Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The worst part of being stuck in an elevator wasn’t the silence.

It wasn’t even the awkward spacing, or the way the air always felt too still, too recycled, as if everyone inside had collectively agreed to pretend they didn’t exist. No, the worst part was the inevitable moment when someone would walk in and stand just close enough that Yeon Sieun had to reevaluate every decision that had led him to this point in his life.

Ding.

The elevator doors slid open on the 19th floor. Sieun glances up from his phone, not because he was expecting anyone, but because the scent of expensive cologne and the quiet click of polished shoes was impossible to ignore.

And just like that, in walks Ahn Suho.

Tall, crisp suit, hair that looked like it belonged in a coffee commercial. The office heartthrob. The marketing department’s beloved golden retriever in human form. Rumor has it that even the CEO’s assistant blushed when Suho so much as breathed in her direction.

He is holding a takeaway coffee in one hand and scrolling through his phone with the other, somehow managing to look flawless while doing both. As he steps inside, the door begins to close behind him.

Sieun moves subtly to the side, but not enough. A second later, Suho’s hand brushes his shoulder.

That was when it happened.

"God, I hope he doesn’t think I’m being creepy, he’s always standing so stiff in here. Does he hate me? He’s cute when he gets flustered though. Damn. Focus. Elevator etiquette. Just stand still."

BANG.

Sieun’s head thunks against the elevator wall loud enough that Suho blinks and turns his way.

“You okay?” Suho asks, his voice as smooth as his hairstyle.

Sieun, very much not okay, nods stiffly.

“Yeah. Just. Thought I saw… a bug.”

Why would there be a bug on the wall of an elevator? The lie sounded even worse out loud.

Suho blinks, smiles politely, and turns forward again. The elevator continues its slow descent, while Sieun quietly dies inside.
————————————————————————
A few days earlier, the office was its usual blur of quiet clicking keyboards, humming fluorescent lights, and the occasional thud of someone trying to force a jammed copy machine back to life. Sieun was at his desk, his posture slightly slouched, eyes fixed on his monitor even though he hadn’t scrolled in five minutes. His cubicle mate, Park Humin, though everyone called him Baku, was noisily unwrapping a protein bar, as if the rest of the office wasn’t operating at a fragile volume of thirty percent. Baku leaned in, grinning like he was about to drop the biggest wisdom of the decade.

“Hey, Sieun,” he whispered dramatically, nudging his chair closer, “you ever hear that thing about turning twenty-five?”

Sieun didn’t look away from his screen. “The thing where your bones stop regenerating and your metabolism collapses?”

“No, no, not that depressing crap,” Baku said, mouth half-full of oats and almonds. “The legend. The one that says if you’re still a virgin at twenty-five, you get magical powers.”

That made Sieun blink. Slowly, and with the kind of expression you’d expect from someone watching a car back into a streetlamp. He turned his head just enough to see Baku’s ridiculous grin. “You're an idiot,” he said plainly.

“I’m serious!” Baku insisted, waving the bar like a wand. “Swear on my life, it’s a real thing. One of the girls in HR told me. Like, magic powers! Telepathy. Telekinesis. Flying. Whatever your 'heart secretly desires most' or some crap.”

Sieun sighed, rubbed his temple, and muttered, “Your heart secretly desires diabetes, apparently.”

But Baku didn’t let up. “Think about it! You're turning twenty-five next week, right?” His grin turned devilish. “You might wake up levitating or something.”

Sieun rolled his eyes and turned back to his screen, trying not to let the casual jab about his romantic (or lack thereof) history get under his skin. He didn’t talk about that part of his life. Mostly because there wasn’t anything to talk about. No scandal, no heartbreak, just… nothing. A whole blank space where most people collected clumsy kisses, awkward first times, and painful lessons. For Sieun, life had moved on without those moments. He wasn’t sure if he’d missed the chance, or just never noticed when it was happening for everyone else.

It was a dumb conversation. A joke. Something to forget by the time the weekend rolled around.

And then, on the morning of his birthday, everything changed.

Sieun woke up groggy and tangled in his sheets. His alarm had already gone off, twice, and the dim blue light seeping through the curtains made his room feel colder than it was. He sat up slowly, groaning at the tightness in his back. Great, twenty-five and already sore just from sleeping. Aging was a scam. He swung his legs over the bed, scratched his head, and caught sight of himself in the mirror across the room.

His hair was doing that thing where it looked like it had been styled by a small hurricane. His face still looked boyish no matter how many birthdays passed, somewhere between forgettable and vaguely pretty, depending on the lighting. His expression was flat, unimpressed.

“Happy birthday to me,” he muttered, dragging himself to the bathroom.

The light overhead flickered once, casting a pale glow over the cramped, toothpaste-streaked mirror. Sieun blinked at his reflection. He looked about the same as yesterday, messy dark brown hair flopping into his eyes, skin still annoyingly clear despite the stress, and his expression as blank and vaguely miserable as ever. Chocolate-brown eyes, big and soft, always made him look more startled than he was, like a deer that had just been asked to file quarterly taxes. He brushed his teeth mechanically, washed his face, and tried to pep-talk himself into consciousness. There was nothing magical about twenty-five. It was just a number. A regular workday. He didn’t even like cake.

By the time he shrugged on his coat and stepped out into the weak morning light, he was already regretting not calling in sick. The sky was still a muted gray, the kind that felt unfinished, like the weather couldn’t be bothered to commit to rain or shine. He made his way down the narrow block to the small food market on the corner, the one he always stopped at on weekday mornings for a quick triangle kimbap and a can of coffee. The little bell above the door chimed as he stepped inside, the smell of seaweed snacks and soy sauce washing over him like something familiar and comforting.

He made a beeline for the refrigerated shelf, eyes half-closed with routine. Tuna mayo. Egg salad. Spicy pollack. He reached out lazily for his usual, and the woman stocking the shelf beside him turned, brushing his hand with her gloved fingers.

"I hope my son didn’t forget his homework again. Why can’t he remember anything unless I remind him six times? Should’ve packed it in his bag myself…"

Sieun blinked.

The voice was clear. Female. Worried. Not his.

He turned his head.

