch sending an unexpected spark through both of them.

At first, their steps were cautious—feet stumbling over polished floorboards, rhythm unsure, and the awkward brush of hands that both tried to hide but secretly treasured. Donghyuck glanced up, catching Mark’s eyes—sharp, focused, but softened by something new, something fragile.

“It’s been a while since I danced,” Mark admitted quietly, voice low enough that only Donghyuck could hear.

“Me too,” Donghyuck replied, squeezing Mark’s hand gently. “I guess we’re learning together.”

Gradually, the tension between them began to ease. Their movements grew more fluid, syncing with the music and each other. Mark’s other hand found its way to Donghyuck’s waist, pulling him closer just enough to erase the space but not overwhelm.

The heat radiating between them was tangible, the closeness amplifying every heartbeat, every breath. Donghyuck felt the warmth seep from Mark’s chest, an unspoken invitation to let down walls that had stood for far too long.

For a moment, the world outside the dance floor faded—no work, no expectations, just the two of them moving in time, caught between hesitation and longing.

Mark’s voice came, barely a whisper near Donghyuck’s ear. “You look... stunning.”

Donghyuck’s cheeks warmed, but he met Mark’s gaze steadily. “So do you.”

The music swelled, filling the grand ballroom with a slow, intoxicating rhythm. Mark’s hand tightened lightly at Donghyuck’s waist, pulling him just a fraction closer. His usual stoic gaze softened, vulnerability flickering in his eyes like a fragile flame.

Donghyuck’s heart pounded fiercely in his chest, every subtle touch sending electric jolts through his body. The room around them seemed to dissolve—the glittering chandeliers, the polite chatter, the swirl of other dancers—all blurred into insignificance.

Mark’s voice broke the silence, low and rough, barely more than a breath.  “You’re... different here,” he said, eyes locked on Donghyuck’s. “Not just at work.”

Donghyuck smiled, a little shy, but steady. “I’m still me. Just... less guarded.”

Mark’s gaze dropped briefly, then returned, piercing and intense. “I’m not used to this. To feeling... this close.”

Donghyuck’s breath caught. “Neither am I.”

Suddenly, Donghyuck’s foot slipped slightly on the polished floor. Instinctively, Mark steadied him, his hands firm yet gentle on Donghyuck’s hips. Their faces drifted closer, breaths mingling in the scant space between them.

Mark’s voice was a whisper, vulnerable and raw. “Tell me if I’m crossing a line.”

Donghyuck’s voice was steady but filled with quiet hope. “I want you to.”

Their eyes locked, the air thick with unspoken words. Mark’s lips parted, hesitating just a breath away from Donghyuck’s. For a suspended moment, everything else vanished—the demands of the office, the weight of their past. There was only the music, the warmth between them, and the fragile promise hanging in the space where their faces nearly met.

Mark’s hand tightened once more at Donghyuck’s waist, anchoring them both.
“I don’t know what this is,” he admitted softly, “but I want to find out.”

Donghyuck’s smile deepened, eyes bright with a mix of tenderness and courage.
“Me too.”

The final note of the song drifted away like a fading sigh, and the spell that had wrapped around Mark and Donghyuck gently unraveled. Their bodies instinctively stepped apart, though only by a fraction, the closeness still electric in the space between them. Both were flushed—cheeks tinged pink, breaths coming a little faster than usual.

Mark cleared his throat, a faint sound that seemed to echo in the sudden quiet. He straightened his posture, attempting to slip back into the cool, controlled demeanor he wore so often. But despite the effort, the softness in his eyes lingered—a subtle warmth that hadn’t been there before, a crack in the armor.

Donghyuck caught that softness and held it carefully, offering a shy, almost tentative smile in return. The smile was small, but it carried everything he wasn’t yet ready to say aloud: gratitude, curiosity, hope. The shared moment between them felt suspended, thick with unspoken meaning.

For a heartbeat, they simply stood like that, side by side in the middle of the ballroom, surrounded by swirling gowns and polite chatter, yet somehow separate from it all. Neither spoke—words felt too heavy, too soon.

Mark finally broke the silence, voice low and measured, as if testing the waters. “Shall we...?”

Donghyuck nodded, and together they returned to the crowd, walking side by side. The ease between them was different now, marked by something unspoken, a quiet shift. They exchanged glances that lingered longer than necessary—eyes searching, questioning, and yet afraid to push too hard.

Inside, both wrestled with the same confusing, thrilling thought: What was this? What did it mean? And where would it lead?

The night pressed on around them, a swirl of laughter and clinking glasses, but for Mark and Donghyuck, time had slowed, wrapped in the fragile glow of possibility.

As they rejoined the flow of guests, Mark’s hand brushed lightly against Donghyuck’s side—a fleeting touch that made Donghyuck’s heart skip. Neither pulled away. It was as if the simple contact was a quiet admission neither dared voice.

Mark cleared his throat again, this time with a softer, more vulnerable edge. “You… you were good out there. Better than I expected.” His usual precision with words was replaced by a hesitant awkwardness that made Donghyuck’s chest tighten.

Donghyuck smiled, feeling the tension ease just a little. “I’m glad I didn’t step on your feet.”

Mark let out a short, dry laugh. “Almost. But you managed to keep me upright, which is impressive.”

They moved toward the refreshment table, the buzz of conversation swirling around them, but the space between their words felt weighted. Donghyuck glanced at Mark, wondering if the CEO realized how much his expression had softened—how far from his usual guarded self he’d seemed moments ago.

“I’m… glad you asked me to dance,” Donghyuck admitted quietly, the words feeling brave and new as they left his mouth.

Mark looked at him then, eyes searching and honest for the first time in a long while. “Me too. It’s… different.”

“Different can be good,” Donghyuck said, hopeful.

Mark hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. Different.”

Neither pressed further, but the conversation hummed beneath their polite smiles. It was a beginning—a fragile truce between professional boundaries and personal feelings.

As the gala carried on, the two stayed close, the distance between them shrinking with every shared glance and subtle touch.

When the evening finally drew to a close, and the guests began to disperse, Mark held the door open for Donghyuck.

“Thank you for tonight,” he said quietly, voice low but sincere.

Donghyuck paused before stepping out, meeting Mark’s gaze squarely. “Thank you… for the dance.”

~

The ride home was cloaked in silence. Donghyuck’s fingers drummed lightly against his thigh, the faint rhythm a mirror of the whirlwind inside him. Every moment from the dance replayed in his mind—the soft press of Mark’s hand, the warmth in his eyes, the way his usual cool facade had melted away, even if just for a moment. It was as if time itself had slowed, wrapping them in a bubble that kept the outside world at bay.

Mark drove steadily, his jaw clenched as his thoughts churned. The polished, unshakable CEO he presented to the world had been replaced tonight by something more vulnerable—something unfamiliar even to himself. The dance, simple and brief as it was, had stirred something deep within him, something he’d buried beneath years of guardedness and solitude. He kept stealing glances at Donghyuck, sitting beside him, so effortlessly genuine and bright, and wondered how one person could unsettle him so completely.

When Donghyuck finally reached his apartment, he hesitated outside the door, his heart still pounding with the echo of shared warmth and unspoken words. The evening had left him breathless and hopeful all at once. He smiled softly, almost shyly, as he pushed open the door and stepped inside. The quiet of his space was a stark contrast to the vibrant energy of the gala, yet somehow it felt comforting—like a safe harbor after a storm.

Meanwhile, across the city, Mark arrived at his sleek penthouse. He barely registered the familiar hum of the elevator or the soft click of his keycard. Once inside, he poured himself a glass of whiskey but barely touched it, the liquid catching the light like a distant fire he couldn’t quite reach. His eyes fell on a framed photo sitting on the desk—one taken during a company event, where he and Donghyuck had stood side by side, formal and professional. Now, that image felt charged with new meaning.

He reached out, fingers brushing the frame lightly, as if trying to hold onto the fragile connection they had just begun to forge. For a moment, he pulled out his phone, thumb hovering over Donghyuck’s contact, but he didn’t send a message. Instead, he tucked the phone away, letting the silence settle around him. Tonight had opened a door he wasn’t ready to step through, but he knew it was there—and it was waiting.

Back in his apartment, Donghyuck settled on the couch, still wrapped in the glow of the evening. His thoughts wandered to Mark—the subtle softness in his voice, the rare smile, the tension that had eased just a little. The dance had shifted something between them, though neither had said it aloud. There was a promise in that moment, fragile but undeniable.

Chapter Text

The sun filtered through the tall glass windows of the lobby like honey, washing the floor in soft gold and casting long shadows from the sleek, modern furniture. The air was crisp with the faint scent of polish and coffee—like it always was this early, when the office was still half-asleep and the world hadn’t quite spun into motion.

Donghyuck stepped inside, cradling a too-hot coffee cup in one hand and his phone in the other, scrolling through emails with a tired thumb. His eyes were rimmed in red from too little sleep and too many thoughts. He had tossed and turned most of the night, his mind a carousel spinning endlessly around one memory: the gala.

More specifically, the balcony.

The clinking of champagne flutes, the hum of distant music, the hush of the night air. The way Mark had stood beside him—not as his boss, but as a man briefly disarmed. Not cold. Not calculating. Just… real. Just there.

Donghyuck remembered how close they had stood, how their shoulders had almost brushed. He remembered the way Mark had looked at him—direct, unguarded—and how the seconds had slowed into something suspended. Something that might’ve become a moment if either of them had dared to let it.

But neither had.

So now, here he was, back in reality, with his blazer just slightly wrinkled and his nerves twitching under his skin.

The ding of the elevator broke the quiet. He looked up—and froze.

Inside, Mark stood alone, one hand in his coat pocket, the other holding a tablet. He didn’t seem surprised to see Donghyuck. In fact, he looked... calm. His gaze lifted, meeting Donghyuck’s with something unreadable. Not cold. Not stern. Almost—soft.

Donghyuck hesitated, fingers tightening slightly around the coffee cup. Every instinct screamed at him to find another elevator, to wait for the next one, to pretend last night hadn’t left a mark.

But instead, he stepped in.

The doors closed behind him with a quiet hiss.

They stood side by side. Not touching. Not speaking. But everything about the moment felt charged . Like the air just before a summer storm. Not volatile, but electric.

Mark nodded once. The kind of gesture that held more weight than it probably should have.

Donghyuck glanced sideways at him. The light from the elevator panel reflected faintly in Mark’s eyes, casting them in a deep amber. His jaw was tight, but his posture was relaxed. It was a contrast Donghyuck was learning to recognize—tense thoughts under a composed exterior.

No words passed between them. But the silence wasn’t hollow. It was filled with something .

Not tension. Not awkwardness.

Anticipation.

The elevator continued its steady ascent, floor numbers lighting up one by one. Donghyuck stood with his back straight, gripping his coffee like it was a lifeline. He could feel the silence expanding between them, not in a suffocating way—but in the kind that fills your lungs just before you say something risky.

He stole a glance at Mark again.

Mark was staring ahead, but there was a slight pull at the corner of his mouth, like he was thinking. Weighing something. He looked tired in a different way this morning—less from lack of sleep and more like someone coming down from adrenaline. Not exhausted. Just… quieter inside.

“About last night,” Mark said suddenly, breaking the silence.

Donghyuck’s heart skipped. “Yeah?”

Mark didn’t turn to look at him. “You seemed like you wanted to say something.”

Donghyuck’s stomach flipped. So it hadn’t been one-sided. Mark had noticed too. The lingering. The moment on the balcony. The way their conversation had slowed into vulnerability.

“I did,” Donghyuck admitted, voice low.

Mark looked at him now, gaze steady.

Donghyuck swallowed. “I wasn’t sure if it would’ve… mattered.”

Mark tilted his head slightly. “Why wouldn’t it?”

Donghyuck let out a breath that trembled more than he wanted it to. “Because this is work. And you’re you. And I still don’t know if what I felt was something… real, or just the illusion of it.”

The words hung between them like a held breath.

Mark didn’t reply right away. The elevator reached their floor, the doors sliding open with a soft chime—but neither of them moved.

Finally, Mark said, “It felt real to me.”

Donghyuck blinked.

Mark’s tone was calm, but there was a weight behind the words. Like they cost him something to say. Like he’d been holding them in.

Then—of course—the spell broke.

A voice echoed from down the hallway, a cheery “Good morning!” from someone in HR, and suddenly the light shifted. The moment shrank.

Mark cleared his throat. “We should—” he started.

“Yeah,” Donghyuck cut in quickly, stepping out.

They walked in silence to their separate offices. The distance between them now measured in feet instead of inches—but it felt longer somehow.

Still, something had been said. Admitted. A crack in the polished, professional surface.

Almost a confession.

But not quite.

As Donghyuck sat at his desk and opened his inbox, he didn’t hear the keystrokes or the hum of the AC. He only heard It felt real to me , looping softly in the back of his mind.

Maybe next time, he’d ask what Mark meant.

Maybe next time, he’d say the thing he hadn’t.

~

Donghyuck knocked softly before entering, holding the folder with the updated client projections. He knew the layout of this office like the back of his hand by now—the view of the Han River just over Mark’s shoulder, the minimalist shelves lined with precision, the ever-present scent of strong coffee and steel-gray ambition.

But today, something felt different.

Mark looked up from his screen, his expression blank in that practiced, executive way. But his eyes—they lingered a fraction longer than necessary when they met Donghyuck’s. Not assessing. Not scolding.

Just looking.

Donghyuck set the folder on the desk, fingers brushing the polished surface. “Projections are updated through Q3. I added a note about the client’s regional pricing demands—they’re bluffing, by the way.”

Mark nodded, glancing at the folder, but not really looking at it.

Instead, he leaned back in his chair. “About last night,” he said, casually—too casually.

Donghyuck stilled.

He didn’t reply immediately. Just stood there, posture neutral, eyes narrowing slightly in something between curiosity and caution. “What about it?”

Mark tapped a pen against the desk. “You handled the attention well.”

Donghyuck raised a brow. “That sounds dangerously close to a compliment.”

Mark’s mouth curved, a real, brief smirk surfacing before disappearing again. “Then take it before I change my mind.”

There was a quiet that followed—not awkward, not strained, but charged. Like an electrical current passing just beneath the floor. Neither man moved. Mark’s chair creaked as he shifted slightly, but he didn’t break eye contact.

Donghyuck tilted his head, carefully. “Was that all?”

Mark’s jaw tensed, then relaxed. “No,” he said softly. “But I’m not sure what the rest is yet.”

Donghyuck felt something pulse in his chest—something caught between anticipation and disbelief. The room suddenly felt warmer. Smaller.

That admission—that hesitant, human admission—cracked something open. Mark Lee, who spent every waking hour in control, was unsure . And he was saying it out loud.

Donghyuck’s voice, when it came, was gentle. “You don’t have to have all the answers right now.”

Mark’s gaze sharpened just a little. Not with irritation. With curiosity. Like Donghyuck had just said something unexpected. Something… comforting.

Another long pause. Neither of them reached for the folder again.

Donghyuck finally took a step back. “Well,” he said, tone lighter, “If you figure out the rest, you know where to find me.”

He turned to go, hand on the door handle, but paused again when Mark said, not loudly—just firmly enough to be heard:

“I always know where to find you.”

Donghyuck didn’t look back.

He didn’t need to.

His mouth quirked into a small, private smile as he stepped out, heart a little louder in his chest. The door clicked shut behind him, but the echo of those words lingered.

So did the echo of the night before. The look. The almost.

~

The break room was unusually quiet for midday. The hum of the refrigerator, the rhythmic tap of the vending machine dispensing someone’s overpriced snack, and the muffled chatter from the hallway provided the usual backdrop—but Donghyuck wasn’t tuned into any of it.

He stumbled in like he’d forgotten how to walk in a straight line, one hand gripping his phone like a lifeline, the other buried deep in his pocket. His eyes were unfocused, as if he’d just stepped out of a trance.

Renjun looked up from his seat at the table, where he and Jaemin were splitting a bowl of rice crackers. They both froze when they saw Donghyuck lean dramatically against the counter like a character in a low-budget office drama.

“Okay,” Renjun said, narrowing his eyes. “Who died?”

Jaemin tilted his head. “Or who confessed.”

Donghyuck groaned. “Neither. I think.”

Renjun stood and fished an energy drink out of the fridge like a practiced nurse attending a patient on the verge of collapse. He held it out with both hands, solemn and ceremonial. “For your nerves.”

Donghyuck took it and pressed the cold can to his cheek first before cracking it open. “Thanks.”

He didn’t drink immediately. Just stared at the metal tab, brain clearly still buffering.

Jaemin exchanged a look with Renjun. “Are you gonna explain, or do we have to guess using interpretive dance?”

Donghyuck finally sighed, long and slow. “Something weird happened in Mark’s office.”

Renjun sat back down, folding his arms. “Define ‘weird.’”

Donghyuck rubbed at his temples. “I went in to drop off projections, like always. He thanked me. Said I handled the gala well. Complimented me.”

Both Renjun and Jaemin blinked.

“He what ?” Jaemin asked, half-laughing.

“I know. And then he said there was more he wanted to say, but he didn’t know what it was yet.”

Renjun leaned forward, his voice low and a little stunned. “Wait… he said that ? Mark Lee said that?”

Donghyuck nodded slowly, eyes wide and tired. “Exactly.”

The room went quiet for a beat.

Then Renjun let out a long whistle. “Holy shit.”

Donghyuck took a sip of the drink, then said, “And I don’t know what I would’ve done if he had said something more.”

Jaemin raised an eyebrow. “You mean, like a confession?”

Donghyuck winced. “Maybe. Maybe not. It didn’t sound like that—exactly—but the way he looked at me…”

He trailed off, eyes darting to the side. The silence he left behind was filled only by the distant whir of the HVAC system.

Renjun finally broke it, more gently this time. “What did you feel?”

Donghyuck looked down at his drink, swirling the liquid inside the can. “That I’m not sure I’m imagining things anymore.”

Renjun gave a slow nod. “And what if you’re not?”

Donghyuck shook his head, frustrated. “Then I don’t know what I’m supposed to do about it. He’s still my boss. We still argue twice a week. He still forgets I’m a human being half the time.”

“Yeah,” Jaemin said with a smirk, “but the other half of the time he’s staring at you like you hung the moon.”

Donghyuck blinked. “He does not .”

Jaemin held up a finger. “The gala. The elevator yesterday. The way he looks when you speak in meetings. We’ve noticed.”

Renjun nodded. “He listens to you. Not just hears. Actually listens. ”

Donghyuck sank into the nearest chair, still gripping his drink like it could anchor him to something solid. “It’s a mess.”

“It’s not a mess,” Renjun said quietly. “It’s just… complicated.”

“And complication is one of Mark Lee’s love languages,” Jaemin added under his breath.

Donghyuck finally laughed—just a little. “Why does this feel like I’m standing on the edge of something, and I don’t know if it’s a cliff or a staircase?”

Renjun reached over, squeezed his arm gently. “Then hold onto the railing. And if there isn’t one… make one.”

Donghyuck stared at him, then smiled faintly. “You always say weird things like that when I’m spiraling.”

“Because I love you, and your drama keeps me fed,” Renjun said sweetly.

Jaemin grinned. “And because CEOs don’t do normal. Especially not when they’re catching feelings.”

Donghyuck sat back, staring at the ceiling, the image of Mark’s unreadable expression flashing again behind his eyes.

~

The office was nearly silent, the kind of silence that only came after hours—when the fluorescent lights dimmed to energy-saving mode and the city beyond the glass walls began to glitter like a reflection of everything left unsaid.

Donghyuck lingered. His desk was cleared, his bag packed, and his inbox, for once, at zero. He had every reason to leave. But still, he didn’t.

Something in his chest hummed—restless, expectant.

He paced the quiet hallway with slow steps, his shoes clicking softly against the marble floor. The usual tension of the day had faded, but something else had taken its place. Something electric. Something he didn’t quite have a name for yet.

He was halfway to the elevators when he heard it.

A shuffle of footsteps behind him, deliberate but hesitant. Then—

“Donghyuck.”

His name, spoken like a confession.

Donghyuck turned slowly, heart already thudding before he even saw who it was.

Mark stood just a few feet away, half in shadow from the low-lit overheads. His tie was loosened, blazer unbuttoned, sleeves slightly rumpled—less like a CEO, more like a man who had stayed behind for reasons he hadn’t intended to admit.

Donghyuck’s voice was quiet. “Still working?”

Mark didn’t answer right away. His eyes held Donghyuck’s, searching, holding. “I was thinking about something you said.”

Donghyuck’s breath caught. “Yeah?”

“About being wrong about people.”

A pause stretched between them like a taut wire.

“I think…” Mark’s voice dropped, husky and low, “I’ve been wrong about you.”

The air stilled. It wasn’t just the words—it was how Mark said them. Carefully. Like they’d cost him something.

Donghyuck took a slow step forward, every nerve on edge. “Then say what you meant to say earlier.”

Mark didn’t move at first. His jaw tightened, like he was holding back—like he always was. But then he stepped forward too, small but significant. The space between them shrank, drawn together by invisible threads.

The closer he came, the more Donghyuck could feel it—warmth, tension, the faint scent of Mark’s cologne: bergamot, leather, and something clean beneath it all. Grounding.

“I think about you more than I should,” Mark said, almost a whisper.

The words sank in. Heavy. Unmistakable.

Donghyuck’s lips parted, stunned. “Mark—”

He didn’t get further than that.

Mark’s hand lifted—hesitant, suspended in the space between them, like he wasn’t sure if he was reaching to touch Donghyuck or to stop himself.

The air sparked. The moment narrowed. Time slowed.

And then—

Footsteps. Distant, but growing closer.

The sharp creak of a door swinging open down the hall.

Both of them jolted slightly. Not away from each other, but like something inside them had been snapped back into place by force.

Mark stepped back first. His face shuttered again—still soft around the edges, but retreating behind the practiced composure of someone who couldn’t afford vulnerability in the open.

Donghyuck followed, pulse racing, mouth dry.

The elevator ride had never been anything special. Just a descent—floors ticking down, silence stretching between them like default office protocol. But tonight, it felt different. Heavier. More loaded.

Donghyuck stood with his hands tucked into his coat pockets, trying not to look like his chest was still buzzing from what almost happened in the hallway. Mark stood just beside him, close enough that their sleeves nearly brushed. Neither of them touched, but the heat of proximity was undeniable.

The mirrored walls of the elevator offered a strange echo of the moment: their reflections cast side by side, almost overlapping. Mark looked as composed as ever—jaw set, posture straight, but his eyes betrayed him. They flicked toward Donghyuck more than once. Subtle, almost imperceptible. But Donghyuck caught it every time.

And Donghyuck—he didn’t even try to hide the way he watched Mark. Not tonight. There was no point pretending anymore.

The elevator hummed beneath their feet, each floor they passed an interruption. An intrusion.

They weren’t speaking, but the silence wasn’t empty.

It was crowded. With everything unsaid.

With the breath Mark hadn’t taken before reaching out.

With the words Donghyuck had swallowed the second the hallway door creaked open.

With the weight of the almost.

They reached the lobby. The soft chime of the elevator marked their arrival, but neither moved.

The doors slid open in front of them, revealing the darkened marble of the lobby and the quiet glow of the building’s nighttime lights. Still, neither stepped forward.

Mark was the one who broke the quiet, his voice low, softer than Donghyuck had ever heard it.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Donghyuck turned his head slightly, eyes meeting Mark’s.

“Yeah,” he replied, equally soft. “Tomorrow.”

But they both knew—this wasn’t just about tomorrow.

This was about the line they’d toed all week. The invisible thread that had tightened over every interaction, every sidelong glance, every nearly-spoken truth.

It hadn’t snapped tonight.

But it had stretched, pulled to the edge of breaking.

Donghyuck stepped out first, but not far. He paused just beyond the elevator doors, glancing back once.

Mark was still standing inside, hands at his sides, staring ahead like he was still caught in that moment from before. Like part of him hadn’t stepped back yet.

The doors began to close.

Mark didn’t move.

Donghyuck didn’t look away until the silver walls sealed shut between them.

He exhaled slowly, letting the night air touch his skin as he walked toward the exit. The lobby was quiet, empty, echoing his footsteps. But in his chest, everything felt loud.

Every breath. Every memory of Mark’s voice.

Every inch of space between what almost happened and what still could.

Tomorrow, he thought.

But tomorrow wasn’t far away anymore.

Chapter Text

The lobby was unusually quiet for a Monday, the kind of stillness that made every click of Donghyuck’s shoes echo like punctuation marks in an unfinished sentence. He stepped in, clutching his usual oat milk latte with both hands—though not for the warmth. The cup burned faintly against his palms, but it couldn’t chase away the cold sitting somewhere behind his ribs.

He was early. Earlier than usual. Maybe he’d hoped he would catch Mark arriving too. Maybe he was hoping for something as simple as a glance. A nod. A flicker of something that told him the intimacy of the last week—of the gala, of the elevator ride down, of that almost moment—hadn’t vanished into the ether like it never existed.

But Mark was already there.