The woman was still focused on the shelf, humming faintly, oblivious to the fact that her private thoughts had just been broadcast into his skull like an unwanted podcast.

Sieun stiffened. Shook his head once. Maybe he was overtired. Or still dreaming.

He turned and made his way toward the register, grabbing a can of coffee with numb fingers. There was a man ahead of him in line, tall and balding, tapping his foot while digging for change in his coat pocket. Sieun waited behind him, trying not to zone out, until the man’s hand accidentally brushed his when reaching for a fallen coin.

"If she thinks I’m paying that gas bill, she can pay it herself. I didn’t even take that long in the shower—forty minutes isn’t excessive. I deserve hot water too."

Sieun took a staggering step back.

His spine locked up. The man didn’t look at him. No one said anything. Everything continued as if the universe wasn’t glitching around him. His hand was trembling.

The cashier rang him up.

He fumbled with his wallet, dropped his coins, grabbed the bag with his breakfast in it, and bolted out of the store like he’d just shoplifted something.

Outside, the air hit his face sharp and cold. He stumbled down the sidewalk, half-running, his breath coming fast. What the hell was happening? Why could he hear people’s thoughts? Not just feelings, words. Complete, uncensored inner monologues. He passed a woman on her phone and flinched when her shoulder grazed him.

"If he cancels again I swear to god I’m going to delete his number. Three strikes and you’re out, Taehoon."

Sieun jerked away from her like she’d slapped him. People were starting to notice, the way he stumbled, how wide his eyes were, the barely contained panic in his face. He ducked into a side street and leaned against the wall, trying to breathe. In. Out. In. Out.

This couldn’t be real. This was some kind of stress-induced breakdown. Maybe he’d hit his head and didn’t remember. Or maybe Baku’s stupid joke had wormed its way into his brain and now his subconscious was playing tricks on him. Virgin at twenty-five? Magic powers? That wasn’t a legend, that was an internet meme. He scrubbed his hands over his face, heart hammering.

Eventually, he forced himself to walk.

He managed to make it to the office building without incident, if only because he kept to the very edges of the sidewalk and avoided touching anyone like they were radioactive. He barely greeted the front desk staff, barely nodded to the intern who held the door for him. The second he was inside, he zeroed in on the elevator—but three people were already waiting.

He turned around and made a show of checking his phone, pretending he’d forgotten something, and walked toward the stairwell.

Fifteen floors.

He was sweaty and winded by the time he got to his floor, but he made it. He slid into his cubicle like a fugitive ducking into a hiding spot. Baku greeted him with a loud yawn and a lazy wave, but Sieun only offered a tight smile and said nothing. He sank into his chair and buried himself in his monitor, silently praying no one would get close enough to accidentally brush against him.

For the next hour, he did everything he could to avoid contact. He passed files over with tongs from the break room. He used tissues to hand off pens. He held his breath every time someone walked by his desk.

And then, disaster struck.

He was coming back from the bathroom when the hallway monitor announced a fire drill on one of the lower floors, causing a temporary shutdown of Stairwell B. People were advised to use the main elevators to return to their offices. Sieun stared at the message like it had personally betrayed him.

Which was how, three minutes later, he ended up standing stiffly in the back corner of an elevator, holding his breath as people trickled in one by one.

He almost made it. Almost.

Then the doors opened at the nineteenth floor, and Ahn Suho walked in.

Suho, with his neatly ironed blazer and jawline sharp enough to split atoms. Suho, with his too-perfect posture and smile that made interns trip over their own shoes. Suho, who stood a little too close to Sieun because the elevator was crowded, and when he adjusted his bag, his knuckles grazed Sieun’s shoulder

"Ugh, he smells nice. Wait… am I being weird? I just meant the shampoo. Shit, I hope he doesn’t notice how loud my heart is beating. He always looks so tense. Kinda cute though. God, focus, Suho."

Thunk.

Sieun banged his head against the elevator wall.

It was louder than he meant it to be.

Suho blinked and glanced at him. “Are you… okay?”

“Yeah,” Sieun said quickly, eyes fixed forward, “just a—uh—bug. Saw a bug.”

“A bug?” Suho repeated, voice laced with amusement.

Sieun didn’t respond.

Because right now, standing in a cramped elevator, holding a cursed coffee and hearing the thoughts of the office's most perfect man, there were no words that could explain how his day was going.

And that, unfortunately, was how he ended up here, sweaty, panicked, and trying not to die of psychic humiliation on his twenty-fifth birthday.
————————————————————————
Sieun stumbles out of the elevator, still reeling from the embarrassing encounter. His legs feel shaky, and the office suddenly seems louder, brighter—too much. He pushes through the cubicle maze with a stiff gait, desperate to reach his desk and disappear into the safe anonymity of his screen.

As soon as he drops his bag beside his chair, Baku is there, grinning like a pest. “Hey, Sieun! You look extra grumpy today. What’s up? Spill.”

Sieun doesn’t meet his eyes. He pulls at his tie irritably, loosening it just a fraction. “I have things to do,” he snaps, voice low and clipped.

Baku raises an eyebrow but doesn’t press further. Instead, he plops down in his own chair, smirking like he knows something Sieun definitely doesn’t want to talk about.

Sieun slumps into his seat, fingers hovering over the keyboard, trying to focus, trying to pretend the morning, the elevator and Suho’s thoughts were just a bad dream. But the buzzing in his head won’t stop.

The hours between morning and lunch drag by with excruciating slowness, each second limping behind the next like a reluctant child being pulled to school. Sieun keeps his head down, eyes locked on his monitor even though none of it makes sense. He opens and closes spreadsheets. Clicks through tabs he doesn’t read. Scrolls down emails without registering a single word. Anything to pretend that the morning didn’t happen. Anything to trick his brain into calm.

His breathing evens out slowly, the edge of his panic dulling under the weight of routine. A thin layer of rationality starts to build, wobbly, but enough to stand on.

It wasn’t real. It couldn’t have been real.

He repeats that thought like a prayer. Lack of sleep. Stress. Too much caffeine. His mind’s just short-circuiting. A freak moment, a trick of exhaustion. Maybe even a weird daydream, sparked by Baku’s dumb joke. Telepathy? That isn’t real. It’s a meme. A joke from the internet. His brain, frazzled and anxious, must’ve filled in the blanks. That’s all.