Donghyuck spotted him through the glass elevator, a silhouette behind layers of metal and light. He stood still as the car descended—shoulders stiff, head tilted down like he was already neck-deep in whatever numbers or boardroom chaos awaited him.

Their eyes met for half a second when the doors slid open.

Nothing. Not a smile. Not even a twitch of acknowledgment.

Mark stepped out and walked past him with a polite but dismissive nod. The kind he gave to all staff. Like Donghyuck was just another assistant.

Donghyuck’s throat tightened. He didn’t say anything, didn’t try to stop him. What would he even say? Hey, remember when we nearly kissed in public at a gala that you were the centre of? Good times.

He took the next elevator alone.

Upstairs, the office buzzed with the kind of mundane Monday energy that used to bother him—but now felt like a cruel kind of comfort. It was easier to hide in emails and file transfers than to feel the sting of silence coming from a corner office just meters away.

Donghyuck went about his tasks mechanically. Checked the calendar. Emailed confirmations. Double-checked the investor presentation slides he’d revised last week—slides that Mark had said, in a rare moment of something almost tender, “looked perfect.”

Now? He couldn’t even tell if Mark had read them.

At 9:35 a.m. sharp, he walked into Mark’s office, a manila folder in hand, posture perfectly straight, mask perfectly in place. He approached the desk like always—aware of the small space between them, aware of how Mark didn’t lift his head from the screen.

Donghyuck cleared his throat. “Here are the updated logistics for the Tokyo call. I included timezone buffers and the itinerary draft.”

Mark didn’t respond immediately. He reached out, took the file with the briefest flick of fingers.

“Just leave it there,” he said without looking up.

Donghyuck stood there a moment longer. Waiting for… something.

But Mark didn’t say another word.

No comment. No correction. No glance.

Just the cold hum of detachment.

He left the office with his heart sinking into his stomach.

This wasn’t just CEO-mode. This was avoidance. Deliberate. Icy.

The worst part?

It made Donghyuck question everything that had happened. The soft moments. The lingering looks. The confessions barely spoken between breaths.

Did he regret it?

The question echoed in his mind louder than anything else that morning.

Did he regret almost saying something real? Almost touching me? Almost crossing a line neither of us fully understood?

Donghyuck sat back at his desk, opening his laptop. He stared at the screen, but none of the words made sense.

Outside, the sun streamed in warm through the office windows, bathing the floor in gold.

But inside, Donghyuck had never felt colder.

~

The office was silent except for the faint whir of the air conditioning and the methodical scratching of Mark’s pen across paper. The room felt colder than it should have, considering the soft sunlit glow creeping in through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Donghyuck stepped in quietly, a slim folder tucked under his arm. He didn’t bother knocking—he never had to anymore. Or, at least, he didn’t used to.

Mark didn’t look up. His eyes were fixed on the financial sheets spread before him like they were the only thing tethering him to the present moment.

“Here’s the revised outline for the investor meeting,” Donghyuck said, his voice carefully neutral as he approached the desk.

He slid the folder toward Mark, watching for even the slightest reaction. A flicker of acknowledgment. A glance. A twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Nothing.

Mark reached out, took the folder without looking, his gaze still pinned to the papers in front of him.

“Leave it on the corner,” he said simply, the words clipped, mechanical.

Donghyuck’s hand lingered on the folder. Something bristled inside him—tightly coiled frustration, sadness, and something heavier. Something more personal.

He didn’t move.

“Is something wrong?” he asked quietly.

The pen continued to move, looping neat numbers in endless, calculated rows.

“No,” came Mark’s reply—immediate, dismissive, hollow.

Donghyuck’s hand slowly withdrew from the folder, but he didn’t leave. He stood there, eyes fixed on Mark’s profile. Watching the tension in his jaw. The way his shoulders curved forward like he was bracing for impact. Like the question had struck a nerve.

“You’ve barely looked at me all day,” Donghyuck said, softer now, but edged with hurt. “Yesterday, you—”

Mark’s pen stilled.

He set it down carefully, almost too carefully, like any sudden movement might crack the fragile shell he was encased in.

Finally, he looked up. His expression was blank. Too blank. Like he’d pulled every thread of emotion back into himself and tied them shut.

“I’ve been busy,” he said.

The pause that followed was unbearable. The kind of silence that filled a room and pressed against the walls, against the ribcage.

Donghyuck nodded once, too sharply.

“Right,” he said. His voice was tight now. Clipped, trying to match Mark’s distance. “Of course.”

He turned, his spine straight as a steel rod, footsteps measured and deliberate.

The door clicked shut behind him, far too quiet for the way his heart was pounding.

He didn’t let himself look back.

But if he had, he would’ve seen Mark still seated there—pen abandoned, fingers curled into fists in his lap.

And if Mark had spoken—if he’d found the courage to break the silence—he might’ve said:

I don’t know how to want you without losing control.

But he didn’t.

And Donghyuck was already gone.

~

The stairwell smelled faintly of cleaning solution and cold metal. The harsh fluorescent light flickered above, casting pale shadows that jittered like ghosts on the concrete walls.

Donghyuck sank onto the second-to-last step, the weight of the morning pressing heavily on his shoulders. His phone lay idle in his hand, the screen dark and unreadable—like the words he wished Mark had said but never would.

He hadn’t expected confessions. No grand declarations or sudden apologies to mend the space widening between them. But the silence Mark left behind felt like a sharp blade cutting through every fragile hope Donghyuck had quietly built.

He pressed his palms against his face, blinking hard to push back the sting of tears that threatened to betray him.

Anger bubbled just beneath the surface—hot, raw, unrelenting.

Not just at Mark.

At himself.

For letting his guard down. For believing that last week’s softness—the shared smiles, the rare moments of vulnerability—meant something more than a fleeting illusion.

For reading into every lingering glance, every touch that had brushed too close.

For imagining a future where Mark’s walls might come down.

His chest tightened painfully as he swallowed the lump forming there. He wanted to scream, to shout into the empty stairwell, but instead he sat frozen, the silence growing louder around him.

The steady hum of the city above seeped through the stairwell’s concrete shell—a stark reminder that life kept moving. With or without him.

He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms, trying to ground himself.

“I’m not that naive,” he whispered to the hollow space. But even as he said it, the words felt fragile, like a thin mask barely holding together the storm inside.

He slid down a little further, curling inward, wishing he could disappear.

Because the hardest part wasn’t the cold distance from Mark.

It was how much he had wanted to be wrong.

Donghyuck stayed curled on the stairwell steps, the cold concrete pressing against his back like a reminder of the reality he’d been trying to avoid.

It wouldn’t have worked anyway.

He let the thought settle over him, heavy and unwelcome. An assistant and a CEO—two people living in completely different worlds, governed by different rules.

Mark, with his carefully guarded walls and iron-clad control. Always polished, always distant, always in command. The kind of man who didn’t hand out special attention lightly—if ever.

Donghyuck had chased after those rare, quiet moments of closeness like they were proof of something real. But deep down, he knew the truth.

This was a job. A role. A professional relationship — nothing more.

The idea of Mark crossing that boundary, breaking down the wall between boss and subordinate, felt almost naïve.

Mark’s world was too cold, too carefully constructed for that kind of softness. For Mark, emotion was a risk. A liability.

And Donghyuck was a variable he couldn’t afford.

He sighed, letting the weight of that bitter understanding crush the last flicker of hope.

Maybe I was never supposed to matter that way.

Because in the end, CEOs didn’t get soft. They didn’t get close.

They just kept control.

And he was just the assistant.

~

The conference room was a stark contrast to the warmth of the morning sunlight outside. The pale gray walls, the cold metal of the chairs, and the sterile hum of the overhead fluorescent lights created an almost clinical atmosphere. It felt like the very room itself was holding its breath, waiting for the inevitable fracture.

Mark stood at the head of the long table, shoulders squared, hands tightly clasped behind his back, as if bracing himself against a storm he knew was coming. The screen projected the latest investor pitch slides, but all Donghyuck could focus on was the distance in Mark’s eyes—the same distance that had been growing all week.

Mark clicked the remote, moving to the next slide, then glanced sharply at Donghyuck.

“These numbers aren’t what I asked for.”

The words were simple, clinical—but they landed like a slap. Donghyuck’s heart thudded painfully in his chest, but his voice stayed steady, calm, professional. “They’re the most accurate based on the latest financial reports,” he replied, sliding the folder a little closer to Mark on the polished table. “The projections were updated with the most recent data from all departments.”

Mark’s gaze didn’t soften; if anything, it sharpened. His jaw clenched like he was holding something in. The silence stretched taut between them, as heavy as the polished mahogany beneath their hands.

Donghyuck felt the eyes of the junior executives in the room flicker nervously between the two of them. The tension was thick enough to choke on.

A soft cough broke the silence—the kind that’s awkward because no one really knows what to say next.

Mark, still not looking at Donghyuck, clicked off the presentation. “We’ll reconvene tomorrow,” he said, voice flat but carrying an edge that betrayed the calm exterior. Then, pointing a finger, “Donghyuck—stay back.”

The others wasted no time gathering their things, murmuring quiet goodbyes as they slipped out, leaving only the two men alone with the stale air of the conference room.

Mark turned fully toward Donghyuck now, his posture stiff but his eyes burning with something unspoken. “You’re being emotional,” he said bluntly.

Donghyuck’s breath hitched—not from surprise, but from the bitter irony. “You’re one to talk,” he answered, voice sharp but laced with pain. “You who shuts down every time something isn’t exactly the way you planned.”

Mark’s eyes flicked away, but his voice didn’t waver. “I’m trying to give you space.”

Donghyuck’s eyebrows drew together, disbelief and frustration crashing over him. “Space?” His voice cracked on the word, barely holding back the hurt. “I never asked for space, Mark. I asked for honesty. For you to treat me like a person—not a problem to be managed.”

Mark’s jaw tightened further, his face hardening. “This isn’t personal,” he said, but the words were hollow even to his own ears.

Donghyuck’s gaze hardened, stepping forward, the distance between them shrinking but the emotional gulf widening. “Then why does it feel like you’re pushing me away? Like I’m the one you’re afraid of?”

Mark’s shoulders slumped just a little, the only sign of the battle raging inside him. He looked down at the floor for a long moment, then back up—eyes dark, tired. “Because I am.”

“Afraid of what?” Donghyuck’s voice softened, just enough to bridge the wall between them, but Mark didn’t answer.

The silence stretched unbearably long. Then Mark finally said, voice barely above a whisper, “Of losing control.”

Donghyuck’s heart twisted painfully. “Control?” he echoed. “You’re afraid I’ll mess something up?”

Mark’s laugh was humorless, hollow. “It’s not about you messing up. It’s about everything I’ve built—everything I have—to lose.”

“And what about what I have to lose?” Donghyuck’s voice cracked again, raw with emotion. “I’ve been trying to hold on to something real between us. But every time I think I’m getting close, you pull away.”

Mark’s eyes flickered with something almost like regret, but then his face hardened once more. “This isn’t the time or place for this.”

Donghyuck swallowed hard. “When, then? How long do I wait? How long do I pretend this isn’t breaking me?”

Mark said nothing. Instead, he turned abruptly and strode toward the door, his footsteps heavy against the tile floor.

Donghyuck’s chest felt tight—like he’d been punched in the gut. He sat down heavily in one of the empty chairs, clutching the folder in his hands as if it could shield him from the storm.

The door clicked shut behind Mark, and the silence returned—louder now, filled with everything left unsaid.

Donghyuck closed his eyes, trying to steady his breath. He had hoped—against hope—that Mark might finally break down his walls, that maybe, just maybe, there was a chance for something more.

But today, it felt like those walls had only grown higher.

~

The rooftop was wrapped in the quiet gold of dusk, the city skyline softened beneath a fading blush of pink and lavender. The hum of distant traffic and the occasional chirp of birds settling in for the night blended with the soft clink of metal cans. It was a rare moment of peace—away from the sterile walls, the buzz of emails, the weight of words left unsaid.

Donghyuck stepped out onto the rooftop, the door clicking softly behind him. He spotted Renjun leaning against the railing, a half-empty canned coffee in hand, gazing out over the city with a look that was both tired and knowing. Without a word, Donghyuck joined him, the space between them comfortable in its silence.

Renjun took a slow sip and then glanced sideways. “So… he’s being an ass again?”

Donghyuck let out a long, slow sigh, the breath carrying the exhaustion and frustration of the day. “A cold one,” he admitted, voice low and raw. “Like we never had that week. Like last week was just some kind of illusion.” He trailed off, swallowing the bitterness that tightened his throat. “It’s like he flips a switch—one moment human, the next, back to robot mode.”

Renjun’s eyes flicked toward him, waiting.

Donghyuck hesitated, biting the inside of his cheek. “I don’t know how to play this game anymore. I don’t know if there are rules. Or if it’s even a game.”

The silence stretched between them, filled with the hum of the city below and the slow settling of twilight. Then, footsteps—soft but deliberate—approached from behind.

“Maybe it’s not a game,” Jeno’s voice cut through the quiet. Donghyuck turned to see him standing just a few feet away, hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket, watching the two with a half-smile.

Renjun nodded slowly. “Maybe he’s scared.”

Donghyuck scoffed, the sound sharp and defensive. “Scared of what?”

Renjun’s gaze was steady, unflinching. “You.”

That simple truth landed between them, heavier than any argument or explanation.

Donghyuck looked away, jaw clenched. “I don’t understand why it has to be this way. Why he can’t just say what he means. Why he has to build walls instead of bridges.”

Jeno shrugged, stepping closer to the railing. “Because opening up means risking everything. And Mark’s got a lot to lose. More than you might realize.”

Renjun took another sip of his coffee, eyes fixed on the fading skyline. “He’s got control drilled into him—like oxygen. Letting go means suffocating.”

Donghyuck’s fingers curled around his own can, knuckles white. “But what about us? What about what we could be?”

“Maybe that’s the hardest part,” Jeno said softly. “Trusting that the other person wants the same thing.”

Renjun glanced at Donghyuck with a hint of a smile. “You’re not alone in this. And maybe Mark’s just figuring that out.”

Donghyuck exhaled, a fragile thread of hope weaving through the frustration. “I just wish he’d let me in… before it’s too late.”

~

Donghyuck’s apartment was cloaked in the soft shadows of night, the only light spilling from the city beyond his window, casting long slanted beams across the hardwood floor. The quiet was heavy—thick enough to hear the faint hum of distant traffic, the occasional siren echoing through the streets, and, most insistently, the soft buzz of his phone resting on the nightstand.

He reached for it almost reflexively, thumb hovering over the screen before swiping it awake. The lock screen glared back at him—no notifications. No messages. No missed calls.

He checked again. And again.

Nothing.

No text from Mark.

No simple check-in. No word about the day’s meeting. No apology, no explanation, no sign that Mark’s thoughts had wandered beyond the cold walls of the office.

His chest tightened with a slow, creeping ache, the silence of the screen louder than any words could be.

He thought about texting first—something neutral, noncommittal.

“You okay?”
“Hope you’re having a good night.”
“Want to talk?”

But his fingers hovered over the keyboard and then withdrew. He wasn’t sure if he was afraid of breaking the fragile silence or if he was protecting himself from more disappointment.

The truth settled over him like a weight: closeness with Mark always seemed to come with retreat—moments of connection punctuated by long stretches of distance.

Donghyuck closed his laptop with a soft click, the finality of it echoing in the quiet room.

He peeled off his shoes and clothes, moving slowly as if the motions themselves were an anchor against the swirling thoughts in his mind. Sliding under the covers, he stared up at the ceiling—blank, infinite, a canvas for the questions he couldn’t answer.

Would Mark Lee ever learn how to stay? How to not run away the moment things felt real? Was it even possible for someone like him—so guarded, so precise—to let down his walls for good?

The night stretched on, heavy with things left unsaid, and Donghyuck closed his eyes, hoping for sleep to bring relief, or maybe, in some distant future, clarity.

~

Mark sat alone in his sleek, minimalist apartment, the city lights outside painting fractured patterns on the polished surfaces. The space was immaculate, almost sterile—just like he liked it—but tonight, it felt suffocating.

His phone lay face down on the glass coffee table, screen dark and silent. He’d been staring at it for what felt like hours, fingers twitching, wanting to reach out but stopping himself every time.

Why can’t I just say something? The thought repeated, relentless.

He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands in frustration. The gala, the stolen moments, the almost-confessions—they all replayed in his mind like a fragile film, beautiful yet terrifying. The closer they got, the more exposed he felt. Vulnerability wasn’t a luxury he could afford—not as a CEO, not with his carefully constructed walls.

Mark hated the coldness he’d put between them today. He knew Donghyuck noticed; he always noticed. And he hated that too—hated the thought of hurting someone who had become so unexpectedly important.

But he was afraid. Afraid that if he let down his guard, if he showed too much, he’d lose control. Lose himself.

He thought about texting—something simple, something safe—but what would he say? Sorry for being distant? Too weak. I’m scared? Too much.

He glanced at the screen again, then flipped the phone face down, as if turning away from it could turn away the fear too.

Mark exhaled, a long, slow breath. “Maybe tomorrow,” he muttered to himself.

But deep down, he knew tomorrow was another day to wrestle with the same walls, the same fears, and the same growing feelings he wasn’t sure how to handle.

For now, silence was easier.

Chapter Text

The office buzzed with its usual mechanical rhythm: the soft clack of keyboards, the occasional murmur of conversation, and the distant whir of a copier that sounded like it might give up at any moment. It was a normal day on paper. But Donghyuck had been living in this particular quiet long enough to know the difference between silence and avoidance.

He’d been sitting at his desk since 6:58 a.m., his routine so precise it had become second nature. Coffee. Inbox. Daily schedule. Internal documents. Every motion executed with the polish of someone who no longer needed to think twice. He was good at his job—so good, in fact, that even on days when his heart wasn’t in it, the system still ran like clockwork.

Today, though, the routine didn’t insulate him.

Because today, just like yesterday, Mark Lee hadn’t looked at him once.

Not when he entered the building. Not when they stood side-by-side during the morning huddle to review team targets. Not when Donghyuck had set a neatly prepared folder—tabbed, color-coded, and precisely aligned—on his desk like he always did.

Not even then.

Donghyuck had told himself—several times, in fact—that it didn’t mean anything. CEOs were busy. Overworked. Distant by necessity. Mark could’ve been dealing with board politics or financial fallout or whatever fires needed to be put out behind closed doors. It wasn’t about him. It couldn’t be.

And yet.

There was a difference between distracted and deliberate. Between silence born of stress and silence wielded like a weapon.

He felt it every time Mark’s gaze passed right through him. Every time he spoke to others and not to him. Every time he picked up his phone to respond to someone else’s message while Donghyuck stood silently nearby, waiting.

This wasn’t distance.

This was coldness.

A deliberate act of shutting down—of walling off.

And it hurt.

He didn’t want to admit that. He wasn’t sure he was allowed to. After all, he was the assistant. Not the boyfriend. Not even the friend. Whatever flickers had danced between them—whatever promises had hovered unspoken in the air after the gala—none of it had ever crossed the line into the realm of real.

But still. He’d hoped.

And hope, it turned out, was fragile.

He was drafting a logistics report for an upcoming shareholder meeting when it happened.

“Donghyuck.”

The voice sliced across the office floor—sharp, loud, unmistakably public. Half the floor paused. Even the junior associates stiffened in their chairs.

Donghyuck looked up from his monitor, pulse jumping.

Mark stood at the edge of the open floor, holding a folder between two fingers like it was contaminated. His jaw was clenched. His posture perfect. Every inch of him screamed restraint—but the kind that was tightly leashed.

The kind that threatened to snap.

“Can I help you?” Donghyuck asked, tone level, neutral.

Mark didn’t reply right away. He walked over, slow and clipped, holding up the folder like it was proof of a crime.

“These client notes are incomplete.”

Donghyuck blinked. “They’re the revised notes from the Q2 strategy meeting. I finished them last night and sent the full version to your inbox.”

“I don’t have them.”

Donghyuck kept his hands steady on his desk. “Check your inbox again. I triple-checked every attachment.”

Mark’s eyes narrowed just slightly. “I shouldn’t have to chase basic details. Not at this level.”

The implication was clear. Not just a criticism—an accusation. You’re slipping. You’re failing. You’re not worth the exception I almost made.

Something inside Donghyuck cracked.

It wasn’t just the file. It wasn’t even about the words, exactly. It was the buildup. The accumulation of silence. The bruising quiet of the past week. The way Mark had flipped the switch without warning—warm one week, arctic the next.

He stood slowly.

The chair slid back just slightly, the soft scrape of it almost too loud in the open office.

“You know what?” Donghyuck said, voice low but not small. He didn’t shout. He didn’t need to. “You don’t get to take everything out on me because you’re emotionally constipated.”

The office froze.

Utter silence. The kind that wrapped around everything like ice.

Several heads turned. Someone’s pen clattered to the floor. Renjun, two rows over, visibly winced.

Mark’s expression didn’t change immediately. He just stared. The only motion was the tightening of his jaw, the slight rise and fall of his chest. He didn’t blink. Didn’t speak.

And then—

“My office. Now.”

The words dropped like a blade.

They weren’t yelled. Mark didn’t raise his voice. But the command in his tone was absolute.

It wasn't just an order—it was a line in the sand.

Donghyuck hesitated. Just for a second. Long enough to feel the weight of every eye in the room. Long enough to let his own pride scream at him to turn and walk away.

But he didn’t.

He moved.

Past desks, past stares, past the fragile edge of self-control.

He walked into Mark Lee’s office like someone stepping into a ring.

And the door clicked shut behind him like the slam of a gavel.

~

The door slammed so hard it vibrated the walls. A picture frame on a side table trembled. The echo cut through the room like a whipcrack. Mark didn’t care who heard it—not anymore. Not after that scene outside. Not after what Donghyuck had said. Not after the look on his face when he said it.

Donghyuck was standing by the tall windows now, arms folded across his chest, chin raised in quiet defiance. His back was straight, his expression unreadable, but Mark saw the tension in his shoulders, the slight tremble in his jaw. He wasn’t afraid—he was furious. And maybe something else, too. Something quieter. More breakable.

Mark stepped forward, eyes narrowed. “You want to explain yourself?”

Donghyuck didn’t flinch. “Do you ?”

His voice wasn’t loud, but it was sharp—precision-cut and designed to land.

Mark opened his mouth to retort, but Donghyuck didn’t give him the chance.

“Because I’m tired,” Donghyuck said, walking slowly, deliberately, across the carpet. “I’m tired of pretending I don’t notice you pulling away every single time we get close. I’m tired of wondering what I did wrong when the truth is—you’re the one who can’t decide what the hell you want.”

“This isn’t personal,” Mark bit out, arms folding tightly across his chest like armor.

“No,” Donghyuck said, sarcastic and seething. “Of course not. It’s never personal when you shut down. It’s not personal when you stop looking at me, or when you humiliate me in front of the entire team like I’m a child who spilled his juice box. It’s not personal when you act like I’m disposable .”

Something snapped.

Mark’s voice rose before his brain caught up. “You think you’re not?”

The words exploded into the room like a grenade.

Silence followed. Awful, ringing, final.

Donghyuck blinked.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t move. He just looked at Mark like the wind had been knocked clean out of him. Like something vital had been taken away.

Mark’s stomach dropped.

He hadn’t meant to say it. Not like that. Not ever . But the moment had come so fast, fueled by days of fear and confusion and guilt and god, so much anger—at himself, at Donghyuck, at the terrifying way this had all started to feel like it mattered .

“Donghyuck,” Mark said, voice lower now. “I didn’t—”

“Don’t,” Donghyuck interrupted, still frozen in place. “Don’t backpedal. You said what you meant.”

Mark stepped forward. “No. I said what I was trying to keep from saying. That’s not the same thing.”

Donghyuck laughed, a sharp, hollow sound. “That’s exactly the same thing, Mark. You just finally said it out loud.”

He turned away, hands dragging down his face, pacing toward the wall like he needed the distance just to breathe. Mark watched helplessly as Donghyuck’s composure cracked, not in anger—but in pain.

“I gave you every chance,” Donghyuck said, quieter now. “Every moment. Every opportunity to show me that maybe— maybe —this was more than just proximity and tension. That maybe I wasn’t crazy to think there was something real here.”

“There is something real,” Mark said, desperate now. “You know there is.”

“Then why do you keep running from it?” Donghyuck whirled on him. “Why do you get close only to shove me away the second it gets hard? I’m not the one playing games, Mark. You are.”

“I’m not playing games,” Mark growled. “I’m trying to protect something.”

“ What ? Your reputation? Your control?” Donghyuck stepped forward now, eyes blazing. “Or are you just scared of what happens when someone sees all of you and doesn’t walk away?”

That landed like a blow. Mark’s mouth opened—and then shut. He didn’t have an answer. Not one he could say out loud.

He took a breath—sharp, as if steadying himself against the ache curling in his chest. “You don’t get it, do you? How much I’ve given to this job, to you —even when you made it so goddamn difficult.”

Still, Mark didn’t speak. His eyes flickered, but his mouth remained shut.

Donghyuck took a slow, deliberate step forward. “You talk to me like I’m a nuisance, like I’m a piece of furniture in your goddamn office. But I’ve been loyal. I’ve shown up—every single day. I've covered for your moods, your silence, your coldness. And I never asked for anything back. Not even when I should have.”

“You’re overreacting,” Mark muttered, almost to himself.

“ Overreacting? ” Donghyuck echoed, incredulous. “You just told me I was disposable , and I’m the one being dramatic ?”

He stepped forward again, now just a few feet away. “Do you even hear yourself?”

Mark’s jaw tensed. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean, Mark?” Donghyuck’s voice rose, not in volume but in intensity. “Because the message is pretty damn clear from where I’m standing.”

Mark’s expression twisted, something between frustration and panic. “Don’t make this bigger than it is—”

“It is big!” Donghyuck cut in. “It’s everything ! I’ve been trying—trying so hard to meet you halfway, to understand whatever it is you’re not saying. And all I get is slammed doors and insults.”

“I didn’t ask for you to care,” Mark snapped. “I didn’t ask for any of this.”

Donghyuck reeled back, eyes wide. He looked like he’d been physically struck.

And then he laughed again—softer this time, but it was a sound so hollow it could echo in a grave.

“You didn’t have to,” he said, voice fraying at the edges. “I just did.”

Mark blinked. The weight of those words hung between them like a noose.

“I cared because I saw something in you,” Donghyuck went on, quieter now. “Something real. Underneath all the CEO bravado and the walls you keep building around yourself. I saw a person. And maybe that was my mistake—thinking that person would ever let me in.”

He looked down, swallowed hard, and for a moment, just stared at the floor like he was trying to gather the pieces of himself before they shattered completely.

Then he looked up. His eyes were tired. Raw.

“You keep acting like caring is a threat. Like the second someone sees you, you have to destroy it before it gets too close. And I tried—Mark, I tried —to show you that you didn’t have to be like that. But maybe you do. Maybe that’s all you know.”

Mark’s mouth opened again, but no words came. There was a flicker in his expression—something close to regret. Something almost like a cry for help. But it was too late. He hadn’t said what mattered when it counted.

Donghyuck took a breath and straightened.

“So fine,” he said. “If I’m so disposable —then I quit.”

Mark paled. “Don’t be dramatic—”

That was the wrong thing to say.

Donghyuck’s face hardened. “No. You don’t get to call me dramatic. Not when you’ve been stringing me along like I’m supposed to guess how much I’m allowed to mean to you.”

He stepped back toward the door.

“I’ll pack up my things tonight. You won’t have to deal with my emotions anymore. You can go back to pretending none of this happened.”

“You think this doesn’t matter to me?” Mark asked, voice raw now.

Donghyuck stopped in the doorway. “I think you’re too scared to let it.”

And with that, he turned the handle, opened the door, and walked out without looking back.

The door didn’t slam—but it might as well have.

Because the silence it left behind was deafening.

~

The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, a soft but persistent sound that only made the silence louder. The break room was mostly empty—just a few scattered chairs, an untouched coffee pot, and Donghyuck.

He was pacing.

Back and forth in a five-step rhythm. His hands were clenched at his sides, shoulders hunched like he was holding something in—rage, tears, or maybe both. His usually crisp button-down was wrinkled at the sleeves where he’d pushed them up in frustration. He looked like he’d been run through a storm and hadn’t yet realized he was soaked.

Renjun entered quietly, a paper cup in one hand and a water bottle in the other. He paused at the door for a moment, taking in the sight of his friend before stepping in.

“I think I just quit,” Donghyuck muttered before Renjun could say anything.

Renjun blinked. “You think ?”

Donghyuck stopped pacing and turned. His eyes were glassy—not quite crying, but clearly close. His chest rose and fell too quickly. “I don’t know. It happened so fast. One second we were arguing, and the next—I said it. I told him I quit. And I meant it. I think I meant it.”

Renjun walked over and handed him the water without a word.

Donghyuck took it, but didn’t drink. He just held it in both hands like it might keep him grounded. His jaw worked like he was trying to bite back a wave of everything surging through him.

Renjun sat on the edge of the table, quiet. Waiting.

Finally, Donghyuck broke the silence. “He said I was disposable.”

Renjun’s breath caught. A sharp inhale between his teeth. “Shit.”

Donghyuck laughed bitterly. “Yeah.”

“He actually said that? Those exact words?”

Donghyuck nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah. ‘You think you’re not?’ Like… like I’m nothing. Like everything I’ve done for him—for the company—for us —was just…”

He didn’t finish. The words choked off halfway through. He looked away quickly, biting down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep from unraveling.

Renjun stood slowly, stepping in front of him. “Hyuck.”

Donghyuck kept staring at the floor.

Renjun’s voice was soft but firm. “You are not disposable. Not to me. Not to Jeno. Not to Jaemin. And not to him, no matter what he says when he’s scared.”

Donghyuck’s brows furrowed. “He didn’t sound scared. He sounded angry. Dismissive. Like I was in the way.”

Renjun folded his arms, watching him closely. “Sometimes people lash out the hardest when they’re afraid they care too much. He’s been distant, yes—but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel it. It means he’s terrified of it.”

Donghyuck met his eyes. “Then why say that? Why say something that cruel?”

Renjun sighed. “Because he panicked. Because he doesn’t know how to be vulnerable without building walls made of razor wire. And you got too close.”

“I didn’t mean to get close,” Donghyuck whispered, his voice cracking again. “I just… did .”

“I know,” Renjun said gently.

“And I thought—after the gala, after everything—we were getting somewhere. I thought he saw me. Not just as his assistant, but as someone who…” He shook his head. “I feel like a fucking idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot. You’re just someone who gave a damn. And that’s never something to be ashamed of.”

Donghyuck sat down finally, hard enough that the chair squeaked beneath him. He dropped his head into his hands.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now,” he said into his palms. “Do I go back in there and pretend like none of it happened? Do I pack up and leave? Do I wait for him to say something—to apologize, maybe?”

Renjun was quiet for a moment. Then he sat beside him.

“You do what you need. Not what you think he wants. Not what you’re afraid he’ll say or won’t say. Just… ask yourself if you can keep doing this without losing yourself in the process.”

Donghyuck lifted his head, eyes rimmed red. “It’s not just about the job anymore, Jun. I wish it was.”

“I know,” Renjun said softly. “That’s what makes it hurt like this.”

They sat in silence after that, side by side, the weight of everything unspoken hanging between them.

Outside the break room, the office continued as usual. Phones rang. Keys clacked. People bustled past the door, unaware that something quietly shattering had just occurred inside.

But inside, Donghyuck was still. Quiet. He wasn’t ready to leave yet.

~

The light outside had dimmed into an orange haze, casting long, golden shadows across the office floor. But inside Mark’s office, the air felt cold. Still. Too quiet.

Mark sat behind his desk, his posture rigid, knuckles white where they gripped the armrests of his chair. Across from him sat nothing—just the empty chair Donghyuck usually claimed, always with too much attitude or too much grace. Sometimes both.

But now it was just… empty. And it felt like it echoed.

The door was shut. Donghyuck had stormed through it hours ago, and the sound of it slamming still reverberated in Mark’s skull. He’d told himself to focus—to get back to work, return emails, revise the pitch deck. But the words on his screen blurred together, meaningless.

Because all he could hear was his own voice. Sharp. Brutal. "You think you’re not?"

He flinched again at the memory, his own cruelty ringing louder than it had in the moment. He hadn’t meant it. Not truly. But the fear—the wild, swelling panic of being seen too closely—had taken over before he could stop it.

He had looked at Donghyuck and seen too much. Felt too much. And in a moment of weakness, he had lashed out. Like he always did. Like he was trained to.

The worst part was how quickly it had come. Like instinct. Like defense. Because vulnerability— caring —had never felt safe.

Not in his house growing up. Not in business. Not even in the few half-hearted relationships he’d stumbled into over the years. Love had always been conditional. Power came with silence. Emotion was weakness.

But Donghyuck had never played by those rules.

Donghyuck came in like light through a crack in the wall—uninvited, maybe, but impossible to ignore. He had this way of getting under Mark’s skin, peeling back layers without even trying. A comment here. A glance there. A quiet night working late that felt more intimate than anything Mark had allowed himself in years.

And Mark had started to rely on that. On him .

He leaned back in the chair, pressing his fingers to his temples.

How do you go from craving someone’s presence to driving them out with a single sentence?

Mark didn’t even know why the words had come out. He had just felt the fear rising again—the fear that he was losing control. That caring about Donghyuck meant giving up some crucial piece of the structure that kept his world intact.

So he’d crushed it before it could bloom. Called it nothing. Called Donghyuck nothing.

And now?

Now he sat in the silence, surrounded by everything he didn’t say. All the words he could have used instead.

“I need you.”

“You matter.”

“I’m scared.”

“I care.”

His hands dropped into his lap, and he stared at the space where Donghyuck’s coffee mug had been just this morning. Left behind during one of their usual strategy scrambles, still half-full.

Gone cold.

Just like everything else.

The minutes ticked by. The office outside had thinned. People had gone home. The world kept spinning.

But Mark stayed there, unmoving, with the weight of it all pressing down. The silence in the room no longer peaceful, but suffocating.

He had built this empire from stone. Precision. Power. But maybe—just maybe—it had cost him something human along the way.

And for the first time in years, Mark Lee felt… alone.

Truly, deeply, achingly alone.

And worse?

He knew it was his fault.

Chapter Text

Donghyuck didn’t come in.

The first ten minutes passed unremarkably. A few glances toward his desk, nothing more. Someone at reception mentioned traffic on the bridge; someone else said he was probably running late. Jaemin, who always arrived a few minutes after Donghyuck, paused by the desk with two coffees in hand—one for himself, one for the person who always stole the lid off his cup. He stared at the empty chair for a second longer than necessary before retreating to his corner of the office, the extra coffee cooling beside him.

By 9:30, whispers had started. Someone asked if he had a day off scheduled. Someone else said maybe he was sick. An intern speculated something about burnout.

But Renjun said nothing. He sat at his desk, chewing the inside of his cheek, eyes occasionally darting to the elevator—though he knew, deep down, that it wasn’t going to open.

He knew because he’d seen Donghyuck two nights ago. Knew that the exhaustion wasn’t just physical. That his friend had looked shattered—like something had been cracked open inside him and he hadn’t figured out how to hold it together again.

Renjun knew.

And Mark... Mark knew even more.

He hadn’t asked the admin team for a schedule update. He hadn’t inquired with HR about an emergency leave request. He didn’t need to.

Mark stood behind the glass wall of his office like a figure trapped in a snow globe—watching the world outside but making no move to interact with it. His eyes kept flicking to Donghyuck’s desk, a silent compulsion he couldn’t seem to control. The workspace was immaculate. Untouched. The pencil cup hadn’t moved. The stapler was at that slight diagonal Donghyuck always insisted was the “optimal angle for efficiency.” There was no clatter of keyboard keys. No soft curse under breath when the printer jammed. No humming.

Just... silence.

A thick, heavy quiet that seemed to press against the walls.

Mark turned from the window and tried to return to his monitor, but his focus wouldn’t hold. The numbers on the spreadsheet blurred together, irrelevant in the face of the hollow space to his right.

At exactly 10:07 a.m., the knock came. Too soft.

The door opened without waiting for a response, and a young woman stepped in, smiling nervously. She was polished—clipboard in hand, tablet tucked beneath her arm, eyes scanning the office like it was a museum she wasn’t supposed to touch.

“Hi, Mr. Lee,” she said brightly, as though brightness could replace familiarity. “I’m Soojin, from HR. They sent me over to assist today.”

Mark nodded once. The gesture was terse. Cold. It wasn’t her fault. But she wasn’t Donghyuck.

She walked to his desk, placed a stack of files down—slightly skewed, not sorted chronologically. She fumbled with the tablet and tried to fill the silence with awkward pleasantries. “I really admire what you’ve done with the Q4 rollout. The restructuring was brilliant—everyone’s been saying so.”

Mark said nothing. His eyes were locked on the files. The wrong order grated at him. He clenched his jaw but didn’t speak.

She left quickly.

The moment the door clicked shut behind her, Mark let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He didn’t correct the files. Didn’t touch them at all.

He just sat back, letting the silence creep back into the room like fog. The desk across the office might as well have had police tape strung across it. Untouchable. Haunted.

He tried to tell himself it didn’t matter. That he was capable, as always, of compartmentalizing. That this was better—cleaner. Less messy.

He told himself it was fine.

But it wasn’t.

Because Mark didn’t just notice Donghyuck’s absence. He felt it. In the way the rhythm of the office shifted, off-beat and graceless. In the way no one dared crack a joke during the morning stand-up. In the way his coffee tasted too bitter, his lunch arrived too late, his own thoughts sounded too loud.

And the worst part?

He knew this was his fault.

He’d let fear wrap its cold hands around his throat and squeeze. He’d lashed out, thrown words like knives, and now the very person who had brought him warmth and color and life had vanished.

Donghyuck was gone.

And the day dragged on—gray, silent, and unbearably still.

~

The apartment was too quiet.

Donghyuck sat curled on the corner of his couch, an old hoodie draped over his knees like a blanket. The curtains were still drawn from the night before, allowing narrow slits of light to paint lines across the hardwood floor. The TV was on, muted—some drama rerun playing out in silent overacted expressions. Not that he was watching. Not really.

His phone lay face-down beside him on the coffee table. It had been on silent since yesterday. He hadn’t turned off notifications out of anger, or even defiance. He just couldn’t stomach the idea of hearing a ping and feeling that rush of hope—only for it to be spam. Or worse, not from Mark.

Still, his eyes kept drifting to it. Every few minutes, without fail.

He didn’t really expect Mark to call. Not logically. Mark Lee wasn’t the kind of man who followed after someone once they walked out. He was a fortress of pride and restraint, always ten steps removed from anything too emotional. Vulnerability was foreign to him, terrifying even.

But Donghyuck wasn’t thinking with logic anymore. He was thinking with bruised feelings and hollow ribs. Thinking with the echo of that moment—Mark's face cold, unreadable, and those awful words ringing out like a verdict: “You think you’re not?”

He flinched at the memory. That look in Mark’s eyes had been the worst part. Like everything that had built between them was nothing. Like Donghyuck had misread it all. And maybe he had.

He curled deeper into himself.

His laptop sat unopened on the coffee table, calendar still full of scheduled meetings, internal memos, pitch reviews. Notifications had piled up in his inbox—most of them reminders or missed messages from other departments. He hadn’t opened them. Couldn’t. The thought of clicking into anything related to work sent a strange panic through his chest.

He hadn’t packed up his desk, either.

His favorite ceramic mug—the one Jaemin had jokingly Sharpied “CEO Whisperer” across—was still there, likely gathering dust. So was the tiny potted succulent Renjun had given him on his first week, the one he’d named Chairman Leaf. And the blue rollerball pen he always used for high-stakes meetings, the one Mark had once quietly returned to his desk after accidentally walking off with it.

He hadn’t made a decision about whether he was actually quitting.

It hadn’t been a grand declaration with a resignation letter and a dramatic exit. It had been rage. Hurt. A reaction from the deep part of him that had believed he could matter to someone like Mark Lee. That he wasn’t just a replaceable part in the well-oiled machine of a multimillion-dollar company.

And now?

Now he didn’t know what to call it.

He wasn’t technically unemployed. HR hadn’t reached out. No one had sent anything official. It was like he’d hit “pause” on his own life, but the rest of the world had kept playing.

And the worst part—worse than the confusion, worse than the grief—was that he missed it. He missed the chaos of mornings. The snarky banter with Renjun. The way Jaemin would appear at his desk at 3 PM sharp with a snack because “you look like you're about to commit a workplace crime.” He missed the sound of the elevator dinging, the slap of folders hitting desks, the buzz of tension before a big meeting.

But most of all—he missed Mark.

He missed the early mornings when Mark would murmur a quiet “Thank you” without meeting his eyes. The late nights when they'd stayed behind and talked about things that had nothing to do with work—movies, childhood, regrets. He missed watching the way Mark’s brow would furrow in deep concentration, how he’d run a hand through his hair when overwhelmed, how sometimes—just sometimes—he’d look at Donghyuck like he was something safe.

And now, all of that felt... shattered.

He brought his knees to his chest and rested his chin on them, staring blankly at the muted TV.

He didn’t cry. He had the strangest feeling that if he started, he wouldn’t be able to stop.

His phone buzzed once—an email, probably. His heart still jumped. He reached for it before he could stop himself, flipping it over with trembling fingers.

Not Mark.

Of course not.

He set it back down, carefully. Like it might explode.

Eventually, he stood. Padded into the kitchen. Boiled water for tea just to keep his hands busy. The apartment smelled like nothing—like absence, like time standing still.

And as the kettle screamed and the water poured into his cup, Donghyuck finally let out a long, slow breath. One that had been lodged in his lungs since Friday afternoon.

He didn’t know what he was going to do tomorrow. Or the next day. Or if he’d ever walk back into that office.

But for now, he sat on the floor beside his coffee table, wrapped in silence, sipping his tea—and let himself miss Mark. Let himself feel it, all of it, without apology.

~

The work didn’t stop.

Monday turned to Tuesday, then bled into Wednesday like ink on wet paper. Meetings stacked like bricks, one on top of the other, until Mark was barely breathing between them. The board wanted updates on Q3. Legal needed input on a contract revision. PR was pushing a new strategy proposal. His calendar was packed from 8:00 a.m. to 9:00 p.m. every single day.

And Mark let it be. In fact, he welcomed it.

He started coming in earlier than usual, sometimes before the building’s lobby lights had fully warmed. He skipped lunch, often dinner too. His coffee intake doubled. His sharpness tripled. He reviewed documents faster than ever, rejected proposals with curt notes, and marked up decks with the kind of surgical ruthlessness that made junior executives sweat.

He didn’t smile. Barely spoke. When he did, it was all function and zero form.

At first, no one said anything. It was Mark Lee. The man was notorious for his intensity, his control, his almost robotic precision. But even among the seasoned employees—those who had been there long enough to grow callouses over his coldness—there was a sense that something was... different.

He was efficient. Unyielding. Unshakable.

But something had cracked in the foundation.

The whispers started on Tuesday afternoon. Quiet, in the elevator corners, or by the break room doors.

“Did Donghyuck quit?”

“He hasn’t been back all week.”

“I thought I saw him storm out on Friday—was that a fight?”

“What did Mark do?”

And always, always: “Have you noticed how quiet it is without him?”

Everyone noticed.

Mark did too, though he’d never admit it. Not even to himself.

The new assistant arrived each morning promptly at 9:00, notebook in hand, polite smile fixed in place. She was competent—exceptionally so. She filed reports precisely the way he liked them. She color-coded the internal spreadsheets. She was fast, organized, reliable.

And completely wrong.

She didn’t roll her eyes at his “efficiency protocols.” Didn’t call his most ruthless client notes “bloodstained.” Didn’t glare at him over the rim of her coffee mug when he worked through lunch again. She didn’t bring in matcha and say, deadpan, “You’re less of a menace when you’re not over-caffeinated.” She didn’t lean her elbows on his desk and talk about the weird dream she had the night before. She didn’t know how to navigate him like Donghyuck had.

She didn’t challenge him.

She didn’t see him.

The first time Mark reached for a folder at 3:00 and found nothing there—no new pitch draft, no summary memo—he blinked, thrown off.

Donghyuck would’ve had it ready. Even when Mark didn’t ask.

He would’ve already known what Mark needed.

Now, there were delays. Not critical ones. The work still got done. But it was slower, less seamless. The engine still ran—but it sputtered now and then. And Mark hated it. Hated that he even noticed the difference. Hated that he kept glancing toward the glass pane that overlooked the empty assistant’s desk, waiting for a glimpse of tousled hair, an exasperated sigh, a brightly colored cardigan draped over the back of the chair.

But it was just an empty chair.

All week.

The office felt colder.

By Wednesday evening, Mark had rewritten the same section of a strategy document three times and still hated every word. He stared at the screen, the cursor blinking at him with what felt like passive-aggressive impatience. He couldn’t think.

He swiveled in his chair slightly, glancing at the corner of his desk—where Donghyuck’s mug used to sit, usually full of something obnoxiously fruity. It wasn’t there.

Neither was the faint peppermint smell that used to follow him in the mornings.

Neither was the light knock on the glass he used to do before entering, even though Mark always left the door open.

He sat back in his chair and let his eyes fall shut for a moment.

This wasn’t working.

He’d told himself that more work would help. That productivity would numb the ache, that success would drown out the silence.

But it hadn’t.

He still came into the office and reached—subconsciously, instinctively—for a presence that wasn’t there. He still drafted emails and paused, thinking Donghyuck would skim them and offer some sarcastic remark about “corporate jargon poisoning.” He still expected that soft, amused voice that used to say, “You’re being impossible again,” followed by a fond eye-roll.

But there was nothing now. Just the clock ticking and the artificial hum of climate control.

Mark had always been good at compartmentalizing. He’d built an entire life around it—chambers in his mind locked and sealed, one by one. He didn’t let people in because people were messy, unpredictable, dangerous. His walls had been there for years.

And then Donghyuck had wandered in with a laugh and a challenge and a dozen unspoken questions—and something in Mark had shifted.

He hated that he missed him.

He hated how badly he wanted to see his face. Hear his voice. Even if it was just to argue.

He hated the feeling of not knowing if Donghyuck was coming back.

But most of all—he hated himself. For pushing him away. For letting fear lash out before honesty could reach his tongue.

For saying something he could never take back.

Mark ran a hand over his face, scrubbing at the fatigue that had settled into his skin. He looked around his office—immaculate, sterile, perfect—and felt none of the satisfaction it used to bring him.

He glanced one last time at the desk outside. Still empty.

Then he turned back to his screen.

And kept working.

~

The office was silent, the kind of silence that seemed to echo.

The overhead lights had dimmed to half-capacity after business hours, casting long shadows over the executive floor. Most of the team had filtered out by six, and even the cleaning crew had passed through an hour ago. But Mark remained, hunched over his desk like a statue carved out of exhaustion and restraint.

His tie was loosened. His sleeves rolled up. His shirt, for once, was slightly wrinkled.

The reports in front of him were flawless—color-coded, neatly bound, every column and figure aligned just the way he liked. His calendar was up to date, every meeting slotted with precision. Projects had moved forward this week. Clients were satisfied. Nothing was out of place.

And yet, Mark couldn’t shake the feeling that everything was wrong.

He tried to focus. Pulled up his inbox. Read the same sentence in an email three times without registering a word. When he moved to reach for a pen, his fingers brushed the smooth surface of the unfamiliar ballpoint the new assistant had placed beside his laptop. He paused.

Then, without thinking, he opened the top drawer.

There it was—still sitting where Donghyuck had left it. The pen. Matte black, sleek, and worn at the edges. Mark had scoffed at it once, said it looked cheap. Donghyuck had smirked and told him it had “lucky ink.” That every major deal signed with it had gone through.

“Maybe I’m your good luck charm,” he’d joked once, casually twirling it between his fingers.

Mark hadn’t responded at the time. But he’d never moved the pen. Never once tossed it away.

He stared at it now, unmoving.

Then closed the drawer.

Slowly, he leaned back in his chair. Let his hands fall into his lap. The city glowed behind the glass wall—cool, impersonal light blinking from distant windows. The kind of view that looked like success on the surface. But all Mark could think about was how empty it felt without someone sitting outside that glass. Without that voice that used to break through his work-induced haze with irreverence and humor and care.

Donghyuck had always been there. Loud when the silence got too heavy. Light when the world felt like too much. He’d known when to push and when to pull, when to tease and when to retreat. He had been more than just an assistant. More than just a coworker.

He had been there —a constant presence, a tether. Someone who saw through the armor Mark wore and dared to touch the skin underneath.

Mark sat forward again, elbows on the desk, pressing his fingertips to his temples.

This was what he’d told himself he wanted. Structure. Order. Distance.

No messy feelings. No blurred lines.

But the truth was, everything had already blurred. Long before that blow-up in his office, long before he’d said what he couldn’t take back. He’d felt something brewing from the moment Donghyuck had started working for him. Something dangerous. Something real.

And when that realness got too close—when vulnerability crept in like a crack in the glass—Mark had done what he always did.

He broke it. Broke them.

His chest tightened, something sharp and awful pressing against his ribs.

The phrase had come out too fast that day, sharper than intended. “You think you’re not?” He hadn’t meant it. Not really. But he’d been scared—scared that Donghyuck would leave if he got too close. So he did the leaving first.

He thought pushing him away would hurt less than being left behind.

But sitting in his office now, with everything so pristine and quiet and soulless, he realized he had still been left behind.

By his own design.

The worst part was the ghost of Donghyuck in the room—the one that lived in the pen, in the half-empty drawer, in the silence between his breaths. The one that haunted him in the way he now second-guessed the phrasing of every memo, in the memory of a smirk from behind a coffee cup, in the phantom footsteps he imagined outside his office every time the elevator dinged.

He thought about calling. He thought about texting. Just one message.

But what would he say?

Sorry?

Come back?