He moves his mouse. Types a few lines of gibberish. Deletes them. He’s going through the motions like a machine trying to convince itself it’s alive. But the buzzing in his head is gone now. The strange static he felt earlier, like the whole world was a live wire, has quieted.

By the time noon rolls around and the office hums with the usual lunchtime rustle, papers shuffled, chairs scraped, the low murmur of coworkers discussing menus, Sieun almost feels normal. He’s not relaxed, exactly, but he’s grounded. Stable. Functional.

Baku stretches with a groan, the sound of his back cracking echoing like small fireworks. “God, finally,” he mutters, arms thrown dramatically over his head. “If I look at one more spreadsheet, my eyes are gonna start leaking blood.” He yanks on his coat and glances at Sieun. “C’mon. Let’s get food. I’m craving pork cutlet. You in?”

Sieun hesitates. His hands twitch slightly, fingers curling over the edge of his keyboard. Then, cautiously, he nods.

He hasn’t heard anything weird all morning. No stray voices. No rogue thoughts. He and Baku have been in the same room, breathing the same stale office air, for hours. If something was wrong, it would’ve happened already. Whatever happened earlier, it’s over.

He stands, smoothing the front of his shirt and grabbing his phone. His shoulders relax a little.

And then, just as he turns to follow Baku, his elbow brushes lightly against Baku’s arm.

And it slams into him like a truck.

"I should ask if he wants to grab coffee after. He looked like hell this morning. Hope he’s not coming down with something. Did I screw up that client call? Crap, what if he’s pissed about it? Nah, he’s just being Sieun. Broody. Adorable, but broody. I should bring snacks next week—"

The thoughts burst into Sieun’s mind like fireworks detonating too close. They’re not whispered. Not imagined. Real. Clear and word-for-word, like Baku’s brain has opened up and started broadcasting its own personal radio station directly into his skull.

Sieun goes still. His entire body locks up, muscles stiff with shock.

His chair screeches against the floor as he steps back too hard, bumping into the edge of the desk. Baku jumps, startled. “Whoa… dude? You okay?”

Sieun barely hears him. His blood roars in his ears. His breath stutters in his chest.

“I—I forgot something,” he blurts, his voice sharp, rushed. “I’m just gonna eat alone today.”

Baku blinks, clearly confused. “Wait, what? You serious?”

But Sieun’s already grabbing his lunch and phone, backing away from the cubicle like it’s on fire. He doesn’t look at Baku. Doesn’t try to explain. He turns and power-walks out of the room, ignoring the curious glances, the faint hum of conversation that swells and fades behind him.

He doesn’t stop until he’s halfway down the corridor, wedging himself into the narrow space between the vending machine and the supply closet near the stairwell. There, out of sight, he slumps against the cold wall and tries to breathe.

It’s not over.

His heart thunders in his chest. His fingers tremble. It wasn’t stress. It wasn’t a dream. It’s real. The thoughts, the voices, they’re not figments. They’re people’s minds. Raw and unfiltered. And it’s not something he can control. It happens when he touches them. Even through clothes. Even by accident.

He presses his hands to his ears, as if that could block something that doesn’t come through sound.

He doesn’t know how to stop it. Doesn’t know what the hell he’s supposed to do.

And worst of all?

Baku just called him adorable. He’s so annoying

Sieun presses his back against the wall and squeezes his eyes shut, willing his heart to slow down, willing the world to just pause for five goddamn minutes. His breath comes in short, shallow bursts. His palms are damp. There’s a faint mechanical hum from the vending machine beside him, a low purring that vibrates through the soles of his shoes. He focuses on it, tries to lose himself in the monotony of the sound, like it’s some kind of meditation.

But then, voices.

Not in his head this time. Real voices.

Two, maybe three people, chatting casually as they round the hallway corner. Their footsteps echo, too loud in the narrow corridor. Sieun’s eyes snap open. He stiffens, heart hitching in his chest.

Crap. Someone’s coming.

Without thinking, he moves. He pushes off the wall too fast, trying to duck around the vending machine, planning to slip away unnoticed before anyone sees him having what looks like a breakdown beside a recycling bin.

But his foot catches on the corner of a poorly stacked cardboard box, one of those half-crushed ones maintenance keeps forgetting to throw out, and suddenly he’s lurching forward, arms flailing for balance.

He falls.

Right into the path of Ahn Suho.

Time slows.

It’s stupidly cinematic, the kind of moment you’d see in a drama, except there’s no romantic music and Sieun’s face is twisted in pure, undignified horror as he crashes down, shoulder-first, palm scraping against the tile floor, one knee smacking into it with a painful thunk.

Great.

Perfect.

Just what he needs… to literally throw himself at the office heartthrob like a malfunctioning Roomba.

There’s a gasp behind him. A flutter of movement. Then a warm hand on his arm.

“Are you okay?” Suho’s voice is smooth as always, polite concern wrapped in velvet. It floats down like a parachute, and Sieun hates how steady it sounds.

Sieun pushes himself up too fast, cheeks burning, not daring to look Suho in the eye. “I’m fine,” he mutters quickly, brushing dust off his slacks. “Just tripped. No big deal.”

His elbow bumps Suho’s forearm.

And the static hits.

"Oh god, he's blushing. Is he hurt? Should I help him more? He always looks like he's seconds from running away, why is that kind of cute? Focus, Suho. Don’t be weird. Don’t stare. You’re just being nice. That’s all. Definitely not because you think he smells like that strawberry soap again—"

Sieun flinches so hard he nearly knocks himself off-balance again. His head jerks back like someone slapped him. The thoughts crash into him, vivid and private and Suho’s, so painfully sincere and off-guard that they make his ears feel hot.

He stammers. “I—I’m just gonna go eat,” His voice cracks, high and thin.

Then he turns to make his escape and walks straight into the glass door.

The dull bonk echoes louder than it should. His shoulder smacks it hard enough that it wobbles in its frame. Pain shoots down his arm, sharp and immediate.

Suho takes a startled step forward. “Sieun—”

“I’m okay!” Sieun blurts, waving a hand like he’s directing traffic in a hurricane. “Totally fine! Everything’s great!”

He fumbles for the handle, nearly yanks it off its hinge, and all but skitters out of the hallway, his shoes squeaking across the polished floor. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t look back. Just keeps moving like the building might collapse behind him.

His face is burning. His heart is racing. And Suho’s thoughts, Suho’s thoughts are still echoing in his mind.

Strawberry soap.

He thinks he smells like strawberry soap.

Sieun bolts into the nearest stairwell and slams the door shut behind him, breathless and mortified.

What the hell is his life.
————————————————————————
The silence of the storage room was its own kind of sacred.

It wasn’t much, just a narrow utility closet tucked between the accounting department and the forgotten wing of the building that no one ever used. The overhead light flickers once when Sieun enters, casting a weak yellow glow over metal shelves stacked with cleaning supplies, seasonal office decorations in crushed cardboard boxes, and a forgotten printer covered in dust. The air smells faintly of lemon-scented disinfectant and time.

He wedges himself into the corner, balancing his convenience store lunch on a folded janitor’s smock, and sits on an overturned plastic crate that creaks ominously every time he shifts his weight. A single folding chair stands nearby, missing one of its rubber feet, but he doesn’t dare trust it. The floor is concrete, cold even through the fabric of his slacks, but it is private. It is quiet. It is blessedly free of people and their thoughts.

He peels back the wrapper on his triangle kimbap with trembling fingers. His body still hasn’t fully calmed from earlier, the humiliation, Suho, the thoughts, but the pounding in his chest has softened to a manageable throb. He takes a bite, barely tasting it, and exhales slowly through his nose.

So this is how he was celebrating twenty-five. Eating cold rice in a janitorial tomb while trying not to mentally eavesdrop on his coworkers’ private fantasies and coffee preferences.

He tries to focus on the routine: bite, chew, sip coffee, repeat. He keeps his hands to himself, tucks his elbows in tight, and avoids touching even the mop leaning against the wall beside him, just in case the cleaning supplies had opinions about his life, too.

Time passes in a kind of fuzzy blur, the minutes trickling by like syrup. At some point, his phone buzzes, a message from his mother, a group chat ping from the office LINE thread, a birthday emoji from his best friend. He didn’t open any of them.

When the cold starts to seep into his bones and the coffee can is empty, he finally stands, wipes the crumbs from his pants, and slips back into the world like a shadow.

Back at his desk, Sieun buries himself in work with the kind of focus usually reserved for disasters or existential crises.

He dives into spreadsheets, audits inventory reports, adjusts client data with the precision of a surgeon and the intensity of someone avoiding their own reflection. It isn’t that he loves the work, it is tedious, thankless, and half the time requires chasing down people who responds to emails like it is a voluntary hobby. But it gives his hands something to do. It makes his brain feel like his own again.

And more importantly, it gives him space between the noise.

No touching. No thoughts. Just columns and numbers and neatly categorized tasks that didn’t talk back.

Outside his cubicle, the afternoon shifts with the slow, inevitable rhythm of office life. The dull murmur of coworkers fades in waves, one person leaving for a dentist appointment, another packing up early with a cheerful “see you tomorrow!” People trickle out, chairs scrape the floor, drawers slam shut. A few linger near the break room, chatting softly about weekend plans and new drama episodes, but the energy has settled into its usual end-of-day lull.

Sieun doesn’t look up.

He types, adjusts a chart, clicks through a file, then goes back and re-sorts it. Again. And again.

The sun has dipped lower in the sky, throwing pale amber streaks across the rows of cubicles. Overhead lights clicks off in corners where motion sensors have given up. Someone starts vacuuming near the conference rooms. The smell of burnt coffee lingers like a ghost.

At some point, Baku sighs loudly and shoves back his chair, the wheels squealing in protest.

“Alright,” he announces to no one in particular, “I’m officially done pretending to be productive.”

Sieun doesn’t look over, but his eyes flick to the clock on his monitor. Nearly 7:00 p.m. The office is nearly empty. He hasn’t realized.

He hears Baku stretch, another loud crack of joints, then the rustle of his jacket being yanked off the back of the chair.

“You’re still here?” Baku asks, pausing at the edge of Sieun’s cubicle. “Dude, it’s your birthday. Go home. Live a little. Or at least order yourself something with cheese.”

Sieun doesn’t answer right away. His eyes are on the screen, but the data has stopped registering. His fingers hover uselessly over the keyboard, and for a moment, all he can hear is the low hum of the office’s dying fluorescence and the soft buzz of his monitor.

Finally, he hums. Not a real response. Just a small sound in his throat, the kind you make to acknowledge someone without inviting further conversation.

Baku sighs again, this time less theatrically. “Alright, grumble monster. I get it. But don’t stay too late, okay?”

Sieun nods absently.

Then, a pause. Not long, but not rushed either. Baku lingers, like he was going to say something else, maybe something sincere, or teasing, or both, but then he just clicks his tongue once, mutters a half-hearted “Happy birthday, by the way,” and walks off.

Sieun doesn’t look up until he hears the soft ding of the elevator and the distant sound of the doors sliding shut.

The office is still.

The city lights have began to twinkle against the windows, throwing dim reflections into the empty maze of cubicles. Sieun sits alone, hunched over his keyboard, his shoulders tense, eyes tired. The screen in front of him had long since gone to sleep, but he doesn’t reach for the mouse. He didn’t move at all.

Just sat there, breathing softly in the quiet.

Twenty-five.

And suddenly, he can hear people’s thoughts.

He leans back in his chair slowly, the worn mesh creaking beneath him. His head tilts back just enough to stare at the ceiling. It is an ugly ceiling. Dotted with foam tiles and water stains and flickering lights.

His eyes burn, not with tears, exactly, just with the weight of being on for too long.

He hadn’t wanted anything special today. Not cake, not presents, not awkward attention in the break room. Just normalcy. A regular day, a smooth elevator ride, a quiet dinner, maybe some time to read before bed.

Instead, the universe had gifted him psychic eavesdropping and the deeply unwanted knowledge that Ahn Suho, the most intimidatingly perfect man in the office, had thoughts like “strawberry soap” and “he’s kinda cute.”