I didn’t mean it?

I miss you?

All of it felt both too much and not enough.

Instead, Mark reached again for his pen, then hesitated—switched to Donghyuck’s. Slowly, deliberately, he uncapped it, laid out the file that needed signing, and pressed the nib to the paper.

The ink flowed smooth. Dark. Final.

He stared at the signature for a long time.

Then he leaned back, exhaled deeply, and let the weight of the week settle into his spine like stones.

Control. Order. Distance.

It was all intact.

But none of it was worth anything, if he had to carry it alone.

And for the first time, Mark let the thought in fully—crushing, suffocating, and undeniable:

He missed Donghyuck.

Chapter Text

The office felt louder without Donghyuck in it.

Phones rang as usual. Keyboards clacked with the same mechanical rhythm. Conversations buzzed in the background—murmured meetings, muted laughter, the occasional cough echoing off glass walls. But somehow, the absence of a particular voice—sharp, snarky, familiar—left everything sounding wrong. Like the radio was tuned a few decibels off.

Donghyuck’s desk sat in the center row, just close enough to the hallway that people would pass by on their way to the break room. It had always been a little chaotic: half-organized files, a color-coded system that made sense only to him, post-it notes everywhere, and his cherished plant that he once dramatically named “Fernando.” The same plant now drooped at the edges, neglected, too thirsty for its usual midweek water and pep talk.

The chair, always slightly tilted and squeaky, remained neatly tucked in. That detail, more than anything, made people pause. Donghyuck never tucked in his chair. He was always mid-leap—off to grab Mark’s coffee, or intercept Jaemin in the break room with some dramatic retelling of office politics. The stillness of the chair now felt... formal. Final.

A yellow sticky note remained affixed to the corner of his monitor. It had begun curling at the edges, its ink slightly faded. A half-drawn doodle of a dinosaur held a coffee cup, and next to it were the scrawled words in all caps: 

“BREATHE + DON’T MURDER ANYONE TODAY :)”

Renjun walked past and slowed instinctively. His eyes flicked to the note, the chair, the slouching plant. The corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smile, not quite a frown. Just something tight and unreadable. He stopped beside the desk, hands in his pockets.

“Still nothing?” came Jaemin’s voice, soft but startling in the hushed quiet of the early hour.

He was holding two coffees, one of which he handed to Renjun without asking. They’d all fallen into unspoken routines since Donghyuck’s absence—subtle adjustments, small redistributions of roles. Even silence had become a shared language.

Renjun took the coffee, grateful for the gesture. “Radio silence,” he replied after a beat.

Jaemin sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I texted him. Just something stupid about that documentary he recommended last week. No reply.”

“I called,” Renjun said. “Didn’t leave a message.”

“You think he’ll come back?”

Renjun didn’t answer immediately. He stared at the desk—at the lucky pen Donghyuck always swore had magical presentation powers, still lying at an angle beside the keyboard.

“I think…” Renjun began slowly, “I think he didn’t want to leave. But that doesn’t mean he’ll come back.”

The words settled between them with the weight of a stone.

They stood in silence. Around them, the office gradually came to life. People moved past, some sparing curious glances toward the desk. Some whispered. Some didn’t even realize something was missing.

But Renjun and Jaemin felt it in the bones of the room. It was like a heartbeat had been removed. The rhythm was off. The space felt colder, heavier. Less human.

“He really loved this job,” Jaemin said finally, his voice low, like admitting it aloud might make it harder to bear. “Even when he complained. Even when he made fun of Mark under his breath.”

“He didn’t just love the job,” Renjun said. “He loved... being needed.”

They both glanced toward the glass office where Mark sat, unmoving, staring at his computer screen like it might bite him.

Donghyuck had filled the cracks in that room with color. With commentary. With care disguised as criticism and affection disguised as arguments. Without him, it looked like a display case—tidy, polished, empty.

“Think Mark even noticed?” Jaemin asked bitterly.

Renjun didn’t look away. “He noticed.”

The moment stretched long and quiet before Jaemin turned away.

“Poor Fernando,” he muttered, nodding at the wilting plant. “Didn’t even last a week without him.”

Renjun almost laughed, but it caught in his throat.

He reached out and gently rotated the plant to face the window. It was stupid. Pointless. But it felt like the right thing to do.

“He’ll come back,” Jaemin said suddenly, more hopeful than confident.

Renjun didn’t respond. He just nodded once, took a sip of his coffee, and kept standing there—beside the empty chair, the cluttered desk, and the note that felt like it was meant for all of them now.

“BREATHE + DON’T MURDER ANYONE TODAY :)”

The Monday sunlight filtered in through the blinds, dust catching in the air, as the office moved around the space Donghyuck left behind.

~

The break room had never been particularly glamorous. Pale countertops, humming fluorescent lights, a coffee machine that wheezed louder than it brewed, and shelves full of mismatched mugs. But it had always felt… alive.

Until now.

Jaemin stood by the counter, slowly stirring his coffee though the sugar had long dissolved. The spoon clinked softly against the ceramic—steady, rhythmic, almost meditative. His eyes were glazed, staring at nothing in particular, but in his mind, he was listening for a voice that hadn’t spoken all week.

“God,” he muttered, “this place is boring without him.”

It wasn’t just quiet—it was sterile. Lifeless. The kind of silence that felt unnatural. Unwanted.

He glanced toward the snack shelf. The tea box was a mess now—flavors all jumbled together, no longer alphabetized or color-coordinated. Donghyuck had done that as a joke once, just to annoy Renjun. But then everyone started finding it charming. Weirdly efficient. Balanced. Now, someone had shoved the chamomile next to the matcha and left an empty wrapper on top of it.

The energy was off.

Before, Donghyuck would’ve been leaning against the fridge, arms crossed and voice theatrical, mimicking Mark’s morning meeting with a fake British accent or a sudden, flawless impression of the marketing director. He’d do it just loud enough for someone in the hallway to hear, causing a ripple of laughter that made even the grumpiest team members grin.

Now?

Silence. Plain and thick, like fog.

The door swung open and Jeno walked in, his usual upbeat stride muted by the atmosphere. He opened the fridge, pulled out an orange juice, and glanced around the break room as though searching for something—or someone.

“Feels like we lost the soul of the floor,” he said, unscrewing the cap with a soft sigh.

Jaemin gave a small, humorless chuckle. “He had a talent for that, didn’t he? Just… filling space. Not with noise, not just with jokes, but with presence.”

“He knew how to cut tension,” Jeno added. “Whether it was with sarcasm, or a really bad pun, or just... a look. He always knew .”

Jaemin nodded, eyes distant. “Or when not to say anything. He’d know when you needed a distraction and when you needed space. It was annoying how well he read people. Like—freaky accurate.”

“Yeah,” Jeno said, smiling faintly. “Remember that time I was having a rough week and he didn’t say anything, just left that weird pink duck stress toy on my desk? No note. Nothing. Just… duck.”

Jaemin snorted. “That ugly thing? He told me it was haunted.”

The door opened again. Renjun walked in, granola bar in hand. He took one look at the two of them, then at the silence in the room, and sighed. “Let me guess. Donghyuck withdrawal?”

“We were just saying how quiet it is without him,” Jeno said.

Renjun bit into his granola bar and leaned against the counter. He chewed slowly, thinking. Then, almost absently, he said, “He was good at reading Mark, too.”

That stopped the conversation cold.

The room held its breath.

Because they all knew it. Even if no one had ever said it out loud. Even if they’d all pretended it was nothing.

They’d seen the way Mark’s expression shifted when Donghyuck entered a room—just barely, but always. They saw how Donghyuck could push him, interrupt him, even tease him, and not get snapped at like everyone else. How Mark’s shoulders relaxed around him, even when his voice remained sharp. And how Donghyuck, for all his theatrics, knew exactly when to fall silent and hand Mark a folder right before he asked for it.

They watched it unfold like a secret ballet. A private choreography neither of them admitted to dancing.

Jaemin looked down into his mug. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “He was good at reading Mark.”

Renjun crumpled the granola bar wrapper slowly in his hand. “The CEO’s been back to full frostbite this week.”

“I noticed,” Jeno muttered.

“He’s being brutal in meetings,” Renjun said. “No buffer. No warmth. It’s like… all the humanity left with Donghyuck.”

“And the assistant?” Jaemin asked.

“Nice. Quiet. Scared,” Renjun replied. “She doesn’t joke. Doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t tell him when he’s being an asshole.”

“She doesn’t know she can,” Jaemin added.

“She can’t,” Renjun corrected. “Only Donghyuck could get away with that.”

There was another long pause. Jaemin looked over at the cupboard, opened it, and frowned. The peach tea Donghyuck loved was still there—half a box, untouched. He stared at it for a beat too long before quietly closing the door.

“He wouldn’t just vanish,” Jeno said eventually. “Right? I mean… he wouldn’t leave like that if he didn’t think there was still a chance.”

Renjun didn’t answer right away. He wiped his hands clean and leaned against the counter beside Jaemin, staring into the space where Donghyuck used to stand every afternoon around 3:00 p.m. to complain about “corporate rot” and ask why the snack machine never stocked honey-dipped pretzels anymore.

“He didn’t want to leave,” Renjun said. “But something made him feel like he had to.”

They didn’t say what. They didn’t have to.

They all knew it had something to do with Mark.

The silence returned, but this time it felt heavier. Thicker.

“Maybe he’ll come back,” Jeno said, half-hopeful.

“Maybe he won’t,” Renjun replied. “But either way, we’re not the only ones who miss him.”

Their eyes drifted toward the hallway, where behind a thick pane of glass, Mark sat in his office—rigid, buried in work, his face expressionless as ever. But the tension in his posture was unmistakable. The stiffness of someone pretending not to bleed.

The room fell quiet again. This time, not because of the absence, but because of the weight of what they all now felt: the shadow Donghyuck had left behind wasn’t just a hole in the air.

It was everywhere.

~

It had been one of those brutal weeks—the kind that started with three crisis emails before sunrise on Monday and only spiraled further from there. Mark Lee was buried in numbers and deadlines, his fourth espresso cooling by his laptop, untouched since a back-to-back call had derailed his lunch break.

His office was its usual cold perfection: minimalist, spotless, framed in steel and glass. The only mess in the room was him—his tie slightly askew, shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and the faintest shadow beneath his eyes betraying how little he’d slept.

The door clicked open without a knock.

Mark barely looked up. “I thought we had a meeting at three.”

“Nope,” Donghyuck said cheerfully, stepping in like he belonged there. “You’re thinking of Thursday. Also, you need a break before you spontaneously combust.”

Without ceremony, Donghyuck walked to the edge of the desk and set down a sleek to-go cup. Its lid was bright green, with a tiny heart drawn in Sharpie beside Mark’s name.

“Coffee,” Donghyuck announced. “Except not really. Matcha. I’m saving you from the fourth espresso of the day.”

Mark raised a brow. “Did I ask you to do that?”

“No,” Donghyuck said, crossing his arms with a pleased little smirk. “But I’m preemptively managing your poor decisions. That’s what good assistants do.”

Mark leaned back slightly in his chair, appraising the other man as though trying to decide whether to reprimand him or be amused.

“You’re very bold for someone still on probation,” he said.

Donghyuck didn’t blink. “Bold gets results.”

It was said without a trace of sarcasm—just quiet confidence, like he knew exactly what he was doing. Mark didn’t usually tolerate insolence. But something about Donghyuck’s tone, his posture, the way he stood just close enough to challenge but not threaten—it made Mark pause.

Silence stretched for a few seconds. The kind of silence that usually filled the office with discomfort. But not with Donghyuck. He thrived in it, smiling as though the tension was something he’d built just to lean against.

Mark glanced down at the cup.

He didn’t like being managed. But he liked being watched even less, and Donghyuck was watching him now—openly, without shame, like he was waiting for a test result he already knew he’d passed.

With a sigh that wasn’t quite annoyance, Mark reached for the cup and took a sip.

There was a pause. Then another.

Donghyuck tilted his head. “Well?”

Mark’s brow furrowed slightly as he lowered the cup. “I don’t hate it.”

Donghyuck beamed. “That’s the Mark Lee version of a glowing review.”

Mark gave him a dry look, but his lips twitched—just slightly. Donghyuck saw it, caught it, and filed it away like he always did. He was good at that: noticing the cracks, the shifts, the almosts.

He straightened and took a step back, hands slipping into his pockets. “I’ll bring you one tomorrow.”

Mark didn’t answer, just returned his gaze to the screen, the cup still warm in his hand. He didn’t tell Donghyuck to leave.

He didn’t want to.

As Donghyuck turned to go, he called over his shoulder, “Told you you'd like it.”

Mark waited until the door clicked shut behind him.

Then—slowly—he took another sip.

It was still too sweet. Still unfamiliar.

But it was also the first thing that had tasted like something other than caffeine and exhaustion in weeks.

~

It started with little things.

A five-minute delay to the Monday strategy meeting. An uncharacteristic silence in the elevator that used to hum with quiet banter. A typo in the Wednesday morning briefing that no one caught until Mark was already mid-presentation to an external client.

The rhythm was off.

It wasn’t chaotic, not yet. But it was wrong in the way a symphony sounds when the violin section is missing—not broken, but incomplete. The orchestra still plays, but the heart of it isn’t there.

Donghyuck had never missed the details.

He was the kind of assistant who remembered that Mark preferred lemon in his water during quarterly reviews because “the boardroom makes his mouth dry.” He knew which client had a passive-aggressive streak and would discreetly pass Mark a sticky note that read: “Smile harder, she hates that.” He’d memorize the moods of the office—who was in a silent panic, who needed a mid-morning nudge, who needed space and who needed caffeine.

None of that was written down. None of it had ever needed to be.

Now, with Donghyuck gone, the cracks were beginning to show.

The new assistant—Soojin, from HR—was trying. No one blamed her. She was polite, punctual, and clearly doing her best. But she didn’t know Mark’s tells. She didn’t recognize the shift in his posture when a meeting was dragging too long or the way he avoided eye contact when he was about to snap. She brought him files out of order because no one told her Mark liked reading reports in reverse—bottom line up front.

On Thursday morning, she handed him a printout for the investor call, not realizing that Mark reviewed those notes only on his tablet to avoid paper clutter during high-pressure talks.

He didn’t say anything.

He just stared at the folder for a beat too long, then quietly pushed it aside.

The investor call itself was passable. Numbers were solid. Projections were tight. But halfway through, a long-standing investor made a barbed comment about the company’s “youthful internal decision-making”—a dig Mark had always let slide.

Donghyuck, had he been there, would’ve passed him another one of his signature sticky notes. Maybe something like: “She’s mad because her crypto tanked—do not engage.” And Mark would’ve smirked just enough to remind the room who was in charge.

But there was no sticky note. No spark. Just a flash of irritation in Mark’s eyes before he delivered a response that was technically flawless and emotionally ice-cold.

By Friday, the tension on the office floor was unmistakable.

The marketing team missed a soft deadline for internal review. A client email sat in Mark’s inbox for a full day before someone realized it had been overlooked. And when Mark emerged from his office at 5:00 p.m. to check on a deliverable himself—a thing Donghyuck would have handled an hour earlier—the junior analyst looked like she wanted to vanish through the floor tiles.

Still, no one said the name.

No one mentioned that things ran differently now, that the air was heavier, that the company’s famously smooth operations had begun to creak.

But they all felt it.

Mark felt it most of all.

He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t lash out. But his silences stretched longer. His brows knit more tightly in meetings. His usually clipped thank-yous and quiet nods were replaced by curt acknowledgments and disinterest.

When someone handed him coffee with the wrong amount of milk, he stared at the cup for a full fifteen seconds before setting it down, untouched. When his calendar was rearranged to accommodate a last-minute call, he said only, “That should have been blocked earlier,” before returning to his office.

His office, once a place of muted routine, had turned cavernous. He spent longer hours at his desk, took fewer breaks. Some nights, he didn’t leave until the janitorial staff arrived.

He didn’t ask where Donghyuck was.

But he wondered.

In quiet moments, between emails and board reports, his eyes would drift—without thinking—to the door. Expecting movement. Expecting someone to come in and say something annoying, or insightful, or both. Expecting... him .

Instead, the door stayed closed.

And the office kept moving, slightly off-kilter, like a watch that still ticks but no longer keeps perfect time.

The machine still ran.

But the oil in the gears—witty, sharp-tongued, intuitive, infuriating Donghyuck—was missing.

And no one could ignore it anymore.

~

The office at night had a strange kind of stillness to it.

The usual fluorescent harshness softened under the dimmed overhead lights. The buzz of printers, phones, and voices was replaced with the occasional hum of the city outside and the tapping of fingers on keys. From a distance, the place didn’t even look like a battlefield of deadlines and high-stakes meetings—it looked almost peaceful.

They were the only two left.

Donghyuck was curled on the soft gray couch near the panoramic window that overlooked the skyline, his laptop resting on his knees, a stack of papers on the coffee table beside him. His shoes were off, his tie undone, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and the glow of his screen lit his face in cool tones. His brow was furrowed—not in frustration, but in focus, lips slightly pursed as he marked up typos and phrasing in a proposal draft that wasn’t even technically his responsibility.

Mark sat at his desk a few feet away, posture straight but clearly worn down. His jacket hung on the back of his chair, and his glasses—rarely seen during office hours—were perched low on the bridge of his nose as he cross-referenced quarterly projections. A nearly empty coffee mug sat forgotten beside him.

The room was quiet save for the occasional shuffle of papers, the clink of a pen against ceramic, and the muted murmur of air vents.

Until Donghyuck broke the silence.

“I could order us dinner,” he said, not looking up from the screen. “We’re dangerously close to cannibalizing morale.”

Mark didn’t respond immediately. He glanced up from the spreadsheet, blinking slowly, as if surfacing from a deep dive. His gaze flicked over to Donghyuck—who was now balancing a red pen between his fingers like a drumstick.

“You just want noodles,” Mark said, tone dry.

Donghyuck grinned at his screen. “And maybe... to not eat alone.”

That made Mark pause. It was subtle—the flicker of something behind his eyes. His hands stilled above the keyboard.

A beat passed. Then two.

“Order the extra dumplings,” he said quietly.

Donghyuck looked up. “Seriously?”

Mark nodded once and returned to his screen. “You’ll eat half of mine anyway.”

Donghyuck’s smile bloomed, slow and genuine. “You do learn.”

They ate in the boardroom that night, sitting at the long polished table usually reserved for corporate strategy and client presentations. Donghyuck sprawled comfortably in one of the plush chairs, chopsticks in hand, legs pulled up under him like he was home. Mark remained more upright, methodical in his movements—but not stiff, not that night.

The takeout containers were spread between them like a casual feast—noodles, dumplings, steamed buns, and fried tofu in sweet chili sauce.

For the first few minutes, they ate in silence.

Then Donghyuck started talking.

Not about work. Not about projections or reports or shareholders. He told Mark about how he once pretended to be fluent in French during college just to impress a guy and ended up getting dragged into a wine tasting event he couldn’t escape from. He described the awkwardness in vivid detail, complete with mimicked accents and dramatic sighs. Mark didn’t laugh—not at first—but the corners of his mouth twitched. Eventually, a low chuckle slipped out.

Donghyuck lit up like it was a personal victory.

They traded stories then, slowly, like cards across the table. Mark offered one about a disastrous early pitch meeting where he knocked over a carafe of water onto the CEO of a partner company—Donghyuck nearly choked on his dumpling laughing. He’d never heard Mark talk about his early career mistakes before.

The distance between them shortened without either of them moving.

At one point, Donghyuck reached across the table to grab more soy sauce and accidentally knocked over the tiny plastic cup. It spilled on the edge of Mark’s tie—a dark blotch soaking into the silk.

“Shit—sorry,” Donghyuck said instinctively, already grabbing a napkin.

He reached over without thinking, blotting at the spot, fingers brushing the fabric just below Mark’s sternum. The movement was gentle, unfiltered. For a second, Mark’s entire body went still—but he didn’t pull away.

Their eyes met.

It lasted maybe three seconds. Maybe less.

Then Donghyuck looked down, muttered, “Got most of it,” and leaned back.

Mark cleared his throat and murmured, “Thanks.”

They didn’t speak about that moment. But after that night, something between them had shifted—quietly, and for the better.

Now, in the present, the memory lingered like perfume on an empty jacket.

Mark had passed that couch earlier in the day and paused—just briefly—at the sight of it. The cushion still slightly indented from where Donghyuck used to sit during late hours. A stack of new folders had replaced the cozy clutter of Donghyuck’s work corner, but the atmosphere hadn’t changed.

The couch remembered.

Mark did too.

And in the quiet hum of the office’s after-hours, where all the noise was stripped away, that memory played back louder than anything else.

The warmth. The ease. The way it felt—just for a night—to have someone stay .

And now, it felt impossibly far away.

Chapter Text

The city hadn’t fully woken up yet, but the office already buzzed with artificial life—keyboards clicking like insects, the occasional ring of a desk phone breaking the silence, and the slow churn of the coffee machine in the corner.

From his glass-walled office, Mark sat motionless, spine rigid in his chair, staring down at his desk like it might rearrange itself if he waited long enough. The morning sun spilled across the floor in long, fractured stripes, filtered through the blinds. Light without warmth.

He hadn't slept—not really. His body had gone through the motions: shower, shave, dress in one of his usual pressed suits, knotting his tie so tight it had nearly choked him. But his reflection in the mirror this morning had stared back hollow-eyed, unblinking, the shadows beneath them bruised and deep.

The office floor outside stirred with early movement, team members greeting each other, boots squeaking slightly on the polished floor. The rhythm of the workplace resumed as if nothing had changed.

But something had.

Mark felt it in his bones.

His new assistant walked in with a forced smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She approached his desk delicately, as though afraid a misstep might set him off.

“Here are the quarterly projections you asked for,” she said brightly, laying the folder down on the left side of his desk.

Mark nodded without looking at her, his eyes fixed instead on the open window across the room. “Thank you.”

She hesitated.

“Would you like me to—”

“No,” he said, cutting her off. Not unkindly. Just final. “You’re dismissed.”

She faltered for a moment, the smile faltering with her. Then she nodded and left, closing the door softly behind her.

Silence reclaimed the room like water filling a void.

Mark reached for the folder and opened it slowly. The contents were flawless—color-coded graphs, neat tables, footnotes exactly where they should be. Everything was technically correct.

But that wasn’t what stuck in his throat.

There was no note attached. No obnoxious post-it in neon yellow that said, “If I have to explain this again, I’m charging double.” No little doodle of a dinosaur in the margins, no sarcastic reminder about his “coffee addiction,” no bite, no warmth, no human touch.

Just cold perfection.

He leaned back in his chair and let his head fall slightly back. The ceiling spun gently, as though mocking him with its stillness. The air felt thin, like he was breathing through gauze.

Through the glass wall, he could see the vacant desk.

Donghyuck’s desk.

It was still there. Tucked in neatly like no one wanted to disturb it. The surface had been cleaned, but not wiped bare—his pen holder still stood on the corner, his coffee mug sat untouched. A potted plant drooped slightly, leaves curling inward as though mourning its absent caretaker.

The chair hadn’t been moved. No one sat there. Not even once.

People walked past it with a kind of unconscious reverence. No one said it aloud, but it was like walking past a memorial. They’d glance at it, eyes flickering over the empty space with a mix of sadness and discomfort, before continuing on in silence.

Mark’s gaze lingered there.

He remembered the way Donghyuck used to lean back in that chair with his feet on the edge of the desk like he owned the place. The way he’d roll over to Mark’s office door without knocking, mug in hand, eyebrows raised as if to say really? before barging in and fixing whatever mess Mark had created by trying to do everything alone.

Now, the desk was just a desk. The chair just a chair.

And the absence of that daily disruption—the noise, the teasing, the warmth—was a hole that nothing else seemed capable of filling.

The buzzing of a phone on silent. The tap of shoes too soft. The whisper of people not knowing how to act around a Mark Lee who had gone back to being all sharp edges and muted tones.

It was everything that was missing that made Mark feel like the walls were closing in.

He closed the folder slowly. Rested his fingers against the hard, polished surface of the desk.

This was what he wanted, wasn’t it?

Efficiency. Space. Control.
No complications.
No vulnerability.

And yet, without Donghyuck’s chaotic energy orbiting his perfectly curated life, it all felt sterile. Lifeless. Like a song stripped of its melody.

Mark let his hand slide toward his drawer, hesitated, then opened it.

There, tucked into the corner, was Donghyuck’s lucky pen—the one he always used when prepping Mark’s most important meetings. Black gel ink. Slightly chipped cap. Useless, really, but he always swore it made everything go smoother.

Mark stared at it for a long time.

Then closed the drawer again, jaw tight.

The silence roared around him.

And outside his glass office, the world continued on—louder, messier, and emptier than he remembered it ever being.

~

The clock on the far wall ticked steadily, but the room felt suspended in a quiet tension that stretched every second longer than necessary. Outside the window, sunlight filtered through skyscrapers, casting sharp patterns across the polished floor, but inside Mark’s office, the air felt thick—stale even.

A soft knock interrupted the stillness.