Sieun doesn’t know whether to laugh or climb under his desk and die.

So instead, he does what he always does.

He reaches for the mouse, wakes the screen, and gets back to work.

Sieun’s neck aches.

A persistent, throbbing sort of ache that coils down from the base of his skull into his shoulders, tightening with every passing minute. He rubs at it absentmindedly, fingers pressing into the tense muscles beneath his collar. His eyes sting, dry from staring too long at the screen, and when he finally blinks—really blinks—it feels like waking up from underwater. The numbers on his monitor blur together. His back protests when he shifts in his seat, and a low groan slips from his throat.

He exhales slowly, pushing the heels of his palms into his eyes until colors bloom behind his lids. The office is nearly silent now. Only the low hum of machinery, the distant throb of the vending machine in the break room, and the occasional groan of the air conditioning fill the void. The sun has long since vanished behind the buildings outside, leaving only the cold wash of fluorescent lighting and the flicker of computer screens that haven't yet been shut down.

And then—

A sudden cold pressure presses against the back of his neck.

Sieun startles, jerking in his chair with a clumsy half-twist that knocks a pen off his desk. His knee bangs into a drawer. He turns, heart leaping into his throat, and almost drops everything in his hands.

Suho is standing behind him.

Ahn Suho. Still dressed in his crisp white shirt, sleeves casually rolled to the forearms, his tie loosened just enough to suggest the end of a long workday, not disheveled but relaxed in a way that should be illegal. In his hand, extended toward Sieun, is a can of chilled peach tea, beads of condensation slicking the aluminum surface.

Sieun stares. His breath catches. For a moment, he doesn’t move, he just takes in the unexpected presence, the warmth in Suho’s expression, the way the lights halo faintly off his hair.

“You looked like you needed it,” Suho says, voice low, gentle. “Your shoulders are practically fighting gravity.”

Sieun hesitates, then reaches out, fingers brushing Suho’s as he accepts the can. And in that instant—

It hits.

His mind stutters. Another thought, uninvited, unspoken, undeniably Suho’s, blooms inside his head.

“Still working? He’s gonna burn himself out. He didn’t even notice me come up. Is he always this intense when he works? That neck rub was kinda erotic. Ugh. Focus, Suho. Be normal. Just give him the drink. Don’t make it weird. Don’t think about how soft his hair looked just now, damn it, don’t think about his hair.”

Sieun’s fingers tighten around the can, his face flushing so quickly it almost burns.

He stares down at the drink like it might explode, struggling to keep his face neutral, normal, not a glowing red billboard of panic. Suho, mercifully oblivious, shifts his weight and leans slightly against the cubicle wall, casual in that way only he can be, like someone who’s never had an awkward moment in his life.

“So,” Suho says lightly, “why are you still here? It's almost eight.”

Sieun blinks. He fumbles the can slightly as he straightens in his chair, then jolts upright so fast the chair skitters back a few inches. He nearly trips over the leg of his desk, barely catches himself on the edge.

“I—I was just finishing up,” he says, voice too high, too fast. “Wrapping things up. I was about to leave.”

His heartbeat is loud in his ears. Suho’s presence is magnetic, overwhelming in a way that has nothing to do with the telepathy and everything to do with how easily he fills the space. Sieun can feel the heat of him, can still hear the faint echo of those thoughts circling in his mind, and it’s too much. He can barely think straight, let alone speak.

Suho raises an eyebrow, lips twitching with amusement. “You sure? You look like you haven’t moved in hours.”

Sieun nods too quickly. “I’m just… finishing something. Just wanted to wrap it up. That’s all.”

He’s standing so stiffly it’s a miracle he doesn’t snap in half.

The silence stretches between them again. It’s not uncomfortable, exactly. But it’s charged, thick with the kind of tension that comes when one person is trying very hard not to react to the fact that the other’s private thoughts are still echoing like a playlist on loop.

Suho glances at the clock on Sieun’s monitor. “You should go home. It’s your birthday, isn’t it?”

Sieun flushes deeper, barely nodding. “It’s just a day.”

Suho doesn’t reply right away. Instead, he pushes off from the cubicle wall and slides his hands into his pockets, casual and calm in a way that makes Sieun feel like a live wire by comparison.

“Well,” he says at last, voice soft, “if you’re finally calling it a night, I’ll walk with you.”

Sieun blinks. His brain short-circuits. “Wh—why?”

Suho shrugs. “You’ve been here longer than anyone else. Figured you could use company. Besides”, he glances toward the window, where the dark glass reflects only the interior of the office, “you look like you could fall asleep standing.”

Sieun doesn’t know what to say. He just clutches the drink and nods, awkward and quiet, trying not to think, not to feel, not to hear anything else. But Suho’s presence is like gravity, calm, certain, warm, and it pulls at him with quiet insistence.

They walk side by side toward the elevator.

And even though Sieun doesn’t touch him again, not even by accident, he still feels the lingering hum of Suho’s thoughts, like a faint, pleasant static under his skin.

They reach the elevator in silence, the only sound their footsteps echoing faintly in the dimly lit corridor. The office is hushed and hollow at this hour—most of the lights on motion sensors have already flickered off, casting long shadows along the linoleum floor. Sieun walks half a step ahead, the unopened can of peach tea still cold in his hand, its condensation slick against his fingers. His heartbeat has mostly settled, but his mind is still tangled, every time he thinks he’s managed to calm down, a remembered echo of Suho’s thoughts sends him right back into a spiral.

He presses the elevator button and hears the machinery groan to life. The distant hum of it approaching gives him something to focus on. A direction. Something ordinary.

He exhales. He’s almost free.

But then—

“Wait.”

Suho’s voice is soft, hesitant.

Something gentle but urgent in it makes Sieun pause instinctively. Before he can fully turn, he feels it, light fingers catching the fabric of his sleeve. Not a forceful tug, just a touch. Just enough to stop him.

He turns slowly.

Suho’s hand slips away the moment Sieun looks back, as if he hadn’t meant to grab him at all, as if he’s suddenly unsure of himself. His expression is unreadable for a heartbeat, then shifts, open, sincere, vulnerable in a way Sieun isn’t used to seeing from him. That perfect composure Suho always wears, the smooth mask of effortless charm, is cracked just slightly at the edges.

“If you’re not doing anything for your birthday,” Suho says, voice quiet but steady, “then… I’d like to take you to dinner.”

The words hang in the air between them like dust caught in the light.

Sieun blinks.

It takes him a full three seconds to understand what he’s hearing. And then another five to process it.

His mind stalls. Dinner? Dinner? His first thought is that Suho must mean something casual, harmless. Colleagues. A polite gesture. But the way Suho’s eyes hold his, the quiet sincerity in his voice, the fact that he chased him down just to say it, none of it feels casual.

Sieun stares at him, dumbfounded.

Suho shifts his weight, hands disappearing into his pockets. His voice softens, apologetic now. “I mean, only if you want to. It’s nothing weird, I just thought… if no one else was celebrating with you, maybe I could—”

“Yes.”

It blurts out before Sieun can stop it.

His voice cracks slightly, too fast, too loud in the quiet hallway. He winces, heat crawling up the back of his neck. “I—I mean, yes. I’m not… doing anything. So. Dinner. That’d be… fine. That’s fine. Good. Totally fine.”

His mouth keeps moving without permission, stumbling over words like they’re tripwire. “I’m free. It’s not a big day. I mean, not that I wouldn’t like to. I would. Like it. Dinner. With you. Not in a weird way. I mean, not that it’s weird if it is. I just—”

He stops himself with a strangled sound, dragging a hand over his face. “God.”

Suho’s smile spreads slowly, soft and bright, like the way sunlight filters through curtains in the morning. There’s something warm in it, something almost… relieved.

“Okay,” Suho says, voice a little lighter now, his posture relaxing. “Then it’s a date.”

Sieun chokes on air.

Suho blinks. “Not—” He lifts his hands in mock surrender. “I mean, not that kind of date. Unless you want it to be. I just meant—”

“Let’s just go,” Sieun says, voice strangled.

He fumbles to push the elevator button again even though it’s already lit.

And beside him, Suho laughs softly. Not mockingly, not cruel, just amused. Gentle. Like he’s honestly enjoying this ridiculous moment. Like Sieun’s clumsy, mortified floundering is the most charming thing he’s seen all day.

Sieun’s ears are burning.

And still, when the elevator doors finally slide open, he steps inside with Suho at his side.

Dinner.

With Ahn Suho.

On his birthday.

How is this his life?

Chapter Text

The elevator doors slide open with a low mechanical chime, and Sieun steps inside with all the grace of a man walking into an execution chamber. Suho follows beside him, casual and calm, hands tucked into his pockets like this is the most natural thing in the world. And maybe it is, for Suho. For someone who glides through life with easy charm and disarming smiles. For someone who doesn’t wake up cursed on their twenty-fifth birthday with the power to hear every stray, unfiltered thought that drifts through people’s heads like passing radio static.

Sieun edges toward the farthest corner of the elevator, eyes fixed firmly on the glowing panel of floor numbers. He plants his feet in a tight, defensive stance and grips the strap of his bag like it might ground him in place. Suho stands beside him, not close enough to be inappropriate, but still too close. Every time he shifts his weight or moves even slightly, Sieun’s shoulders twitch in anticipation, ready to dodge a brush of fabric, an accidental graze of knuckles, anything that might trigger another involuntary glimpse into Suho’s head.

So far, nothing. Thank god.

Still, Sieun feels like a bundle of live wires, every nerve buzzing beneath his skin. He doesn't dare move. He doesn’t even blink when Suho rolls his shoulders casually, the crisp fabric of his blazer catching the faint overhead light.

And then Suho turns his head, flashing him a smile, soft, easygoing, so painfully handsome that Sieun nearly forgets how to function.

Sieun gives a tight, robotic nod in response.

He doesn’t smile back. He doesn’t smile at all.

Suho doesn’t seem to mind. He just keeps smiling, like Sieun’s awkwardness is expected. Like it’s kind of... endearing. That only makes things worse. Every few seconds, Suho glances his way again with that same charming grin, and every time, Sieun responds with the same uncomfortable nod, like he's a malfunctioning bobblehead.

The silence in the elevator stretches long and painfully. Not tense exactly, more like the kind of silence where one person is perfectly comfortable and the other is internally screaming.

Sieun swallows and stares so hard at the elevator numbers, he’s surprised they don’t melt under the intensity. Thirteen… Twelve... Why is this building so damn tall?

He doesn’t know what’s more unbearable: the chance of hearing Suho’s thoughts again, or the thought of being near him without knowing what’s going on inside that perfectly styled head. Maybe he should’ve stayed home today. Maybe he should’ve changed his name and moved into the mountains.

Suho shifts again, and Sieun stiffens instinctively. But this time, he catches himself. Forces his shoulders to lower just a little. This is fine. Everything’s fine. He’s just in an elevator. With Suho. On his birthday. Head still full of secondhand affection and his stomach tied into seven different kinds of knots.

And then, another smile.

God.

Sieun nods again, tighter this time.

The elevator dings. First floor.

When the doors open, Suho steps out first, turning slightly as if to wait for him. There’s a small curl to his lips, not smug, not teasing, just quietly pleased.

The elevator doors slide open with a soft chime, and the cool breath of evening air greets them as they step out into the city. The sky’s dipped into that soft indigo just before sunset, all lavender shadows and the faint blush of lingering light on glass towers. The sidewalk is slick from an earlier drizzle, and everything smells faintly of wet pavement and city spice, roasted chestnuts, exhaust, and the sweet tang of fried chicken oil from a nearby stall.

Suho adjusts his blazer and turns to Sieun with an easy smile. “I made a reservation.”

Sieun blinks, then nods timidly. The word reservation clangs around in his head like a dropped spoon in a silent room. This is real. This is actually happening. Dinner. With Suho. Ahn Suho, who looks like he walked off the cover of a department store ad. Who could have chosen literally anyone. And yet… here they are. Walking together into the evening like it’s normal.

They fall into step side by side.