Renjun’s voice didn’t precede the knock, but his presence was immediately felt as he opened the door with measured steps.

“Here are the finalized legal documents for the overseas investors,” he said, his tone professional but cautious.

Mark didn’t look up from his desk. His fingers absently tapped on a sleek pen holder, the faint clicking in sharp contrast to the silence that had settled between them.

“Leave them there,” Mark said without inflection, motioning vaguely toward the corner of his desk.

Renjun stepped forward, but instead of leaving the papers at the edge, he set them down with deliberate care closer to the center. His eyes scanned the room—not the papers, but the surroundings.

It was immaculate. Too immaculate.

Everything was in place—sharp lines, neat stacks, surfaces polished to a mirror shine—but something was missing. Something intangible.

Renjun broke the silence with a casual observation, as if testing the waters.

“You know she doesn’t arrange them the way he did, right?”

Mark’s head lifted slowly. “What?”

“The new assistant,” Renjun continued, nodding toward the untouched papers. “She stacks the reports left-to-right. Donghyuck did it right-to-left.”

Mark’s brow furrowed in confusion.

Renjun chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Because he said you were a ‘right-brained control freak.’”

The corners of Mark’s mouth twitched, but it wasn’t a smile. It was more like a flicker of something buried deep beneath the surface—surprise, maybe, or a grudging fondness.

Renjun took a step closer, lowering his voice. “You’ve been breathing like a broken vending machine all week—short, jittery, and out of rhythm. Just… say what’s on your mind.”

Mark leaned back in his leather chair with a slow, deliberate sigh. His hands folded on his lap, trembling slightly as if holding back a flood.

For a long moment, he didn’t speak. His gaze drifted to the grain of the dark wood desk, tracing invisible patterns with his eyes.

Then, almost too quiet to hear, he muttered, “I miss him.”

The words hovered between them, fragile and raw.

Renjun didn’t smirk or tease, even though he could have. Instead, he softened his tone, reaching out with something more like concern than curiosity.

“Professionally?”

Mark’s eyes didn’t meet his.

“Not just professionally,” he admitted, voice low and tight. “It’s... more than that.”

Renjun nodded slowly, letting the silence settle again.

In the corner of the room, the stack of papers sat untouched. The room was too perfect, but it didn’t feel like home.

Mark’s confession lingered in the air like a quiet crack in the armor he’d built around himself.

Renjun shifted slightly, crossing his arms but keeping his expression open, patient. The office was silent again except for the faint hum of air conditioning and the distant murmur of the city outside.

Mark’s gaze remained fixed on the desk, his fingers drumming a restless rhythm against the polished wood. “I don’t like how empty it feels,” he said quietly, voice low and vulnerable—so unlike the usual clipped tone he wielded like armor. “Like a part of the rhythm is missing. Like I’m... off balance.”

Renjun nodded slowly, understanding more than Mark said. “He brought a lot more than just efficiency to the job,” Renjun said. “That spark, that way of knowing you before you even said a word. It’s rare.”

Mark exhaled sharply, a sound of frustration and fatigue mixed together. “I thought I was managing fine without him. Thought I could handle it.” He finally met Renjun’s eyes, and for a moment, the usual steel in his gaze cracked, revealing something raw underneath. “But I didn’t realize how much I was relying on him—not just for the work. For... everything.”

Renjun took a step closer, lowering his voice further. “Mark, you don’t have to carry it all alone. You know that, right?”

A bitter chuckle escaped Mark’s lips. “I don’t even know what ‘alone’ means anymore. I’m so used to having him there, that when he’s gone... it’s like the office itself forgets how to breathe.”

Renjun smiled gently, but there was a shadow behind it. “Maybe it’s not the office forgetting. Maybe it’s you.”

The words hit Mark harder than expected. His jaw clenched as he fought to keep his composure. “I don’t want to admit that.”

“You don’t have to say it out loud if you’re not ready,” Renjun replied softly. “But it’s okay to miss him. It’s okay to want him back.”

Mark leaned forward, resting his forehead against his folded hands on the desk. The polished surface was cool beneath his skin, a small comfort amid the storm of his emotions.

Renjun cleared his throat gently. “You thinking about reaching out?”

Mark’s eyes lifted, a flicker of something like hope—or fear—dancing behind them. “I don’t know if I should. If it’s even possible.”

Renjun gave a knowing smile. “Sometimes the hardest thing is the right thing.”

Mark closed his eyes, letting the silence settle again. Outside, the city thrummed on, oblivious to the quiet fracture growing behind the glass walls.

At last, Mark whispered, “Maybe it’s time.”

~

The office was swallowed by shadows, the harsh buzz of fluorescent lights long since dimmed or extinguished. Only Mark’s corner remained faintly illuminated by the soft glow of a single desk lamp and the steady pulse of his phone’s screen. The building had emptied hours ago, leaving behind a cavernous quiet that pressed against the glass walls, making the silence feel almost tangible.

Mark sat back in his chair, shoulders heavy, fingers curled loosely around his phone as if it weighed a ton. His usually precise, unflappable composure was frayed, worn thin by sleepless nights and a gnawing emptiness he refused to fully acknowledge.

The text message screen stared back at him — a blinking cursor blinking like a heartbeat, relentless and unforgiving. The draft was blank, the space waiting to be filled with words that felt both urgent and impossible to form.

His thumb hovered, twitching uncertainly.

I shouldn’t have said what I said.

He typed the sentence quickly, then paused. It felt too formal, too clinical for the storm of feelings churning beneath his skin. He backspaced, erasing the words as if wiping away a scar.

I miss having you here.

Better. Warmer. But still hollow, lacking the weight of what he truly felt. He imagined Donghyuck reading it—cold, businesslike, too safe. Not the truth. Not the confession buried in late nights and quiet moments he never shared with anyone.

The screen blinked again, mocking in its stillness.

His mind raced through every moment—Donghyuck’s easy smile when he brought matcha instead of coffee, the way he challenged Mark’s every decision without hesitation, how he seemed to know what Mark needed before even Mark himself did. And then the sharp words, the slammed doors, the silence that had stretched between them ever since.

He deleted everything, leaving the message blank once more. He rested the phone on his lap, eyes flickering to the clock on the wall. It was late. Too late, maybe. But the night had a strange way of loosening the tightest grips, of softening hardened walls.

His fingers moved again, this time slowly, deliberately, as if the words were delicate glass he could shatter with a single wrong touch.

I miss you. Not just because of work. I really miss you, Donghyuck.

He paused. Re-read the message. The words glimmered like a fragile bridge spanning the distance between them.

His thumb hovered above the ‘send’ button for what felt like an eternity—his mind a battleground between hope and fear.

Then, with a breath that tasted like surrender and courage all at once, he pressed ‘send.’

The phone buzzed softly in his hand as it disappeared into the digital ether.

Suddenly, the device felt heavier, as if it carried the weight of every unsaid word, every regret, every hope tangled in the message he had just sent. It anchored him in the quiet office, a tether to a fragile possibility.

Outside, across the cityscape glittering with distant lights and the low hum of life, a notification lit up on a screen somewhere. Somewhere that wasn’t here.

Mark’s heart tightened, but he didn’t look away from his phone. He didn’t know if Donghyuck would reply. Didn’t know if the message would crack the distance between them or shatter into silence.

~

The soft chime of the notification echoed faintly in Donghyuck’s quiet apartment, breaking through the stillness like a fragile ripple in a calm pond. He had been staring out the window, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the room, his mind tangled in a restless haze of doubt and memories.

His phone vibrated again, insistently this time, until he finally reached for it. The screen glowed bright in his hands — a message from Mark.

His thumb trembled as he unlocked the phone, heart pounding in a rhythm that felt unfamiliar, almost foreign. The words appeared before him, simple but heavy with meaning:

I miss you. Not just because of work. I really miss you, Donghyuck.

For a moment, he just stared, breath caught in his throat. The hurt, the anger, the exhaustion — they all pressed in, heavy and suffocating. Yet beneath that, something fragile and unexpected fluttered to life.

He tapped the screen carefully, fingers hovering over the keyboard as if afraid to break the fragile thread they were starting to weave.

I miss you too.

The words were hesitant, almost a whisper, as if he was testing the water, afraid that speaking aloud would shatter the fragile connection.

He stared at the message once more, reading and rereading it, heart tightening with a mixture of relief and fear.

Then, finally, he pressed send.

The phone slipped from his fingers as if it suddenly felt too heavy — heavier than before, carrying the weight of unspoken promises and uncertain hopes.

In the quiet of his apartment, Donghyuck let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. It was a start — fragile, uncertain, but real.

Donghyuck’s message sat on the screen, waiting to be delivered. Seconds stretched like hours.

Then, a reply from Mark popped up almost immediately:

Mark:
I’ve been a mess without you. I didn’t know how much until now.

Donghyuck’s fingers hovered again, unsure. Part of him wanted to say something sharp, something protective, but the vulnerability in Mark’s words caught him off guard.

He typed slowly:

Donghyuck:
Why didn’t you say any of this before?

The answer was quick, almost desperate:

Mark:
Because I was scared. Scared you’d think less of me. Scared I’d lose you for good.

Donghyuck’s heart clenched. He remembered the cold words, the slammed door, the silence between them that felt like a canyon.

He breathed out, trying to steady himself.

Donghyuck:
I didn’t leave because I stopped caring.

The screen faded as Donghyuck’s phone suddenly buzzed—an incoming call. It was from Mark.

Donghyuck stared at the phone, heart hammering. He hadn’t expected this. Not so soon. Not like this.

His thumb trembled as he hit “Accept.”

“Hey,” Mark’s voice came through, low and rough—like he’d been holding back a storm all day.

“Hey,” Donghyuck answered, voice quieter than usual.

There was a pause. Then Mark took a breath, like he was trying to steady himself before stepping into deep water.

“I’m sorry,” Mark said, voice cracking just slightly. “For everything. For what I said. For shutting down. For pushing you away when I should’ve leaned in.”

Donghyuck swallowed hard. “I missed you, Mark. More than I thought I would.”

“I know,” Mark replied. “I was a fool. I didn’t realize how much I needed you—until I didn’t have you.”

“Me too,” Donghyuck admitted. “It’s been... lonely here.”

“Lonely for me too.” Mark paused. “Look, I don’t want to fix everything in one call. But maybe... maybe we can start with this? Talk more. Meet up. Take it slow.”

Donghyuck’s chest tightened with hope and caution. “I’d like that.”

Silence settled for a moment, but it was comfortable—like the calm after a storm.

Mark finally spoke again, softer. “Thank you for not giving up on me.”

Donghyuck smiled, feeling warmth spreading through his chest. “Thank you for reaching out.”

Chapter Text

The lobby looked exactly the same.

That was Donghyuck’s first thought as he stepped through the revolving glass doors, clutching a matte black travel mug between his hands like it might anchor him to the floor. Polished marble gleamed beneath his shoes. A man barked into his Bluetooth headset near the espresso kiosk, and two women speed-walked past him in heels, the rhythmic click of their strides like a metronome to the rush hour pulse.

Everything moved around him at a breakneck pace—but Donghyuck felt strangely still, like he had stepped into a memory that hadn’t realized he’d left.

Familiar. Comfortably sterile. Irritatingly corporate.

And yet foreign, too—like a place that had continued breathing without him. Like the air had shifted somehow in his absence. Maybe it was him who’d changed.

He inhaled slowly. The scent was the same: burnt espresso, over-waxed floors, faint cologne that hung in the elevators long after executives departed. His grip on the mug tightened.

He almost turned around.

The elevator dinged.

The chrome doors peeled open with a quiet hiss, revealing the sleek interior and a panel of buttons that glowed softly under the ceiling lights. No one else stepped in. Just him.

Donghyuck exhaled, a soft, shaky breath. He crossed the threshold and pressed the button for the top floor with his thumb, watching the number light up like it had before—mechanical, precise, unfeeling.

As the doors shut, the low hum of the elevator filled the silence.

The mirrored walls surrounded him, reflecting him back at himself from every angle. Dark hair slightly mussed. Coat open, revealing a soft sweater and loose trousers. No badge clipped to his collar. No nameplate on his chest. Just Donghyuck.

A stranger, almost.

He tilted his head slightly, studying his own reflection. He looked… older. Not in years, but in weight. There was something behind his eyes that hadn’t been there before.

Not broken. Just worn.

Tired but alive.

His fingers tapped softly against the side of the mug, metal against metal.

The floor numbers ticked upward slowly. Third. Fourth. Fifth.

Somewhere between the sixth and seventh floors, he spoke aloud to the silence.

“I’m not here to fix him,” he said, voice low, almost hoarse. “I’m here for me.”

He let the words settle. There was no applause. No magic curtain lifting. But something in his chest loosened, if only by a thread.

The elevator slowed. The light above the doors blinked once— Floor 20 —and with a soft chime, the doors slid open.

He didn’t move at first.

His eyes landed on the hallway he hadn’t seen in weeks. Neutral carpeting. A small framed photograph of the skyline. The same waiting bench in the corner, still slightly crooked from when Jaemin bumped it with a presentation board.

His pulse picked up.

One step.

Then another.

He walked forward—not hesitating, but not rushing either. Each step was a decision, each one saying, I choose this. I choose to return.

He passed the framed photograph. The crooked bench. He ignored the familiar buzz of curious eyes watching him through glass walls. He didn’t stop. Didn’t shrink.

Because this wasn’t about coming back for Mark.

This was about reclaiming space that had always been his.

And as he approached the double glass doors that led to the floor—the ones that separated him from his old desk, from his coworkers, from the office he’d once filled with laughter and rolled eyes and too many unsolicited opinions—he reached for the handle with steady fingers.

The lobby had stayed the same.

But he had not.

~

All conversation stopped when Donghyuck appeared.

The silence wasn’t loud—but it was immediate. Like a record scratched mid-song. Fingers froze mid-keystroke. Screens dimmed as cursors blinked unattended. A voice on a client call trailed off with a muttered, “I’ll get back to you,” before the phone was quietly lowered.

Everyone looked up. Not dramatically—no heads snapping or chairs spinning. Just quietly, collectively. The kind of pause that said he’s here . The kind that wasn’t quite shock, but something more reverent. Something fragile.

Donghyuck’s shoulders squared just slightly, his posture calm, unreadable. But his hand tightened around the strap of his bag.

He offered a small nod to the room. Polite. Cool. Enough to acknowledge their eyes, but not enough to invite commentary.

He didn’t want a scene. He didn’t want a welcome parade. He just wanted to reclaim his space—and on his terms.

From the left, Renjun stood up.

The only one who didn’t hesitate.

He crossed the floor quietly, weaving past desks until he was in front of Donghyuck. His smile tugged a little higher as he reached out—not a grand gesture, but something deeply familiar. A quick, wordless hug, brief and grounding.

“You actually came,” Renjun murmured near Donghyuck’s ear. His voice didn’t rise above a whisper. It didn’t need to.

Donghyuck smiled, small and dry. “I said I would. I don’t flake.”

Renjun leaned back and gave him a quick once-over—not judging, just… checking in. Then he gestured toward the desk, his expression softening.

“I saved your plant,” he said. “It was touch-and-go for a while. You owe me.”

Donghyuck chuckled under his breath. “Of course you did. You always were better at nurturing things than I was.”

His eyes flicked past Renjun then, toward the far end of the floor.

Mark’s office.

The door was closed. The blinds half-lowered. No silhouette pacing behind them. Just a cold, opaque wall of glass.

Donghyuck’s fingers twitched against the side of his thigh. He didn’t let himself linger.

From over one of the cubicle walls, Jaemin’s face appeared—eyes wide with something between awe and cautious hope. He raised a fist in silent greeting, and Donghyuck gave him a half-hearted salute in return.

The tension on the floor lessened, barely perceptible. Still, no one said much. But there was something like relief hanging in the air, soft as a breeze.

Then came the final step: the desk.

His desk.

It looked… wrong.

Clean, yes. Too clean. Like someone had swept it free of memory.

The surface gleamed under the overhead lights. A fresh stack of files sat neatly in one corner, labeled and color-coded by someone who clearly did not understand the beautiful chaos Donghyuck had once maintained. The ergonomic chair had been adjusted to a new height. Even the pen cup was missing his stupid glittery cat pen.

To the far right, someone had placed a small cardboard box. Neatly packed. His things, probably. Left like a question.

He stepped closer, hands brushing the edge of the desk as if testing its temperature.

He lowered himself into the chair slowly, cautiously. It let out a faint creak.

His fingers moved instinctively—checking the drawer (still jammed), straightening the stapler, pulling the mouse closer. He didn’t open the box yet. He wasn’t ready.

The plant Renjun had saved was perched near the edge of the desk now, its leaves perked up but still drooping slightly. It looked like it had struggled. It looked like him.

He exhaled, long and low, then glanced around at the floor again.

People had begun moving again. Emails resumed. Phones lifted. Life carried on.

But some still stole glances—just quick, flickering ones. Curiosity. Respect. Maybe concern.

He was back.

But this was no return to the status quo.

The desk, the job, the people—it would only be his again if he chose it to be.

And that choice… wasn’t about Mark.

Donghyuck placed his mug down carefully, the sound a soft thud against the wood.

Then he reached for the first file, leafing through the papers with calm precision.

He could do this. On his terms.

And if someone wanted to earn their way back into the rhythm of his life—well, they’d have to meet him halfway this time.

~

Mark had seen the elevator notification light up.

He always watched it, though he’d never admit it—to anyone else or himself. It had become a morning ritual since Donghyuck left. When the lobby light flickered with arrivals, he’d pause, pretending he was checking the time, or a memo, or some random thought. Always hoping, always bracing.

Today, it lit up at 8:47.

The floor had quieted moments later. Too quiet.

A hum of tension had pulled taut across the open-plan space, the kind of silence that traveled like electricity through glass. Mark didn’t turn. He just stood near his office window, a report in his hand that he hadn’t read past the third line.

He didn’t need to see to know. Donghyuck was back.

And still, he didn’t move.

The ache in his chest hadn’t dulled—it had simply shifted into something deeper, weightier, harder to name. A blend of guilt, longing, uncertainty, and something else that clawed at the edges of his self-control.

Then—three knocks.

Not rushed. Not hesitant.

Measured. Intentional.

Mark exhaled through his nose, short and slow. He straightened his posture, set the report aside, and smoothed the sleeve of his jacket with the precision of someone grasping for calm.

“Come in,” he said, his voice even but not quite steady.

The door opened. Slowly. No dramatic flair.

Donghyuck stepped in.

He looked good—not untouched, but composed. Like someone who had faced the storm and chosen to step back into the rain, but this time with a coat and an umbrella.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t frown either. His expression was unreadable, carefully built like a fortress.

He didn’t sit. Just stood there, a few steps inside the door, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, his shoulders back and his chin lifted—not in arrogance, but in strength.

“I’m here,” Donghyuck said. Voice quiet, but certain.

Mark turned to face him fully.

And there it was—that feeling again. The one he had kept shoving down for weeks. Like his chest had been hollowed out and was finally being filled again… only to realize how painful it was to feel something after so much numbness.

“I wasn’t sure you would be,” Mark admitted.

Donghyuck nodded once. “I wasn’t either.”

The silence that followed wasn’t hostile, but it wasn’t soft either. It was heavy. Charged. Like the room itself remembered everything.

Every fight. Every misstep. Every moment where kindness had teetered on the edge of something more, only to collapse under the weight of pride and pressure.

Mark took a step forward, but didn’t cross the invisible line between them.

“I know you don’t owe me anything,” he said, voice lower now, careful. “Not your return. Not your time. Not a single second of this conversation.”

Donghyuck didn’t move. He tilted his head slightly, studying Mark the way he always had—like he was reading between the words.

“I’m not here because I owe you,” Donghyuck said finally. “I’m here because I don’t want to walk away angry. I don’t want this place—what we had—to stay stuck in that last moment.”

A pause.

“But I’m not here to fall back into old habits either,” he continued. “I’m not here to fix you. I’m not here to tolerate being spoken to like I’m disposable when you’re hurting. And I’m sure as hell not here to be silent when you cross lines just because you’re scared of being close to someone.”

Mark’s throat tightened.

Donghyuck’s voice didn’t rise—but it didn’t waver either.

“I need boundaries,” he said, more firmly now. “I need respect. And if you want me back—not just at this desk, but in this… whatever this is between us—you need to understand that.”

Mark nodded once, sharp and immediate. “Say them,” he said. “I’ll listen.”

Donghyuck took a breath.

“I won’t be spoken to the way you spoke to me in front of the entire floor. Ever again.”

His voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It carried the weight of memory—the sharp edge of humiliation, the echo of Mark’s voice raised in anger, the sting of being made small in front of others when all he’d ever done was try to help.

Mark’s answer was immediate. “You won’t,” he said quickly. Too quickly. But not insincerely.

Donghyuck raised an eyebrow but didn’t interrupt.

“I swear,” Mark added, more measured this time. “You won’t. I lost control that day, and I know it wasn’t just unprofessional—it was cruel.”

Donghyuck nodded once, but his expression remained unreadable. He wasn’t here for apologies—he was here for change.

“I’m not your emotional punching bag,” Donghyuck said evenly. “If you’re overwhelmed, deal with it like a grown man—not by taking it out on the one person who gives a damn.”

Mark flinched, subtly, like the words had landed square in his chest. He looked down for a moment, at the neat rows of paper on his desk, then back up.

“That’s fair,” he said. Quiet. Honest.

Donghyuck pressed on. “If we’re going to work together again, it’s going to be with mutual respect. No power games. No veiled orders disguised as ‘expectations.’ No cold shoulders when things get too real.”

He leaned forward slightly. “No running from conversations just because they scare you.”

Mark didn’t speak for a moment. He just looked at him—really looked at him. And the worst part was, Donghyuck thought, Mark hadn’t even realized he’d been doing it. The pushing away. The deflecting. The icy silences. To him, it had always just been work. Just the job. But for Donghyuck, it had been constant proof that maybe he didn’t matter as much as he thought.

“I’m working on it,” Mark said finally. “I mean that.”

Donghyuck studied him. For a second, he didn’t say anything. Then, softer this time, he added, “I’m not asking you to be perfect. I’m not even asking for vulnerability on a schedule. I’m just asking you not to hurt me and call it professionalism.”

Mark's breath hitched. It was the kind of line that didn’t leave bruises but left scars. Because it was true.

“I never meant to hurt you,” Mark said. His voice cracked on the last word.

Donghyuck blinked. Once. Slowly. “I know,” he said. “But you did.”

Silence.

It wasn’t bitter silence. It was raw and thick with too many emotions to name. Regret. Sadness. A flicker of hope.

Then Mark said something that sounded like a vow: “I’ll do better. I will. And if you need space, time, anything—you’ll get it. On your terms.”

Donghyuck looked down at the edge of the desk. Ran his fingers lightly along the wood grain. He’d spent countless hours here, editing documents, setting up meetings, refilling coffee, anticipating Mark’s moods like a second language. But this was different.

This was him taking up space not as an employee—but as someone who had drawn a line and dared the world not to cross it.

“Good,” he said finally. “Because this time, I’m not disappearing. I’m not running, I’m not quitting, and I’m not going to be silent.”

He looked back up at Mark, and something in his eyes had settled. Not cold. Not distant. But certain.

“But I’m also not breaking myself trying to fit into your walls, either.”

Mark didn’t reply right away. He simply nodded—slowly, reverently. Like he understood, maybe for the first time, what it had cost Donghyuck to come back at all.

And when he finally spoke, it was without ego or defense.

“Whatever walls I have,” Mark said, “they’re not meant to keep you out anymore.”

Donghyuck sat back in the chair, crossing one leg over the other, and let himself breathe.

~

The desk felt both too familiar and too foreign, like stepping into a room in a childhood home after years away. The shape of it was the same. The chair still squeaked when you sat wrong. The little nick on the edge of the drawer still caught your finger if you weren’t paying attention.

Donghyuck stood in front of it for a long moment before finally setting his box down with a soft thud. A few people peeked at him over their monitors, whispers dying on their lips when they met his eyes. He didn’t shrink from the attention, but he didn’t invite it either.

One by one, he began to unpack.

First came the plant—a jade pothos in a cracked terracotta pot. Renjun had clearly kept it alive, if barely. Donghyuck cradled it gently before placing it back in its usual spot, angled just enough to catch the afternoon sun.

Then the “lucky” pen. He didn’t believe in luck, not really. But it was the one he’d had when he landed the job. The one that always signed off on tough memos. The one he once threw at Jaemin and Jeno during a heated debate about the breakroom playlist. He placed it in the small cup beside his monitor, tapping it once like a secret signal to himself.

Next came the small ceramic dish from a street market in Busan—its uneven glaze shimmered when the light hit it. It held nothing useful, just a few bent paper clips, a mint, a tiny pebble he found on a walk and kept because it looked like a heart. He placed it beside the phone with a kind of ritual calm.

Then the photos. Not many—he liked his privacy—but a few polaroids were slipped into the corner of the pinboard: one of him and Renjun making ridiculous faces, one of the whole team at last year’s holiday party (Mark had refused to smile but was in the picture nonetheless), and one of Donghyuck alone, mid-laugh, taken by someone who clearly knew him well.