There’s a natural rhythm to it at first, Sieun on the left, Suho on the right, their footsteps syncing softly against the concrete. The city hums around them, busy but not overwhelming. Streetlights blink on overhead. A bus rumbles by. Somewhere in the distance, a delivery driver shouts into his phone. It’s all very cinematic, in that awkward, unscripted sort of way that makes Sieun feel like he's somehow stumbled into someone else’s story.

Then, as they wait at a crosswalk, Suho’s hand casually sways a little closer to his. Not obviously. Not enough to be suspicious. Just a small, natural swing, like a breeze, or a polite accident.

Sieun flinches before he can stop himself and shifts half a step forward, pretending to check the walk signal.

Suho doesn’t say anything, but out of the corner of his eye, Sieun sees him glance over with a faint crease between his brows. Not upset. Just puzzled. A soft ‘what was that?’ written across his expression.

They continue walking. The restaurant must be close, but it feels like forever away.

A moment later, they pass a food stall with a cheerful red awning, and Suho leans in slightly to comment on the smell, “That place has the best odeng”, and again, his arm brushes just slightly too near Sieun’s. It’s subtle. Almost charming. Almost unconscious.

Sieun pretends to admire a vending machine and steps to the left.

Suho’s smile tightens. Barely. But he glances sideways at Sieun now, a single brow raised, his lips parting like he might say something, then he doesn’t. Just studies him for a second longer, his expression flickering somewhere between curiosity and amusement. Like ‘what are you doing?’ is floating just beneath the surface.

Sieun can feel it. The weight of that look. The warmth of it. The confusion. Maybe even a tiny thread of challenge.

Suho tries again, just once more, his hand grazing the edge of Sieun’s coat sleeve as they squeeze past a group of giggling teenagers on the sidewalk. But Sieun sidesteps instinctively, like a leaf skittering away from wind. It’s not dramatic. Not obvious. He just moves, and Suho notices. Of course he notices.

This time, Suho exhales through his nose, almost a laugh but not quite. “You dodging me on purpose?” he asks, light but pointed.

Sieun stares straight ahead and lies with everything he has. “No.”

“Mm,” Suho says, like he doesn’t believe him for a second.

And then he smiles again, that maddening, gentle, frustratingly fond smile. Like he’s not annoyed at all. Like this whole awkward sidestepping dance is just adding a layer of mystery to the already quiet, tightly-wound enigma that is Yeon Sieun.

And Sieun, for all his effort to stay stone-faced, feels his ears start to go warm again.

Just a little.

Just enough to make him want to disappear into his coat and never come out.

The restaurant is tucked neatly between a boutique florist and a gallery that looks closed for renovations, its black-framed glass doors almost too understated to notice, until Suho opens them. Warm yellow light spills out, accompanied by the quiet clink of silverware and the low hum of classical jazz. Sieun steps in hesitantly, immediately feeling underdressed in his office-wrinkled slacks and lived-in coat. The space is sleek, modern, gray walls, gold trim, soft candlelight on every table. The kind of place with velvet chairs and menus that don’t list prices.

Sieun falters at the entrance, suddenly hyper-aware of how the soles of his shoes squeak slightly with every step.

Suho, of course, walks in like he belongs. Effortlessly. He speaks to the host with that polite, low voice of his, the one that somehow sounds charming even when he’s just confirming a reservation. Sieun watches him from the side, silently wondering if this is what it feels like to orbit a star, trying not to get too close, not to burn, but always pulled toward it anyway.

“This way,” Suho says, turning toward him, his smile easy as ever. He leads Sieun toward a small table near the back, private, quiet, almost hidden behind a decorative screen. It's the kind of setup that’s meant for dates, or serious conversations, or both.

Sieun sits stiffly, back straight, hands in his lap like a polite guest in someone else’s house.

Suho settles across from him, graceful and relaxed, and glances at him with an amused tilt of his head. “You can breathe, you know,” he says, gently. “This place isn’t going to eat you.”

“I’m breathing,” Sieun replies immediately, too fast.

Suho arches a brow.

“…Quietly,” Sieun adds, trying to recover.

Suho just chuckles and reaches for the water pitcher. “Want some?”

Sieun nods, throat suddenly dry, and lets Suho pour for him, which somehow feels way more intimate than it should.

Their menus arrive, but Sieun doesn’t really register the words. His fingers ghost across the leather cover without opening it, and he tries to focus on the tablecloth, or the light fixture, or anything but the man sitting across from him, who somehow manages to make waiting for appetizers look like a magazine spread.

Under the table, he shifts his legs to cross one ankle over the other, and in doing so, his foot accidentally brushes Suho’s.

Just lightly.

Just once.

But it’s enough.

The static hits.

——Crap… okay. That was an accident. Right? Unless he did that on purpose? No, not Sieun. He’s too careful. But he hasn’t looked away from his menu in three minutes. I think he’s nervous. He looks kind of cute like that though, just a little overwhelmed. Don’t stare. Act normal.——

Sieun goes stock-still.

His face burns.

He shoots his leg back like he’s been electrocuted and nearly knocks over his water in the process. The glass rattles, and he grabs it quickly, trying to hide behind a sip.

Suho looks up, blinking. “You good?”

Sieun nods, far too quickly. “Fine. Just… leg cramp.”

Suho tries to hide his smile behind his water glass. “Mm. From all the walking?”

“From everything,” Sieun mutters under his breath.

And still, Suho’s gaze lingers on him, curious, soft around the edges. Like he knows something’s off, but he doesn’t mind it. Like he’s used to unraveling people slowly and enjoys the process.

Sieun can feel the heat creeping into his ears again. He grips the menu like it’s his only lifeline.

Suho clears his throat gently, setting down his water glass with a soft clink. His eyes lift, warm and unreadable in the candlelight, and when he smiles, it’s softer than before, less teasing, more real. “So,” he says, voice dipping into something casual but coaxing, “any idea what you want to get?”

Sieun, mid-thought and very much tangled in the memory of Suho’s voice in his head, blinks like he’s just been shaken awake. “I—what?”

Suho chuckles, eyes crinkling just a bit. “Food. The reason we’re here. Or did you come for the ambiance?”

Sieun straightens a little, fumbling to appear normal. “Ah, I don’t know. I didn’t really… look at the menu.”