He paused before placing that one.

Then, with care, he pinned it to the board and stepped back.

His desk was still his.

But it wasn’t about things.

It was about choice. About claiming space. About saying, I am here, and I’m not hiding.

He peeled a fresh sticky note off the pad and scribbled in his familiar looping print:

Breathe. Drink water. Don’t let Mark annoy you today.

He stuck it in the top corner of the monitor with a kind of quiet defiance—part humor, part reminder, part mantra. The note looked like it had always been there.

People began to pass by—first one or two, then more. They slowed when they reached his desk, unsure if they should speak. Donghyuck didn’t make it easier. But he didn’t make it harder, either.

“Welcome back,” Jaemin murmured, setting a muffin on the corner of the desk. “It’s pumpkin spice. I panicked.”

Donghyuck smirked. “I hate pumpkin spice.”

“Yeah. That’s why I panicked.”

They shared a look. It wasn’t quite laughter—but it was close.

Later, a junior staffer paused awkwardly with a stack of papers and said, “It’s… weird not seeing you here. But it’s really good to have you back.”

Donghyuck nodded. “Thanks.”

“Renjun said your plant nearly died.”

“It always does,” Donghyuck replied. “But it pulls through.”

By the time the afternoon sun hit the floor in long gold streaks, he had fully settled in. His chair squeaked the same way it always had. The monitor booted up with the same slight delay. He had even started responding to a few emails, replying in his usual style—efficient, a little snarky, and always with an emoji no one else would’ve dared use in a corporate setting.

But something had changed.

He wasn’t just back.

He was reclaiming the space on his terms. No longer bending to the rhythms of everyone else’s expectations. He smiled when he meant it. He replied when he had the energy. He looked toward Mark’s office once—briefly—but didn’t linger.

This time, he wasn’t orbiting someone else’s gravity. He was his own anchor.

Chapter Text

The elevator gave its usual metallic chime as Donghyuck stepped out onto the top floor. It was still early—earlier than most arrived—but that was intentional. He needed this buffer, this in-between hour where the office was just an office again, not a stage for re-entry. Not yet.

He stood still for a moment, letting his shoes sink into the familiar carpeting beneath his feet. The pattern hadn't changed. The same geometric weave in sterile greys and navy blues. It still caught on the toe of his left loafer near the third row of cubicles, just like it always had.

Somehow, it comforted him.

The overhead fluorescent lights buzzed softly. A static hum against the otherwise quiet floor. The air had that crisp, recycled scent of HVAC and copier toner, the kind that clung to your clothes no matter how briefly you stayed. It was the same.

But it wasn’t.

Donghyuck moved slowly down the corridor, travel mug in hand. His fingers were wrapped tightly around it, not for warmth, but for grounding. His heartbeat didn’t race, exactly—but it felt like his whole body was holding its breath.

The office felt charged, like the moment before a thunderstorm—air thick with something waiting to shift. Only this wasn’t the brittle tension that had dominated his last few weeks here. It was quieter now. More settled. Like a lake that had finally stopped rippling after a long wind.

He passed by his desk. It was untouched, which didn’t surprise him. Even in his absence, no one had dared to claim it. Donghyuck was many things in this office—loud, blunt, occasionally a pain in the ass—but he was also irreplaceable in ways that weren't on paper.

And then he saw it.

Mark’s office door.

Open.

That stopped him.

Mark never left the door open in the morning. That space was always closed off until the first meeting. It was a ritual, part of his wall-building—his quiet way of saying not yet . But now, the door stood wide, like a threshold being offered.

From across the glass, Mark looked up from whatever document he was pretending to focus on.

Their eyes met.

Donghyuck froze. Not physically—his feet kept moving, one after another—but something in his chest stalled. For weeks, their interactions had been clipped, strained, even when they were trying. Before Donghyuck had left, things between them had been a minefield of things left unsaid and words said too sharply.

But now?

Mark nodded.

It wasn’t the usual professional acknowledgment. Not the stiff, businesslike tilt of the chin he gave most people. This was something else. Slower. Quieter.

It said: I see you. I’m glad you’re here.

Donghyuck’s grip on his mug loosened just slightly. He returned the nod—not out of reflex, but because he wanted to. Not because he was supposed to, but because, in that moment, it felt like they were speaking a language only the two of them understood.

There were no smiles. No dramatics.

Just that one, weightless exchange.

And it was enough.

He sat down at his desk for the first time in weeks. Adjusted his chair. Switched on the monitor. Everything felt familiar but not routine. As if the space had been holding its breath too, waiting for him to come back.

The floor began to fill in slowly after that. The usual early risers appeared with coffee cups and sleepy eyes, followed by the louder bustle of team leads and analysts. Phones rang. Emails pinged. Life resumed.

But Donghyuck noticed it—how people glanced at him, not with pity, not with suspicion, but with cautious welcome. As if they'd been waiting, unsure if he’d ever return. As if his absence had left a thread loose somewhere in the structure of the office, and now that thread was being quietly rewoven.

And through it all, he could feel Mark’s presence—not looming, but constant. Still in his glass office, still working through files, still the same Mark.

But different.

Maybe just enough.

Donghyuck inhaled, exhaled, and finally whispered to himself, “Okay. Let’s try this again.”

The morning moved forward. But everything had already begun to shift.

~

Mark Lee did not do small talk.

The entire company knew it. Hell, even the building knew it. Elevators went quiet when he stepped inside. Assistants whispered when assigning meeting rooms, instinctively choosing the ones farthest from his office. Conversation with Mark was typically concise, efficient, and entirely business-first. If you were lucky, you got a dry nod. If you were unlucky, a cold glance.

So when Donghyuck walked into his office mid-morning with a stack of client proposals and a bright yellow folder tucked under one arm—his usual flair of post-it flags sticking out like confetti—he expected the usual routine.

A glance. A nod. A “Leave them on the desk.”

Instead, without looking up from his screen, Mark said, “Did you get a chance to eat this morning?”

Donghyuck almost dropped the folder. He blinked once. Then again.

“…What?”

Mark looked up now, fingers pausing over his keyboard as though they too were shocked he’d spoken. He sat straighter in his chair, but his face was unreadable, save for the slight twitch of uncertainty near his mouth.

“I just…” Mark cleared his throat and tried again, his tone a bit more clipped. “You used to get annoyed when I skipped breakfast before meetings. I figured I’d ask you back.”

Donghyuck blinked a third time, slower. Then narrowed his eyes in mock suspicion.

“Is this… you attempting mutual care?”

Mark frowned faintly. “Don’t make it weird.”

“You made it weird by saying it,” Donghyuck replied, walking the rest of the way into the room and setting the papers down on Mark’s desk with a light thunk . His voice had that teasing note again, playful but not sharp—something softer.

Mark opened his mouth. Closed it. Tilted his head slightly like he was calculating a chess move. Then finally said, “Yes.”

There was a moment where neither of them spoke.

Mark sat perfectly still, as though if he twitched, the moment might shatter. Donghyuck stood with one hand on the back of the guest chair, considering him like someone encountering a cat that had just willingly crawled into their lap for the first time.

Then, slowly— so slowly —Donghyuck smiled. It was small. Crooked. Barely there. But it was real.

“Noted,” he said. “And yes, I ate. Protein bar. Coffee. Half a banana.”

Mark gave a short, decisive nod, like he’d just ticked something off a checklist. “Good.”

Donghyuck turned to leave, but paused halfway to the door.

“Did you eat?” he asked, over his shoulder, like it was a throwaway.

Mark looked surprised again—visibly so, brows twitching just slightly. “Coffee,” he answered, guarded.

“Mark,” Donghyuck said, his voice low and warning.

Mark exhaled. “Protein bar. Half a banana.”

Donghyuck looked back at him, face deadpan. “Did you steal my breakfast?”

“I paid for it,” Mark said defensively, which didn’t really help his case.

Donghyuck chuckled. The kind of sound that held the shape of old rhythms they used to fall into. Teasing and careful and close. Like maybe they were slowly walking back toward something.

He leaned against the doorframe now, more relaxed. “This is weird, you know.”

“What is?”

“You. Talking like this. Like a person.”

Mark’s lips twitched again, and this time it was almost a smile. “I’m trying.”

“You’re bad at it.”

“I’m aware.”

Donghyuck folded his arms across his chest, watching him with something that wasn’t quite amusement, wasn’t quite caution. “Why now?”

Mark’s face grew serious again, but not cold. Just honest. “Because you’re back. And I don’t want to… go back to what we were before.”

Donghyuck didn’t speak for a moment. His face softened slightly, and his arms slowly uncrossed. “Okay,” he said finally. “That’s a start.”

Mark nodded again, more certain this time.

Donghyuck lingered at the doorway another beat, then gave a little two-finger salute. “Next time you steal my banana, at least leave a note.”

“Noted,” Mark said.

And then, just as Donghyuck turned to leave, Mark added—quietly, but deliberately—“Thank you. For coming back.”

Donghyuck froze mid-step. Didn’t look over his shoulder this time. Just stood there for a second.

Then, soft and simple: “Don’t make me regret it.”

And with that, he walked out.

Mark watched the door for a long time after it closed. Not because he was waiting for it to open again. But because, for the first time in a long time, something inside him didn’t feel quite so heavy.

~

If you didn’t look too closely, it would have seemed like nothing had changed.

Donghyuck moved through his tasks with the same practiced grace, the same steady rhythm that had once made him indispensable. He typed quickly, annotated schedules in clean, sharp handwriting, and dropped off reports at Mark’s office with the same calm expression. But beneath that surface polish was a wary kind of quiet—a deliberate patience, like someone testing the water temperature with their toe before diving back in.

Mark, for his part, was trying.

You could see it in the way his eyes lingered just a second longer on each page Donghyuck handed him. In the way he listened—really listened—when Donghyuck explained a shift in the conference calendar or suggested a rework to the investor itinerary. Before, he would have waved him off with a clipped, “Just send it to Legal,” or worse, ignored it entirely until a fire had to be put out.

Now?

Now, Mark would lean back slightly, tilt his head, and say, “Why do you think we should swap the sequence?”

Donghyuck would blink. Then explain. And Mark would nod. And thank him.

It was small, these moments. But it was enough to unsettle and soothe at the same time.

At one point, just after noon, Donghyuck stood by Mark’s desk with a printed schedule in hand. “Lunch with the COO from Junheon Tech was moved to Thursday. He had a conflict, but I already rebooked the venue and notified the assistant.”

Mark took the schedule. Scanned it. “Got it.”

Then, softly: “Thanks.”

Donghyuck’s eyes flicked up. The word wasn’t said like a formality. It was said like a promise. Like Mark was trying, in small doses, to rewrite the muscle memory between them.

By mid-afternoon, the rhythm began to return. A different rhythm—not the rigid, unspoken code they’d followed before. This one allowed pauses. Space. The occasional curveball.

Like when Donghyuck forgot to flag an important conference call on the calendar.

Mark had been in the middle of reviewing logistics for the Asia-Pacific launch. The reminder popped up ten minutes after the call had already started. Mark’s brows twitched together.

Donghyuck saw it from across the office, already rising from his chair and crossing the floor.

He didn’t offer excuses. Just stood at the doorway of Mark’s office and said, quietly, “That one’s on me.”

Mark looked up. The air between them stalled.

In the past, this would have been an immediate explosion. A scathing comment. A pointed remark about “basic competence.” Donghyuck had braced himself without even meaning to.

But Mark did something else. Something entirely unexpected.

He blinked. Sat back in his chair. Took a breath so deep it felt like an earthquake had been averted in real-time. And then he said, “Let’s just call them back.”

Donghyuck stared.

“You’re not yelling?”

Mark rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. “I figured I’d try something radical. Like not being a jerk.”

Donghyuck’s lips twitched. “Brave of you.”

Mark met his eyes. For a heartbeat, something passed between them. A flicker of familiarity. A private joke. The outline of who they used to be—before the tension, before the blow-ups, before everything got too complicated.

Donghyuck snorted. A short, surprised sound. And then, slowly, he laughed.

Mark did too—quietly, but genuinely. His laughter was rusty, like it hadn’t been used in a while, but it was real.

That moment wasn’t loud or dramatic. It didn’t change the world. But it softened something.

After the call was rescheduled, Donghyuck returned to his desk and found a sticky note on his monitor.

It read: “Even geniuses miss things. – Not yelling.”

By the end of the day, the quiet civility between them had given way to something almost… companionable. When Donghyuck handed off the last batch of emails to be reviewed, Mark didn’t just take the folder—he looked up and said, “You did a lot today. I noticed.”

Donghyuck, who had spent years perfecting the art of giving without being seen, froze for a split second. Then said, very quietly, “Thanks.”

And this time, it was his turn to mean it.

~

The break room was always a bit of a liminal space—neither strictly professional nor truly relaxed. It lived somewhere between reheated noodles and office gossip, buzzing microwaves and half-hearted laughter over phone screens. Executives didn’t linger here, and certainly not the CEO.

So when Mark Lee stepped through the doorway—tie slightly loosened, two steaming containers in hand—conversations faltered.

A spoon clattered into a bowl. Someone pretended not to stare but missed their own mouth with their yogurt.

Mark didn’t glance at anyone. His eyes scanned the room with surgical precision and locked on Donghyuck, who was seated alone at the small round table by the window, halfway through a mug of jasmine tea and a leftover veggie bun from the market near his apartment.

Donghyuck looked up slowly, eyebrows raised. He hadn’t heard footsteps—only felt the way the air changed when someone walked in who didn’t belong here.

Mark approached like someone trying to remember how normal people functioned in shared spaces. His grip on the two food containers was awkward, but determined. He stood at the edge of the table for a second too long before clearing his throat.

“I remembered you like these,” he said stiffly, holding one out like a carefully wrapped olive branch. The label on the plastic lid read “Spicy Dumplings” in marker. The steam curling beneath the lid was fragrant—ginger, chili, soy.

Donghyuck stared at the box, then up at Mark. “From that place three blocks down?”

Mark nodded once. “I, uh… asked Renjun. He said you get them every other Thursday when you're cranky.”

A smile threatened to curve Donghyuck’s lips. “Cranky?”

Mark raised a brow. “His word. Not mine.”

Donghyuck accepted the dumplings slowly, deliberately, as if they were something fragile—more symbolic than edible. “Thanks,” he said, voice soft.

Mark held up the second container. “Tofu stir-fry. I figured I should suffer alongside you.”

“Suffer?” Donghyuck echoed with mock offense. “That place has three stars on Yelp. It’s basically gourmet suffering.”

Mark smirked. “Well, I’m here. That’s a start.”

Without waiting for an invitation—which Donghyuck knew was its own kind of progress—Mark sat down across from him. Not in his usual rigid posture, but something a little looser, less guarded. Like he was trying. Like this wasn’t a performance for the office but something he wanted to do.

They sat in silence for a few beats, the kind that would’ve been awkward between strangers but now felt charged with shared memory.

Donghyuck opened the lid of the dumplings. A puff of spice immediately hit the air, making Mark’s nose twitch.

“You sure you want to try these?” Donghyuck asked, amused.

Mark hesitated. “Do they still come with that death chili sauce?”

Donghyuck picked up a small plastic cup of crimson sauce and swirled it threateningly. “Right here.”

Mark leaned back slightly. “Is this a trap?”

Donghyuck grinned. “Only if you make it one.” Then, with a mock-sweet voice: “Go on. Try one. I dare you.”

Mark narrowed his eyes at the container. “Are they as spicy as you are passive-aggressive?”

“Worse,” Donghyuck said, already biting into one. “But you’ll survive.”

Mark picked up a dumpling with the chopsticks provided, fumbling slightly. He dipped just the edge into the sauce, then took a cautious bite.

His reaction was immediate—eyes wide, throat tightening, a sharp inhale through his nose.

Donghyuck burst out laughing. “Oh my god. You look like someone just whispered a slur in your ear.”

Mark held up a finger, coughing once. “Okay. Okay. That’s… that’s weaponized.”

“Welcome to my comfort food,” Donghyuck said, smug.

But when Mark finally swallowed, wiping his mouth with a napkin, he surprised them both by saying, “That was actually… good.”

Donghyuck tilted his head, genuinely surprised. “You serious?”

Mark nodded, reaching for his tofu. “Don’t tell Renjun, though. I have a reputation to uphold.”

Donghyuck chuckled, then sipped his tea. The sunlight filtering through the window turned his skin gold, his eyes warm. He looked more at ease than he had in weeks—less like someone on edge, more like someone reclaiming space.

Mark, chewing his stir-fry slowly, watched him from across the table. Not intensely. Not with that sharp CEO focus. Just… quietly. Like someone grateful for a chance to sit with someone he didn’t think he’d ever sit with again.

“This doesn’t change everything,” Donghyuck said suddenly, not looking at him. “Just so you know.”

Mark nodded. “It’s not meant to. I just figured… maybe lunch is a good place to start.”

There was another silence. This one wasn’t charged or awkward—it was comfortable. Safe.

Donghyuck reached across the table, slid one last dumpling into Mark’s container, and said with a small, teasing smile, “Well, if you keel over from spice, I’m not calling HR.”

Mark raised a brow. “I’ll put that in writing.”

They both laughed.

For a break room filled with fluorescent lights and coffee stains, it suddenly felt like the sunniest place in the building.

~

The office floor had begun to dim with the golden blur of early evening. Fluorescent lights overhead clicked off row by row as departments emptied, leaving behind a hush that hummed beneath the silence—a low thrum of printers winding down, elevators closing in the distance, the faint tap of fingers on plastic keys.

Donghyuck remained seated at his desk, the soft light from his screen casting a glow over his face. He’d taken off his blazer hours ago and rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, wrists littered with highlighter marks and ink smudges. He leaned forward slightly, eyes trained on the final itinerary on his screen, fingers skimming the page with practiced ease.

He didn’t notice Mark at first.

The CEO stood in his office doorway, not with the commanding presence he typically carried, but in a rare moment of stillness. His tie was loosened, shirt rumpled from a day of movement and meetings. He looked… human. A little tired. A little tentative.

Finally, he spoke.

“You don’t have to stay late.”

Donghyuck looked up. His eyes didn’t hold the sharpness they used to—no trace of ice or fire. Just something neutral. Watchful. “Habit,” he replied, offering a small shrug.

Mark nodded slowly, pushing off the doorframe. He walked a few steps closer but stopped at the edge of the cubicle divider, not crossing the invisible threshold between them. His fingers curled lightly around the corner of the wall.

Then, softly—quiet enough that Donghyuck almost missed it—Mark said, “You shouldn’t have to bend yourself out of shape to work here.”

Donghyuck blinked.

The sentence floated in the space between them like dust in light, fragile and real.

For a second, neither of them spoke. The weight of it settled slowly.

Mark continued, voice low and steady. “I want you here, Donghyuck. But not at the cost of you.”

He didn’t look away when he said it. He didn’t cloak it in professionalism or sarcasm. There was no performance in his tone—only truth. A quiet, vulnerable kind of truth that Mark rarely let show.

Donghyuck sat back in his chair. His hand drifted away from the travel packet, folding loosely in his lap. He let the words settle, not rush to patch over them with jokes or brush them aside with skepticism.

It wasn’t just that Mark had said it—it was that he’d meant it.

The last few weeks had been a kaleidoscope of hurt and hesitation, distance and return. Apologies that had taken more strength than anger. Boundaries that had been drawn with clarity, not spite.

And now, here they were—at the soft edge of something neither of them could name yet.

The tension that used to rise in his chest whenever Mark walked into the room didn’t come this time. Instead, it hovered gently at the edges and faded like mist.

Donghyuck leaned forward, closed the folder slowly, and turned his chair to face him more fully. “Then let’s see what happens,” he said carefully, “when we try working together like humans.”

The hint of a smile touched the corners of Mark’s mouth. Not smug. Not relieved. Just… grateful.

“Okay,” Mark said quietly. “Let’s try.”

For a few seconds, they just looked at each other. Not in challenge. Not in defiance. Just… acknowledgment. The kind that comes only after things have broken and been rebuilt by hand.

Donghyuck stood, gathering his things with a casual grace. “I’m locking this drawer, by the way. Last time you borrowed my pens, I never saw them again.”

Mark raised a brow. “Accusations this early in our treaty?”

Donghyuck slung his bag over his shoulder. “Consider it a clause in the new agreement.”

Mark’s soft chuckle echoed faintly across the quiet floor.

They walked side by side toward the elevator without saying much more. They didn’t need to. The silence between them no longer pressed—it stretched, easy and breathable.

By the time the elevator dinged, Donghyuck glanced sideways and said, “You know… I almost didn’t come back.”

Mark looked over, expression unreadable. “I know.”

“I’m glad I did,” Donghyuck added, stepping inside.

Mark followed. “Me too.”

And the doors slid shut—not on a chapter ending, but on one just beginning. Something new. Something still fragile, but with roots this time.

Chapter Text

The elevator doors opened with a soft chime, and Donghyuck stepped out onto the familiar floor—shoulders relaxed, gait unhurried. It wasn’t bravado. It wasn’t hesitation, either. It was something in between: cautious confidence. A quiet sort of peace he hadn’t felt in a long time.

He slipped one earbud out as he walked, the low pulse of a 90s R&B track still thumping in the background. It filled the space around him like armor—smooth vocals and heavy bass shielding him from the noise of expectation.

The office buzzed in its usual cadence: phones ringing, the dull clack of keys, printers whirring to life. But it no longer carried the heavy static of avoidance. People looked up when he passed—not with pity or worry, but with nods of recognition. A few subtle smiles. A shared understanding that things were different now. Mended, maybe. Still fragile, but healing.

He passed Renjun, who offered a mock salute without lifting his eyes from his screen. Donghyuck returned it with a quick two-finger tap to his temple and kept walking.

When he neared the far end of the floor, he slowed just slightly.

Mark’s office door was wide open. That alone was startling enough.

Inside, Mark sat at his desk, already deep in thought. His brows furrowed in quiet focus, a pen tapped absently against the corner of a file. He wore his glasses, the ones he only used when reviewing reports he couldn’t afford to misread. The morning sun cut across the space in thin slats, casting gentle lines across his white shirt and the edge of his desk.

Donghyuck hovered at the threshold for a second, then stepped in without speaking. He placed a familiar green paper cup gently on the corner of Mark’s desk—close, but not intrusive.

Mark looked up at the movement. His eyes widened just a fraction, and then the corners of his mouth tugged into a tired but genuine smile. “You’re re-enabling my caffeine dependency,” he said, voice lower than usual—quiet, almost self-conscious.

Donghyuck tilted his head, arms crossing as he leaned against the side of the doorway. “I’m saving you from a fourth espresso.”

Mark raised an eyebrow. “You don’t even know how many I’ve had.”

“Three,” Donghyuck replied without hesitation. “One black the moment you got in. A double shot when that courier call went wrong. And another about thirty minutes ago—iced, because you forgot your body can’t handle that much heat before 10 a.m.”

Mark blinked. “You’ve been spying on me.”

“No,” Donghyuck said with a faint smirk. “You’re just tragically predictable.”

Mark huffed a quiet laugh and took a sip of the matcha, wincing slightly at the bitterness. “Still tastes like sweet grass and regret.”

Donghyuck shrugged. “Regret has antioxidants.”

They lapsed into silence for a beat. Not awkward—just easy. Comfortable in the way two people are when the worst has passed and there’s no need to rush into anything new.

Mark set the cup down with deliberate care. “I missed this,” he said softly.

He didn’t mean just the drink.

Donghyuck didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. Instead, he let the smallest smile curve his lips, the kind that tugged more on the inside of his cheeks than the outside.

“Drink your matcha, CEO Lee,” he called over his shoulder. “You’ve got a long day of being tolerable ahead of you.”

Mark chuckled under his breath, eyes lingering on the spot Donghyuck had stood long after he was gone.

The matcha steamed gently beside him.

~

Donghyuck sat hunched over his keyboard, brows drawn in intense focus, the tip of his tongue just barely visible between his teeth—a sign he was deep in thought, or deep in irritation.

The subject line stared at him mockingly:
RE: Concerns Regarding Q3 Projection Discrepancies

He had rewritten the body of the email at least six times.

His fingers flew across the keys.

“Dear Mr. Li, Thank you for your email. We understand your concerns and take your insights seriously—”

Delete.

“We appreciate your ongoing partnership. Please rest assured that—”

Delete.

He groaned softly, slumped back in his chair, and muttered to himself, “How do I make ‘sorry we underperformed’ sound like ‘please don’t pull your funding and also we’re still a real company’?”

He glanced at the glass office across from him. Mark was inside, phone tucked between shoulder and ear, scribbling notes on a legal pad like his life depended on it. His tie was already loose, his shirt sleeves rolled up—CEO chic chaos in full swing.

Donghyuck turned back to his screen. A mischievous grin tugged at his lips.

He began typing again, muttering the words under his breath with exaggerated pomp:

“Sincerely, Mark Lee, Your Most Humble and Deeply Remorseful CEO.”

He even did a little mock bow in his seat, hand to heart like he was pledging loyalty to the king.

And that was exactly when the door to Mark’s office opened.

“Practicing my signature?” Mark’s voice cut across the desk pod, dry as bone.

Donghyuck didn’t flinch. He looked up, caught completely, but completely unashamed. “I was going to add ‘your most humble, remorseful CEO,’ but it felt too subtle.”

Mark crossed his arms and leaned against the nearest partition wall. “Tempting. You know, that’s not far off from what I actually feel most days.”

“Good. Guilt builds character,” Donghyuck replied sweetly, swiveling his monitor just slightly. “Come here, take a look. I’m replying to the investor from Shanghai. Your original draft read like it was composed by a sleep-deprived AI.”

Mark stepped closer. Slowly. Casually. But the shift in proximity was notable. A few weeks ago, he would’ve hovered at a distance—imposing, unreadable, trying not to get too close to whatever emotion he didn’t know how to name.

Now, he was just a man standing next to his assistant. Just Mark. Close enough that Donghyuck could smell the faint citrusy tang of his cologne.

Donghyuck tilted the screen more fully toward him, and they stood shoulder to shoulder, reading.

“Dear Mr. Li,
Thank you for your candid feedback regarding our Q3 report. We appreciate your candor and look forward to addressing your concerns in the upcoming call.
We’re currently reviewing internal strategies to ensure a more stable forecast for Q4 and beyond, and your input is valuable in that process.
Sincerely,
Mark Lee”

Mark read it once. Then again. He nodded slowly, eyes still on the screen. “That’s… actually better than what I wrote.”

“Of course it is,” Donghyuck said with a smirk, tapping the screen. “I softened the language. Took out the legalese. Tried to sound like a person and not a brick wall with an MBA.”

Mark exhaled a laugh through his nose. “You’ve always been better at tone.”

“And you’ve always been better at…” Donghyuck paused. “Math. I assume. I don’t know, do you even remember what your degree was in?”

“Business,” Mark replied dryly. “With a minor in insomnia.”

Donghyuck snorted and leaned back in his chair. “Sounds about right.”

Their eyes met briefly. Something unspoken hovered there—gratitude, amusement, maybe even something warmer. It flickered, then passed.

Mark straightened. “Send it.”

Donghyuck mock-saluted. “Yes, sir. Always a pleasure ghostwriting your humanity.”

Mark rolled his eyes and turned to leave—but paused, hand still on the back of Donghyuck’s chair. “Seriously. Thank you.”

Donghyuck tilted his head just slightly, that soft smirk dimming into something gentler. “Don’t mention it.”

No tension. No eggshells. Just two people learning how to be around each other again.

He hit “Send” and watched the little paper airplane icon fly off.

~

The copy room was too small for egos the size of theirs. A cramped alcove just off the main corridor, it smelled faintly of toner, stale coffee, and whatever unidentifiable cleaning product the janitorial staff favored. The hum of the printer was usually a background annoyance—but today, it had staged a full rebellion.

Mark stood in front of the hulking machine with his arms crossed, a deep crease forming between his brows as he glared at the printer tray like it had just personally insulted his mother.

“Why,” he said, in a tone of escalating diplomatic crisis, “is the printer jammed again?”

He bent slightly, peered into the jammed feeder tray, and muttered something under his breath that sounded vaguely threatening.

“You’re going to blow a gasket talking to it like that,” came a voice behind him—light, bemused, and unmistakably smug.

Mark turned just as Donghyuck strode in, holding a stapler like a weapon and an air of unearned confidence like armor.

“Step aside, rookie,” Donghyuck said, nudging Mark with the back of his hand. “I speak fluent printer.”

Mark arched an eyebrow, amused despite himself. “You’ve fixed it before?”

Donghyuck gave him a deadpan look, already pulling open the side panel like he’d dismantled the thing in another life. “I have a black belt in office machinery. And a minor in CEO babysitting.”

Mark let out a scandalized gasp, one hand flying to his chest like he'd just been accused of embezzlement. “You’re going to regret that when I reassign you to HR.”

“I’d love to see you try,” Donghyuck muttered, pulling out a crumpled piece of paper from the roller. “You’d be lost without me.”

Mark leaned against the countertop, folding his arms again, but this time in relaxed amusement. “I don’t think that’s true.”

Donghyuck gave him a sharp look, one brow rising as he snapped the paper free with one swift tug. “Oh, really? How else would you figure out how to print your resignation letter after you accidentally insult another investor's haircut?”

Mark blinked. “That happened once. And I said his hair was... expressive.”

“You said it looked like a sad broom.”

Mark paused. “…It did.”

Donghyuck shook his head with mock disappointment. “And you still don’t think you need me.”

The machine beeped cheerily as it returned to life, freshly fixed, humming like nothing had ever gone wrong. Donghyuck closed the panel and stepped back with a flourish.

“There,” he said triumphantly, like he’d just diffused a bomb. “She lives.”

Mark took a step closer, retrieving his printed documents from the tray, flipping through them with a nod of approval. “You’re surprisingly useful.”

“I’m always useful,” Donghyuck replied, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve. “But go on. Shower me with praise.”

Mark didn’t look up from the papers. “Maybe I’ll even promote you.”

Donghyuck narrowed his eyes, crossing his arms. “Don’t tease me with false promises.”

“I’m serious,” Mark said. Then, glancing sideways: “Though with how good you are at drafting emails and handling me when I’m insufferable, I should probably just make you my co-CEO.”

Donghyuck scoffed. “Please. I already do all the emotional labor. That title should’ve been mine months ago.”

Mark smirked, one corner of his mouth lifting in that rare, half-lazy, half-sincere way that made Donghyuck’s stomach flip for reasons he refused to name.

“Maybe I’ll ask you to write my resignation letter,” Mark said casually, flipping to the last page. “You’re better with words, anyway.”

Donghyuck didn’t look up, but his smile was obvious—soft, slow, and dangerously close to fond. “You’re getting flirty again.”

Mark looked up this time. Their eyes locked.

“Who says I ever stopped?”

The air between them thickened—not with tension, but with something much quieter, much heavier. The kind of weight that came with history. With healing. With maybe.

Donghyuck blinked first, but not before his lips curved into a smirk that was all challenge and no retreat.

“Careful,” he said, walking past Mark and toward the door. “That almost sounded like sincerity.”

Mark watched him go, then called after him, “Next time the scanner breaks, I’m calling IT.”

Donghyuck’s voice floated back from the hallway: “Next time the scanner breaks, you’ll be crying in my inbox.”

~

The last of the clients had filed out ten minutes ago, their polite goodbyes still faintly echoing through the hall as the glass door clicked shut. The long, polished conference table bore the remnants of the pitch—half-drunk water bottles, a capped marker rolled to the edge, and Donghyuck’s neat, color-coded printouts fanned across one side like the petals of a deconstructed argument.

Donghyuck stood at the head of the table, lightly tapping his pen against the topmost sheet as he reviewed the presentation one last time. His brow was furrowed in concentration, lips pursed in that way he always did when internally critiquing his own performance. A silent post-mortem that no one else could see.

Across the room, Mark hadn’t moved.

He stood near the doorway, one hand resting on the handle, the other shoved into the pocket of his suit pants. The late-afternoon light slanted through the window blinds, striping the side of his face in alternating shadows and gold. He watched Donghyuck for a long moment—watched the way he gathered his notes, adjusted the angle of the chairs even though no one would notice, and mentally ran through every bullet point like he hadn’t already nailed them all.

“You were good in there,” Mark said suddenly.

Donghyuck glanced up, half-expecting a follow-up critique or correction. But the words had landed without preamble. Clean. Direct.

“I always am,” he replied lightly, lips quirking into a smirk as he closed his folder. “You’re just now catching up.”

Mark chuckled under his breath. “I mean it.”

That quiet sincerity in his voice made Donghyuck pause. The teasing ease faded slightly, curiosity creeping into the crease of his brow.

“You read the room better than I did,” Mark continued, stepping a little further into the room. “You knew exactly when to pivot—when they were hesitating, when they needed more numbers, when they needed the story. I would’ve missed it.”

Donghyuck blinked. Slowly lowered his folder to the table.

“You’re complimenting me,” he said, eyes narrowing slightly, tone edged with disbelief. “Unprovoked. No sarcastic footnote. Are you dying?”

Mark rolled his eyes, but the curve of his mouth was fond. “Not dying. Just trying this new thing—acknowledging the people who make me look smarter than I am.”

Donghyuck laughed once—short, surprised. “Okay, who are you, and what have you done with my emotionally constipated boss?”

Mark met his gaze, more serious now. The teasing lifted like steam off pavement, revealing something steadier beneath.

“I’ve always appreciated how sharp you are, Donghyuck,” he said quietly. “How you see things I don’t. How you say what I’m thinking—just, you know, better. I’m just finally saying it out loud.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy, but it was charged—like air just before a summer storm. Donghyuck didn’t respond right away. He just tilted his head slightly, considering Mark with a long, unreadable stare.

For a moment, Mark wondered if he’d overstepped. If the words had come out too bare.

Then Donghyuck said softly, “You’re working on it.”

A simple sentence. But there was something like forgiveness tucked inside it. Maybe even approval.

Mark nodded, his throat tight in that way it sometimes got around Donghyuck now. “Every day.”

Donghyuck smiled. It wasn’t cocky or flirty or sarcastic. Just… real. Quiet. Sincere.

And when he gathered his things and walked past Mark, he let his shoulder brush lightly against Mark’s arm. A barely-there touch. Intentional.

Mark didn’t move for a long time after Donghyuck left the room.

Not because he had more to say.

But because—for the first time in a long while—he didn’t feel like he’d ruined everything.

~

The workday had officially ended hours ago.

Most of the staff had filtered out by six, their footsteps and murmured goodbyes echoing faintly before the elevator swallowed them up. Now, the office floor was silent except for the distant hum of the HVAC and the faint click of a pen being idly turned between fingers.

Mark’s office was awash in soft amber light. The blinds had been left open, allowing the golden haze of the setting sun to spill across the floor, climb up the walls, and tint the very air itself in warm hues of orange and dusky pink. The skyline shimmered just beyond the glass—cranes, rooftops, glowing windows, all blurred at the edges by twilight.

Mark was reclined slightly in his chair, tie loosened, jacket slung over the backrest. He looked tired, but not drained—just the kind of spent that followed a full day of effort, of cooperation, of not letting his walls win.

Donghyuck sat cross-legged on the edge of the desk, a tablet in one hand, the other resting beside him as he tapped his fingers lightly against the polished wood in rhythm with his thoughts.

They were in the middle of what had somehow become their new ritual: the quiet, unhurried debrief at the end of the day. No pressure. No clipped tones or defensiveness. Just two people—communicating.

“I pushed the internal review to Thursday,” Donghyuck said, scrolling through the week’s calendar. “Didn’t think you’d want to go from a board meeting straight into a staff check-in.”

Mark nodded. “Smart.”

Donghyuck flicked to the next item. “And I moved your dentist appointment to next month. I figured you were going to ghost that poor hygienist again.”

Mark grimaced, dragging a hand over his face. “She’s terrifying.”

Donghyuck grinned, leaning back slightly. “She’s seventy and offered you a lollipop.”

“She also lectured me for fifteen minutes about flossing habits. I’d rather face an angry boardroom.”

Donghyuck laughed, and the sound was light, unguarded. It filled the office in a way laughter hadn’t in months—warm and unashamed.

“That’s fair,” he said, still smiling. “But next time you cancel, you’re calling her yourself.”

Mark feigned horror. “Cruel.”

“Necessary.”

The conversation faded into a lull—not abrupt, not uncomfortable. Just a natural pause. The kind that didn’t demand to be filled.

Outside, the sun dipped lower, bathing the room in deeper orange, like honey settling into the cracks of the day. Shadows stretched long across the carpet, and the city beyond had begun to sparkle as lights blinked to life.

Donghyuck was quiet, gaze drifting out the window. He didn’t look tired—just reflective. Still and calm in a way Mark had rarely seen him before.

“You’ve done a lot,” Mark said after a moment, his voice low. “These last few weeks. I don’t know if I’ve said it enough.”

Donghyuck didn’t turn to look at him, not right away. “You’ve said it. In your way.”

There was something unspoken in the silence that followed—something tender but cautious, like a bird willing to land in an outstretched hand, but still ready to fly.

Mark sat forward slowly, elbows resting on his knees. “I mean it when I say… You’re more than the job.”

That made Donghyuck glance down from the skyline. His eyes met Mark’s. Calm. Measured. Not flustered. Not shy. Just there —fully, honestly present.

“I know,” he replied simply.

Not deflecting. Not brushing it off with a joke. Just letting the truth sit between them.

Mark exhaled. A slow release of breath, as if something inside him had just let go.

“I used to think keeping distance made everything cleaner,” he said, quieter now. “Easier to manage.”

Donghyuck tilted his head. “But people aren’t spreadsheets.”

“No,” Mark agreed. “They’re not.”

“And I’m definitely not.”

Mark huffed a laugh. “You’re chaos in the form of a calendar invite.”

“Compliment accepted.”

Another soft silence wrapped around them. But it wasn’t filled with hesitation this time. It was steady. Whole. Like standing on solid ground after months of trying to balance on ice.

Donghyuck looked around the office—at the shelves, the desk, the familiar papers and files. Then, he looked at Mark again.

“You’re getting better at this,” he said.

Mark raised a brow. “At what? Flossing?”

Donghyuck rolled his eyes, but smiled. “At… us. Whatever this is.”

Mark didn’t answer right away. But he reached for the matcha cup Donghyuck had brought earlier and took a slow sip.

Then he said, “I’m trying to be someone you want to work beside. Not someone you survive.”

Chapter Text

The office had a particular stillness at night—less like a place of business and more like a museum of its own memories. The fluorescent ceiling lights had dimmed to half-power, casting everything in a washed, softened hue. Computer screens slept. Desks were deserted, chairs pushed in with the exact kind of order that only came when no one was around to disturb it. And yet, the silence wasn’t heavy. It was the kind that made space for thoughts to unfold, for things unsaid to float to the surface.

Donghyuck hadn’t planned to stay this late. He wasn’t pulling extra hours out of spite or desperation—at least, not anymore. But one email had turned into another, and then he’d found himself methodically reorganizing Mark’s digital folders, color-coding his week, and flagging minor inconsistencies in past notes just for the satisfaction of tidying up loose ends.

By the time he looked up, the sun had already melted into the horizon. Through the expansive office windows, the city was bathed in a watercolor wash of soft twilight—shades of peach and violet blending into the deep navy creeping in at the edges. Buildings glittered in the distance, a quiet, golden hum that buzzed against the glass.

He leaned back in his chair and exhaled slowly, the kind of breath that comes at the end of a long, full day. His neck ached from leaning over his laptop, and he rolled his shoulders to ease the tension before reaching for his bag slung against the leg of his desk.

And then—footsteps.

Soft. Unhurried. Familiar in cadence.

He didn’t have to turn to know who it was.

“You’re still here,” Mark said behind him, his voice low and smooth, almost reverent.

Donghyuck turned in his chair slowly, not surprised but still slightly caught off guard by the sight of Mark, standing there with his hands in his pockets, jacket gone, sleeves rolled to his forearms. His tie was loose, his hair slightly mussed like he’d run a hand through it one too many times. There was something quieter about him in this light, something less immovable.

“So are you,” Donghyuck replied simply.

Mark’s lips tugged into something that could be called a smile—faint, but not perfunctory. “Habit,” he said, with a shrug that wasn’t quite casual.

They stood there like that for a moment—two people used to the push and pull of professional boundaries, suddenly suspended in something slower, something heavier and gentler. There was no lingering tension. No awkwardness. Just something… alive. A current in the air, quiet but undeniable.

Mark gestured loosely toward Donghyuck’s bag. “You heading out?”

Donghyuck glanced at it, then back at Mark. “I was,” he said. Then hesitated, feeling the weight of the next words before they came. “But I can stay a bit longer if you—”

He stopped. The room caught its breath with him.

Mark didn’t interrupt. He didn’t tease or push or pretend the moment wasn’t happening. Instead, he stepped forward—slowly, deliberately.

Not too close. Not all at once.

But close enough that Donghyuck felt the warmth of him, even through the space between. Close enough that he could see the subtle twitch of Mark’s jaw, the slight furrow of his brows—the little signs that betrayed nerves or anticipation or maybe just the effort of restraint.

Mark’s hands were at his sides, curled slightly. His fingers flexed once, like they wanted to move, to reach out, but didn’t dare without permission.

Donghyuck didn’t step back.

He didn’t smile either—not yet. But something shifted in his expression, softened. The guarded lines of his posture eased, and his shoulders dropped an inch as if in silent understanding.

The air between them was full now—of time and memory and everything they hadn’t said, and everything they had.

“I wasn’t waiting for you,” Donghyuck said, voice gentle but honest.

Mark’s brow lifted slightly. “But you stayed.”

Donghyuck nodded. “Yeah. I did.”

Mark looked at him then—really looked. His gaze searched Donghyuck’s face like he was memorizing it for the first time, even though he’d stared at that same face across boardrooms, across dinner tables, across elevator doors for months.

And Donghyuck let him.

Time, when it slows, doesn’t make a sound. It stretches in the quiet—soft and thick like honey—turning seconds into something weightier, more fragile. That’s how it felt now.

They hadn’t moved far, just from desk to sofa. Now, Mark sat on one end of the leather couch, his sleeves rolled above his elbows, forearms resting on his thighs, fingers loosely clasped like he didn’t know what else to do with them. Donghyuck sat opposite in the armchair, slightly slouched, ankle crossed over one knee, as if the posture might help ground him.

Between them sat a low glass coffee table. It held only a quiet desk lamp and the discarded remains of a long day—an abandoned notepad, a highlighter with the cap half-on, a half-empty bottle of water.

Behind them, the city had grown darker. The rich purples of twilight had deepened into navy blue, and the golden dots of apartment windows sparkled across the skyline like distant promises. Inside the room, the lamp cast a pool of amber light across the carpet, warm and forgiving. Soft shadows brushed the edges of their faces.

Mark’s voice broke the silence—quiet, uncertain, but heavy with intention.

“I don’t know when it stopped being just work.”

Donghyuck didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. He just breathed out slowly and let the words land where they needed to. He knew what they meant. What they cost to say.

“It was never just work,” he replied, steady, sure. His voice had the texture of truth—the kind of truth that had taken months to arrive at, and even longer to admit out loud.

Mark’s eyes flicked up to meet his. There was a glint of fear there, not the kind that asked to run, but the kind that came from realizing you were already falling.

His breath hitched. “That should’ve scared me sooner.”

Donghyuck’s tone softened but never faltered. “Does it scare you now?”

Mark paused. Not out of hesitation, but because the answer was alive in his chest, complicated and contradictory, and needed to be named honestly.

“Yes,” he said. “But not in the way it used to. Not because it’s wrong. Because it’s… real.”

That last word settled in the room like a stone in water, rippling outward. Real. Not convenient. Not temporary. Not a product of stress or adrenaline or proximity.

Real.

Donghyuck nodded slowly, his hands now clasped loosely between his knees. He leaned forward, his body angled toward Mark—not crowding, not pressing, just... present.

“Real things are worth being scared for,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “They’re also worth staying for.”

There was a beat of silence—deep and trembling. Not heavy, but full. Like the world was holding its breath with them.

Mark sat very still. His fingers flexed in his lap.

Then, quietly, deliberately, he stood.

It wasn’t dramatic. There was no grand gesture, no desperate movement. He just rose to his feet and looked at Donghyuck like he was about to say something more—and maybe he was—but nothing came.

Donghyuck followed suit.

They met somewhere in the middle of the room. Not quite close enough to touch, but close enough to feel the shift in air pressure. The space between them held so much—months of friction, longing, missteps, stubbornness, warmth.

Mark’s office behind them, once a fortress of glass and formality, now felt like a cocoon—something soft, private, and briefly outside the rules of the world.

The skyline framed them from behind. The low lamplight traced the sharp angles of Mark’s jaw and the soft curve of Donghyuck’s cheek. Neither moved right away. There was no rush now. No urgency. Just a breath hanging between them.

Mark’s gaze flicked down—once, to Donghyuck’s mouth. Then back up. His shoulders rose in a slow inhale and fell in a tremble of a sigh.

Donghyuck tilted his head slightly, one brow lifting in that almost-smirk he wore like armor. But there was no teasing in it now. Just vulnerability. Openness. Trust.

“I don’t know how to do this,” Mark said, quiet and rough.

“You’re already doing it,” Donghyuck replied, and his voice was full of something warm and aching. “Just… don’t stop.”

Mark exhaled sharply through his nose—something like a laugh, something like surrender. His hand lifted, paused midway like he was asking permission, then brushed against Donghyuck’s elbow.

It was barely contact. But it was enough.

Donghyuck leaned in first.

Mark met him halfway.

The kiss wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t cinematic or sweeping or even practiced. It was soft. Hesitant. The way people kiss when they know it matters, when they’ve been holding it in too long, when they’re afraid they’ll ruin it by wanting it too much.

Mark’s hand rose to cup the side of Donghyuck’s face, thumb resting at the edge of his jaw. Donghyuck’s fingers curled lightly into the fabric of Mark’s shirt—steadying himself, maybe, or anchoring them both.

It lasted only a few seconds. But it rewrote everything.

When they parted, it wasn’t with a gasp or a rush. It was with a quiet, still moment—foreheads nearly touching, eyes soft, breath shared.

Donghyuck spoke first, his voice low and colored with something close to awe. “You’re not scared now?”

Mark shook his head. “Still scared. Just… willing.”

Donghyuck’s smile was small. But full of everything.

“So am I.”

The silence wasn’t empty now. It pulsed—full of held breath and half-formed thoughts, heavy with the kind of vulnerability that didn’t ask for performance, only presence.

Mark’s hand brushed Donghyuck’s, knuckles grazing with a feather-light touch. His fingers trembled faintly, the hesitation of a man used to control and strategy now facing the terrifying simplicity of sincerity. He watched Donghyuck carefully, eyes searching for resistance—recoil—anything that told him he was overstepping.

But Donghyuck didn’t pull away.

His hand turned over and, with a soft rustle, their fingers laced together. Easily. Naturally. Like they’d done it a thousand times in a thousand different timelines.

Mark let out a slow breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His thumb traced the back of Donghyuck’s hand once—absentmindedly, reverently.

“I keep thinking I’ll ruin this,” Mark whispered.

There was no bravado left in him. No walls. He was laid bare in that moment, stripped of the armor of formality, of rank, of guarded distance. Just a man, wanting something fragile, afraid he wouldn’t know how to hold it.

Donghyuck stepped a breath closer. Their joined hands rested between them, the only thing anchoring their trembling nearness.

“Then don’t,” Donghyuck said. Not pleading. Not daring. Just truth. Quiet, steady, sure.

Mark’s gaze softened. His free hand rose, fingers hesitating near Donghyuck’s jaw before finding a resting place there, cradling his cheek with unspoken care.

Then he kissed him again.

It wasn’t like the first. Not quite. The first had been cautious, a door creaking open. This one was a whisper through that doorway. A quiet, heartfelt confession shaped in touch instead of words.

Soft. Careful. Like every syllable Mark couldn’t yet say was being passed from his mouth to Donghyuck’s—slowly, delicately—each press of his lips a translation of emotion into breath and warmth.

Donghyuck kissed back with the same tremulous grace. Like his heart was too full to be reckless. Like he knew what this was, what it could become, and didn’t want to fumble it in haste. He wasn’t leaning into Mark for validation or victory—he was meeting him, equal and open, halfway through the ache.

Their noses bumped awkwardly. Mark laughed into the kiss, a huff of startled joy. They pulled apart—not far, just enough to breathe.

Foreheads met. Their hands remained tangled, hearts fluttering in their ribcages like birds startled into flight. It wasn’t perfect. But it was real.

Mark’s hand came up again, brushing a thumb along Donghyuck’s jaw, the movement gentle and grounding. His brow furrowed slightly, as if marveling at the fact that he was allowed to do this. That Donghyuck was here. Still.

“You okay?” Mark murmured, voice low and rough around the edges.

Donghyuck’s eyes stayed closed as he nodded. “Yeah.” He opened his mouth as if to say more, then paused. His breath caught slightly in his chest. “I just… I didn’t think you’d ever really let me in.”

The confession was quiet but piercing. A truth he hadn’t dared voice in the months they’d worked together, argued, reconciled, broken, rebuilt. It hung between them now, not accusing, just aching.

Mark’s throat tightened. His voice cracked on the exhale.

“I think I already did,” he whispered. “I just didn’t know how to tell you.”

Donghyuck opened his eyes then, dark and clear, swimming with something unspoken and vast. “Then tell me now.”

Mark didn’t answer with words. Not right away.

Instead, he leaned in again—but this time not for a kiss. His forehead pressed to Donghyuck’s once more, their noses brushing. A kind of intimacy more sacred than a kiss: breath to breath, heartbeat to heartbeat, no urgency, no fear—just presence.

“I’m scared,” Mark said, so softly it barely carried across the inches between them.

Donghyuck didn’t flinch. His voice came steady, a promise etched in air.

“So am I,” he replied. “But I’m here.”

And this time, when their lips met, there was no hesitation.

There was still gentleness, yes—but it no longer trembled with doubt. It was a gentleness born of knowing. Of choosing. Of finally standing still after running in circles.

Mark kissed him like he understood the weight of what they were building. Like this wasn’t an interlude—it was a beginning. A slow unfolding. A homecoming.

Donghyuck kissed him back with that same understanding. One hand curled into Mark’s shirt, holding him steady—not pulling, just holding . The other rested lightly on his chest, right over his heart. Feeling its rhythm. Letting it speak.

The air in the office still felt changed. Like the kiss had cracked open something neither of them could close again—not even if they wanted to.

And neither of them did.

Mark exhaled, his fingers still loosely entwined with Donghyuck’s. “We should probably talk about what this is.”

Donghyuck nodded slowly. “We probably should.”

Mark gestured toward the couch in the corner of the office—a sleek leather thing mostly used for emergency naps and unreadable body language. “Come sit with me?”

They moved without hurry. Mark dropped onto one side, scrubbing a hand over his face like he was trying to wake himself up. Donghyuck took the other, folding his legs underneath him, angling his body toward Mark with cautious openness.

A beat of silence stretched between them—comfortable, but full of questions.

Mark spoke first, voice lower now, grounded. “I don’t want this to be some messy office fling.”

Donghyuck arched a brow. “That’s a hell of a way to start a love confession.”

Mark flushed, looking away. “That’s not what I meant. I just— You know me. I compartmentalize. I’m good at dividing work from… everything else. And maybe that worked before. But this… I don’t want to shove this into a compartment. It wouldn’t survive there.”

Donghyuck tilted his head. “So you do think it’s more than a fling.”

Mark’s eyes flicked back to his. “Do you not?”

“No,” Donghyuck said quickly. Then, quieter: “I do. It’s just— I need to hear you say it. I’ve been orbiting you for months, Mark. I need to know I wasn’t the only one feeling it.”

“You weren’t,” Mark said firmly. No hesitation now. “You aren’t. This thing with you… it’s been growing for a while. I just didn’t know how to admit it until I thought I’d lost it.”

Donghyuck let out a slow breath, gaze drifting toward the window. The city lights outside had sharpened now, no longer softened by twilight. Just bright and blunt and true.

He turned back. “So what does this mean, then? For us? For here?” He gestured vaguely at the office, the work, the walls they shared daily. “We can’t exactly hold hands in front of the team.”

Mark nodded, chewing his lower lip thoughtfully. “We’ll keep it professional. Clear lines, no blurred behavior on the floor. We don’t owe anyone an explanation, but I also don’t want to make things weird—for you especially. People already talk.”

“Let them talk,” Donghyuck said, surprising even himself. “I care more about what’s real than what’s speculated.”

Mark looked at him, eyes warm. “Still. I want to do this right. If we’re doing this. ”

Donghyuck smiled faintly. “We are. And honestly… we’ve always been good at the professional part. Even when we were barely talking, we functioned like clockwork.”

“Except with fewer death glares,” Mark said with a chuckle.

“And fewer passive-aggressive post-its,” Donghyuck added with a grin.

They both laughed, the sound spilling gently into the stillness of the room.

Donghyuck leaned back against the armrest, pulling one leg up, his body now relaxed in a way Mark hadn’t seen in a long time. “So… we stay normal at work. Keep it between us for now. And outside work…?”

Mark leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, looking at Donghyuck like he was memorizing him. “Outside work, I want to see where this can go. I want to take you to dinner, maybe figure out what your favorite movies are, walk around the city like normal people who don’t spend their lives buried in quarterly reports.”

Donghyuck pretended to gasp. “Dates? You’re planning actual dates? ”

Mark smirked. “Don’t get used to it.”

“Oh, I will. I’ll expect roses and long walks in the rain.”

“I draw the line at rain,” Mark said, but his grin was warm.

They fell quiet again, but it was the kind of quiet filled with promises. With the weight of something new being born, not rushed or forced—but chosen. With care.

Donghyuck reached across the small space between them and rested his hand on Mark’s knee, fingers light but steady. “I want this too,” he said softly. “But I need honesty. No more shutting down when things get real. No more pulling away.”

Mark turned his hand over, catching Donghyuck’s and holding it tightly.

“No more hiding,” he agreed. “Not from you. Not again.”

Chapter Text

The lobby of Lee Enterprises was always a flurry of motion on Monday mornings—heels clicking across the polished floor, elevator chimes ringing in short succession, baristas from the café kiosk shouting out names over the hum of conversation. But beneath the corporate chaos, there was a subtle shift in atmosphere—an invisible thread of warmth weaving through the cold marble and chrome.

Donghyuck stepped through the glass revolving doors right on time, the familiar buzz of his playlist playing low through one earbud. His coat was slightly wrinkled from the brisk walk over, but his gait was light, effortless—no signs of the anxiety that used to accompany Monday mornings here. Not anymore.

In his hand, a takeout tray held two cups. One was his—a warm lavender oat milk tea. The other, carefully secured in the tray’s opposite slot, was a familiar pale green: iced matcha, light ice, just how Mark liked it.

He spotted Mark near the security gate. The CEO’s posture was relaxed but precise as always, his suit crisply tailored, briefcase in one hand, the other tucked casually into his coat pocket. His eyes flicked toward Donghyuck the moment he entered, and they softened—minutely, but unmistakably.

Donghyuck made his way over, weaving through the crowd with ease. There was no hesitation in his stride, no need to overthink or brace himself for coldness.

“Figured you’d need this,” he said lightly, holding out the drink with a subtle flourish.

Mark accepted the cup without breaking eye contact, a small, private smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Mmm… thank you.”

Donghyuck tilted his head. “I’m saving you from your fourth espresso before 9 a.m. yet again. I know your patterns, Lee.”

They stepped into the elevator just as the doors parted with a soft chime. Inside, it was mercifully quiet—just the two of them and the faint instrumental music overhead. The mirrored walls reflected them at strange angles, making the space feel more intimate than it was.

They stood side by side, a familiar formation, but the tension that used to fill that silence was gone. It had been replaced by something gentler—an invisible tether between them. Their shoulders didn’t touch, but Mark’s hand shifted subtly, brushing Donghyuck’s.

It wasn’t a full grasp. Not even a bold move. Just fingers nudging fingers, a question written in touch: Are you here with me? Still?

Donghyuck answered without words, letting his pinky rest alongside Mark’s. The contact was fleeting, barely visible, but it sparked something quiet and warm beneath his ribs.

Above them, the floor numbers blinked in steady succession.

11… 12…

Behind them, the doors opened briefly on the 14th floor. Renjun, Jaemin, and Jeno stood in wait. They had clearly been in the middle of a conversation, but the second they saw who was inside the elevator, their expressions shifted like synchronized choreography.

Jaemin’s eyebrow arched first, comically expressive. Renjun’s lips tugged into a sly smirk, eyes narrowing just slightly in the kind of assessment that always made people nervous. Jeno, ever the calm observer, gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod of approval as he sipped his morning smoothie.

Donghyuck didn’t flinch. He met Jaemin’s stare and lifted his cup slightly in greeting—deadpan cool.

Mark, on the other hand, blinked once in surprise at their arrival, clearly unprepared to be the subject of three knowing looks before 9:00 a.m. He recovered quickly, though, standing straighter and glancing over to Donghyuck with the faintest twitch of amusement in his eyes.

Renjun stepped inside, Jaemin and Jeno trailing behind him. They kept their comments to themselves—for now—but their body language screamed curiosity.

Jaemin leaned close to Renjun as the elevator resumed its climb. “Did you see the finger thing?” he whispered, not even trying to be subtle.

“Shut up,” Renjun said, smiling as he sipped his iced americano. “Let them have this.”

Behind them, Jeno just chuckled and looked ahead.

Mark said nothing, though his hand now hung closer to Donghyuck’s than before—almost on purpose.

When the elevator doors opened again, they exited in tandem, matcha in one hand, invisible thread still intact. The others followed behind at a respectable distance, grinning like they’d been let in on a secret they weren’t supposed to know.

~

The conference room had become Donghyuck’s unofficial kingdom of order—an oasis of calm in a workplace otherwise perpetually buzzing with meetings, phone calls, and the click-clack of high-pressure decision-making. The walls were lined with glass, sleek and faintly reflective, and the long obsidian conference table gleamed under the natural light pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Inside, Donghyuck moved with practiced ease. His laptop was connected to the main screen, a slideshow queued and humming to life, every transition seamless. On the table, color-coded folders sat in precise symmetry: white for financial projections, blue for marketing breakdowns, red for the executive summary. His Post-it tabs were an art form. Highlighters lined up beside his coffee like soldiers before a mission.

He adjusted slide eleven with a flick of his fingers, pausing only to zoom in on a bar graph. His brows furrowed—just slightly—as he noticed the alignment was a hair off-center. He clicked, dragged, nudged it into perfect place. His lower lip caught briefly between his teeth in concentration.

Outside the glass wall, footsteps echoed down the corridor.

Mark appeared a beat later, stepping into the room like he belonged there—and in a way, he did. But this wasn’t the commanding entrance of a CEO about to lead a pitch. No. This was quieter, subtler. Deliberate.

He didn’t speak at first. Just watched.

Donghyuck, too deep in his meticulous groove, didn’t notice him immediately. His fingers danced across the keyboard as he double-checked animations, then flicked to his email to confirm the catering order for after the meeting. The stillness in the doorway finally broke when Mark spoke, voice low and dipped in something softer than usual.

“You’re stunning in focus.”

The words weren’t loud. They weren’t intended for anyone else’s ears. But they landed with quiet weight, threading their way under Donghyuck’s skin and rooting there.

Donghyuck looked up slowly.

Mark had moved closer now, under the pretense of checking the slides on the screen. He leaned slightly over Donghyuck’s shoulder, just enough to make the air between them hum. His eyes scanned the graph, but his focus was split—half on the data, half on the man assembling it with such care.

Their eyes met.

It was a moment carved out of the day—slow, suspended, like the room had exhaled and was waiting for something to happen. Donghyuck’s expression didn’t shift outwardly, but his chest fluttered with the force of Mark’s words.

He tilted his head, voice dry and amused. “You realize you can’t flirt with me in the temple of spreadsheets, right?”

Mark gave a small smirk. “Why not? It’s sacred. I’m showing reverence.”

Donghyuck huffed a breath that was half a laugh and half a you’re ridiculous. But his lips curved despite himself.

Mark straightened just a little, gaze flicking to the screen again. “Slide fifteen—maybe swap out the chart labels for something cleaner. Otherwise, it’s tight.”

Donghyuck nodded once. “Noted.”

There was no awkwardness, no false professionalism forced between them like a wall. Instead, it felt natural—two people who had finally found the right rhythm. They didn’t need to clarify what this meant, or where the boundaries lay in this moment. They knew.

Just then, the door creaked open.

Renjun passed by with a sheaf of printed reports tucked under one arm, the other hand gripping a thermos. He didn’t stop—but as he stepped through the doorframe and caught sight of their proximity, he cleared his throat with theatrical politeness.

“Don’t let me interrupt your… sacred rites,” he said smoothly, his voice pitched high with amusement.

Donghyuck’s eyes narrowed slightly in challenge, but he didn’t move away from Mark.

Mark, for his part, didn’t even blink. “We were discussing bar graphs, Renjun.”

Renjun grinned. “Of course you were.”

And with that, he slipped out, the tail of his coat swishing behind him like punctuation.

As the door clicked shut again, Donghyuck murmured, “He’s never going to let that go.”

Mark’s expression stayed unreadable for a beat. Then: “He’ll live. Besides…”

He reached out, under the guise of straightening a loose page from the prep stack, but his fingers brushed Donghyuck’s as he did so—intentionally this time.

“…I like seeing you like this.”

Donghyuck glanced over at him again. “Efficient?”

Mark’s smile was soft. “Brilliant.”

Donghyuck’s throat tightened, but he swallowed it down. “You’re going to make this meeting harder to concentrate in.”

“Good,” Mark said, already walking toward the door. “I like being a distraction.”

Donghyuck rolled his eyes, but there was no real heat behind it. Just the lingering flush of someone who hadn’t expected a compliment to hit quite so deep.

He returned to his laptop, tapping through the rest of the deck, but his fingers moved a little lighter. His heart, a little faster.

~

The restaurant was tucked between a bookstore and a laundromat—easy to miss if you didn’t know where to look. Its sign was hand-painted, the corners of the wood gently weathered, and a string of warm Edison bulbs framed the window in a soft, honey glow. Inside, the bistro was quiet but not empty. The kind of place where the owner knew regulars by name, where the air always smelled faintly of sesame oil, simmering kimchi stew, and something sweet grilling in the back.

Mark held the door open with one hand, the other lightly guiding Donghyuck in with a gentle touch to the small of his back. It wasn’t an extravagant date—just dinner, something simple. Something normal. But to both of them, that made it feel all the more important.

They chose a corner table by the window, far enough from the kitchen to keep the noise low but close enough to catch the scent of each dish as it floated through the room. The lighting was soft—golden, flattering—and a tiny vase of wildflowers sat between them like punctuation. Their phones stayed in their pockets, untouched.

No distractions tonight.

Donghyuck leaned his chin on his hand, watching Mark read the menu like it held national secrets. “You missed your dentist appointment again,” he said casually, eyes dancing.

Mark sighed dramatically. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”

“Not when I had to reschedule it twice. You owe that poor receptionist an apology fruit basket.”

“I was busy!”

“You were in your office watching Chef’s Table reruns and annotating your own coffee mug with a Sharpie.”

Mark didn’t even deny it. Instead, he narrowed his eyes with mock severity. “You promised not to bring up the mug.”

“You wrote ‘CEO of Getting Sh*t Done’ on it,” Donghyuck deadpanned.

“And did I not, in fact, get sh*t done?”

Donghyuck smirked. “Not your molars, apparently.”

Mark reached across the table and, without breaking eye contact, plucked a steaming, bright-red mandu off the shared plate between them and held it up.

“You mock me,” he said solemnly. “You must now pay the price.”

Donghyuck leaned back with playful suspicion. “That’s the spicy one.”

Mark’s expression didn’t change. “Eat your penance.”

Against better judgment—but with a grin pulling at his lips—Donghyuck leaned forward and accepted the dumpling. Mark held it steady while he took a bite, and as soon as the chili hit, Donghyuck’s eyes widened, watering instantly.

“Oh my God, ” he croaked, fanning his mouth with both hands. “That’s illegal. That’s not spice, that’s—what is that, molten regret?”

Mark burst out laughing, leaning forward, clearly delighted. “You’re so dramatic.”

“ I’m dying. ”

“You’re not dying. You’re glowing.”

Donghyuck narrowed his eyes but was too busy gulping down water to craft a retort. His lips tingled, his tongue burned—but the laughter spilling from both of them was worth it.

Once the spice mellowed and the food kept coming—crispy pajeon, bubbling sundubu-jjigae, and sweet-sticky soy garlic chicken—the pace of the evening shifted. Slowed. Settled.

They talked.

At first about work—naturally, almost by muscle memory. A problematic investor call, a slide that hadn’t rendered properly, Jaemin’s chaotic coffee orders that somehow always involved oat milk and glitter.

But slowly, inevitably, the conversation began to drift. The edges of professionalism fell away like petals, and something older, more rooted, unfurled in its place.

Mark, sipping barley tea, said, “When I was nine, I thought being a CEO meant you just gave people raises and signed checks with a fountain pen. I told my mom I’d build her a house shaped like a piano.”

Donghyuck, dabbing sauce from the corner of his mouth, blinked. “That’s kind of adorable.”

“It was grandiose. I also thought I could marry Taylor Swift and become an astronaut on weekends.”

“Well, it’s not too late,” Donghyuck offered, cheek resting on his palm. “Taylor’s still around. Astronaut school might be a stretch.”

Mark smiled into his tea. “What about you?”

Donghyuck hesitated, looking out the window. The city was alive out there—headlights swimming across intersections, couples holding hands, people laughing under flickering neon signs.

“I used to want to be a dancer,” he said eventually. “Not for fame. Just to move. To not be still. There was something about the freedom of it—music, motion, no desk, no suits.”

Mark looked at him. Not glanced— looked. Like he wanted to reach in and hold that piece of Donghyuck gently in both hands.

“Why didn’t you?”

Donghyuck shrugged, lips twisting. “Life. Fear. Stability. Take your pick.”

Silence. Not heavy—just thoughtful. Mark reached across the table and nudged Donghyuck’s pinky with his own.

“I would’ve watched every performance.”

Donghyuck didn’t reply right away. His heart beat a little louder in his chest. Then, softly: “I would’ve danced for you.”

~

The break room buzzed with its usual lunchtime symphony: the hum of the microwave heating someone’s soup, the soft click of coffee being brewed, and the rustle of plastic snack wrappers being opened. Light streamed in through the tall windows that lined one side of the room, turning the tile floors glossy and catching on the edge of the stainless-steel counters.

Donghyuck stepped in with his tablet still tucked under one arm, scanning the modest selection of communal snacks. He was running on three hours of sleep and one too many spreadsheets, and all he wanted in that moment was caffeine, sugar, and exactly fifteen minutes of uninterrupted silence.

He grabbed a paper cup and filled it with black coffee, then made his way to the snack shelf—pausing only to snatch a small packet of chocolate-covered sunflower seeds. Not his first choice, but everything else had already been picked through.

He turned and nearly bumped into someone.

Mark.

Of course.

Mark looked too composed for someone who’d just come out of back-to-back meetings—sleeves rolled to the elbows, hair slightly tousled in a way Donghyuck had long suspected was intentional, and a rare softness behind his eyes.

“Busy morning?” Mark asked, already heading toward the little table in the corner where Donghyuck always sat.

Donghyuck gave a tired but playful smile. “Define ‘busy.’ If staring blankly at a screen counts, then yes. I’m thriving.”

Mark made a faint sound that might’ve been a chuckle. He didn’t say anything else. Just reached toward the shelf, plucked a familiar orange bag from the back row, and set it gently on the table before Donghyuck could sit.

Chili honey chips.

Donghyuck blinked. His fingers paused on the rim of his coffee cup. “You remembered?”

Mark raised an eyebrow. “You talk about them like they’re a third coworker. Of course I remembered.”

It was such a small gesture. Insignificant on the surface. But the way Mark placed the bag—silent, easy, no fanfare—felt loud in the quiet way that mattered. Not performative. Not romantic, even. Just present.

Solid.

Donghyuck sat, unwrapping the bag without comment, but his smile deepened. “You’re lucky I like these enough to forgive the coffee you made yesterday.”

“I told you the machine was broken,” Mark replied smoothly, settling into the seat beside him. “You’re the one who trusted me to fix it.”

“I trusted you to read instructions, Mark. Not invent a new espresso religion.”

“You didn’t complain until your third sip.”

“I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”

Mark laughed under his breath, resting one hand casually against the table’s edge. From a distance, they looked like any pair of coworkers sharing lunch—shoulders just far enough apart to be proper, expressions relaxed but animated. But the current between them, as subtle as it was, pulsed like a hidden chord—alive, connected.

Just then, the break room door opened, and Jaemin strolled in, smoothie in hand, earbuds hanging around his neck.

“Donghyuck,” he greeted with a sing-song lilt. “Mark,” he added, with a mock-formal nod. “CEO in the wild. Love to see it.”

Mark gave a droll smile. “I eat lunch sometimes. It’s legal.”

Jaemin settled across the table, eyeing the chip bag, then Donghyuck, then back again. His mouth twitched.

“So…” he said, drawing out the word. “Weekend plans?”

The tone was casual. Too casual.

Donghyuck could feel the heat rise instantly in his cheeks. He was usually quick with a joke, especially with Jaemin, who thrived on banter. But now he hesitated—because the truth wasn’t just an inside joke anymore.

It was real.

Mark stayed still beside him, not tense, but very obviously listening.

Donghyuck turned back to Jaemin and—this time—didn’t deflect. Didn’t look down. Just shrugged, a quiet kind of confidence in the curve of his lips.

“Yeah,” he said. “Dinner. Probably a walk.”

Jaemin blinked. Then broke into a grin.

“Nice.”

There was no teasing edge, no drawn-out nudge. Just that— nice —like it was something simple, something normal. Something right.

Donghyuck laughed softly under his breath, reached for a second chip, and added, “Might see a movie too, if he doesn’t fall asleep halfway through again.”

Jaemin looked past him, at Mark. “You fell asleep during Dune. ”

Mark took a sip of his water. “It was long. ”

“It was amazing. ”

“It was three hours of sand and whispering.”

Donghyuck grinned. “He snored. In Dolby surround sound.”

Jaemin threw his head back and laughed, the kind that made the woman across the room glance up from her yogurt in alarm.

“God,” he said, standing. “You two are disgusting. In the best way.”

He left them with a wink, disappearing out the break room door just as Renjun passed him, raising one suspicious eyebrow and mouthing What was that? over his shoulder. Jaemin just gave him a thumbs-up in reply and kept walking.

Donghyuck sat back in his chair, exhaling. He still felt the fluttering in his stomach, but it wasn’t nervousness. Not anymore.

It was... something else.

Mark tapped a finger lightly against the table. “You didn’t have to answer him, you know.”

Donghyuck looked over at him. “I know.”

Mark’s gaze lingered, soft. Proud. Grateful.

“Thank you.”

Donghyuck tilted his head. “For what?”

“For not hiding. For letting it be real.”

Donghyuck reached across the table and—casually, easily—rested his hand over Mark’s for a second. Just enough to press his point. Just enough to let it be known.

“Mark,” he said, voice low but certain, “if this wasn’t real, it wouldn’t be worth it.”

~

The riverside air was cool and damp with dew, touched by that delicate morning stillness that made everything feel softer, slower—like even the city had decided to take a breath.

Donghyuck arrived first, hoodie sleeves pushed up, sneakers slightly dusted from cutting through the park's early gravel. A knit beanie covered his slightly tousled hair, and his usual weekday sharpness had been replaced by something looser around the edges. Unarmored. At ease.

Mark showed up a few minutes later, jogging lightly down the path with a sheepish grin and wind-flushed cheeks. He was in a charcoal crewneck and black joggers, a pair of glasses balanced lightly on his nose. Casual. Comfortable in a way that felt intimate by itself.

“You’re late,” Donghyuck said, but his voice held no real heat. Just the lilt of a smile.

Mark lifted both hands in faux surrender. “In my defense, I got distracted by an overenthusiastic dog and a pretzel stand.”

Donghyuck arched a brow. “At nine in the morning?”

“It was aggressively persuasive,” Mark said solemnly. “I barely escaped with my life.”

Donghyuck snorted. “You’re so dramatic.”

“Says the guy who cried over dumplings on Wednesday.”

“That was emotional resonance , not drama.”

Mark laughed—open, bright, the sound echoing faintly against the river’s edge.

They started walking. The trail stretched long and winding ahead of them, lined with young willows swaying gently over the path. Cyclists zipped by in occasional bursts, couples strolled past with hands clasped, and runners nodded in shared silence. But somehow, within the quiet morning bustle, it still felt like their own little world.

Their shoulders brushed once. Neither moved away.

“So,” Donghyuck said, voice light, “I assume you have no idea where we’re going?”

“Absolutely none,” Mark replied without missing a beat. “But I’ve decided to embrace spontaneity.”

Donghyuck cast him a sideways look. “That is the least spontaneous sentence I’ve ever heard.”

Mark laughed again, and just when Donghyuck thought he was about to admit defeat, Mark turned down a narrow, tree-covered fork in the trail.

“Wait,” Donghyuck called. “Where are you—?”

“You’ll see.”

Donghyuck followed, skeptical but intrigued. They walked under a canopy of swaying branches, the noise of the main trail falling away behind them. Birds called above. The air smelled faintly of earth and early-summer grass.

And then the path opened.

Just past a bend in the trees, nestled by the water’s edge, was a tiny café—wood-paneled, strung with fairy lights that probably twinkled at night, its patio dotted with just a few iron tables and soft wicker chairs. It wasn’t crowded. A couple of old men were sipping espresso and playing chess under a sunshade. A girl behind the counter was arranging pastries in a curved glass case.

Donghyuck blinked. “Okay. Points for surprise.”

Mark grinned. “Told you I was spontaneous.”

Donghyuck rolled his eyes fondly. “You Googled this, didn’t you?”

“Thoroughly. Last weekend.”

They stepped up to the counter, ordered two coffees—Donghyuck’s black with a shot of vanilla, Mark’s oat milk matcha, because Donghyuck had bullied him into loving it—and took them to go.

They found a bench tucked just off the path, perched slightly above the river. It wasn’t fancy. Just wooden and worn at the edges, probably older than both of them combined. But the view it offered was everything: the slow, wide sprawl of the river as it caught the morning light in gleaming streaks of gold, the occasional rowboat drifting like a scene from a painting, the faraway clang of a bell on the other side.

Donghyuck sipped his coffee, eyes following the lazy ripples on the surface.