Suho tilts his head. “Want me to order for both of us then?”

There’s an ease in his tone, but Sieun hears the sincerity beneath it. No pressure. Just a quiet offer, like he’s done it a dozen times before, but only for people he knows well.

Sieun nods, a bit too quickly. “Sure.”

Suho’s smile brightens instantly, small dimples pressing into his cheeks. “Okay. I know exactly what to get.” He leans to the side and waves over a nearby waiter with the kind of confidence that makes it look effortless.

In the motion, his elbow brushes Sieun’s arm.

And just like that—

The thoughts surge in.

——Yes. Okay. Good. He said yes. I knew he wouldn’t pick anything, so I picked this place because I know he’ll like the food. I carefully spent weeks looking for a restaurant and choosing good food for him. I hope he notices. I hope he likes it. God, I can’t believe I actually asked him out. I'm glad I did. He’s here. He said yes.——

Sieun’s eyes widen. His stomach flips so violently it feels like he swallowed a whole elevator.

He reaches for his water to ground himself, but the glass is too full, his hand too shaky. He chokes on the first sip, coughing sharply as water goes down the wrong pipe. His shoulders jerk forward with the force of it, chest tightening as he tries to breathe past the sudden, horrible sputter.

Suho startles and immediately reaches out. “Whoa—hey—are you okay?”

Sieun coughs harder, mortified.

“Here—” Suho snatches a napkin from the table and leans in, handing it to him with one hand while the other lightly pats between Sieun’s shoulder blades. “Breathe. Don’t die on me, I haven’t even fed you yet.”

Sieun grabs the napkin and buries his face in it, nodding through the coughs. His ears are burning. His face is probably red enough to match the damn tablecloth.

Suho’s hand lingers for a second longer on his back, gentle but grounding, before pulling away. He watches Sieun with that same calm expression, but there’s something else there now too, concern threaded with a quiet sort of affection. Not dramatic. Not overwhelming. Just there.

Sieun doesn’t dare look at him. Not yet.

Because Suho chose this place for him.

Because Suho is happy to be here, with him.

Because Suho’s thoughts are still echoing in his head, and they’re so sincere it hurts.

The dishes arrive one by one, carried on polished trays by a graceful server who announces each course with a smile and a quiet bow. The table fills slowly with small plates, artfully arranged, the scent of warm broth, seared fish, and soft herbs curling through the air like something spellbound.

Sieun sits up straighter without realizing it.

His eyes widen when the main dish is set before him, a delicate bowl of hand-pulled noodles in golden broth, topped with thin slices of marinated beef and a perfectly soft-boiled egg. Beside it, a smaller plate with crispy vegetable pancakes glistening lightly with sesame oil, and another with neatly plated slices of rolled omelet and seasoned tofu. The kind of meal he never expects to find outside of childhood memory or television dramas. Warm. Thoughtful. Familiar.

He glances at Suho, who only shrugs, clearly proud. “Told you I’d pick well.”

Sieun hesitates for a moment, but the smell is too tempting. He picks up his chopsticks and takes a careful bite of the noodles. The moment the flavor hits his tongue, his usually flat, cold expression flickers. His eyes, soft and chocolate brown, widen a fraction more, then gleam.

It’s the smallest change. Barely there. But unmistakable.

His lips don’t smile, not yet. But something about him softens completely. His shoulders loosen. His eyes actually sparkle. The kind of rare sparkle reserved for things that feel safe, warm, right. He chews slowly, savoring the food like it’s the best thing he’s tasted in months.

Suho watches him with open satisfaction.

He doesn’t even pretend not to look. He leans his cheek on one hand, elbow propped on the table, and simply observes, eyes bright, lips curled with barely hidden glee. Every twitch of Sieun’s brow, every quiet blink of delight, is received like a reward. He eats his own food too, but only casually, as if the meal is secondary to the view in front of him.

Sieun finally swallows, setting his chopsticks down gently. He clears his throat like he’s trying to bring himself back to Earth. “This is…” he starts, then frowns faintly, like words are escaping him. “Really good.”

Suho grins. “Yeah?”

Sieun nods. “Thank you. For, um. Bringing me here. You didn’t have to do something this fancy.”

Suho waves him off, casual and shameless. “Please. I should’ve gotten you a real present too. This is the least I could do.”

Sieun looks up at him at that, surprised. His lips part, but no words come.

Suho just smiles again, a little lopsided. “I mean, it’s your birthday. I kind of wanted to make it memorable.”

That silences Sieun for a beat. And then, something rare happens.

He gives a small smile. But not with his mouth, with his eyes.

They narrow slightly, a soft crescent curve that catches in the candlelight, like a quiet thank-you written only in the language of subtle people. It’s so faint that anyone else might miss it. But Suho doesn’t.

He sees it. And his chest quietly, wordlessly fills with warmth.

They continue eating, the quiet clink of chopsticks and the soft hum of background music filling the space between them. The restaurant hums gently around them, other conversations, the occasional flicker of laughter, the delicate shuffle of footsteps, but in Suho’s mind, it all recedes into static. Because across the table, Yeon Sieun is quietly chewing his food like it’s the best meal he’s ever had, and Suho is doing everything in his power not to lose his mind.

On the outside, he’s composed, cool, relaxed, just another handsome man enjoying a fancy dinner. He makes idle conversation when it feels natural, sips his tea with practiced ease, nods along when Sieun makes a comment about the seasoning being just right. His face is smooth, his voice easy, his hands steady.

On the inside?

——Oh my god, he’s eating. He’s actually enjoying it. He likes it. He’s not just pretending to be polite, I can tell—his eyes did that little sparkle thing again. That’s a thing, right? He sparkles. Jesus, focus. Don’t stare. Stop smiling like an idiot, you’re gonna scare him. Be normal. Be so painfully normal——

Sieun picks up another piece of the pancake and Suho nearly forgets to breathe.

He hides the ridiculous grin threatening to break out by sipping his water again, but it doesn’t help. He’s already gone. Every tiny sign of Sieun’s approval, every soft blink, every moment his brows twitch in mild delight, every rare hum of contentment, is like a personal victory. A private treasure.

And worse, Sieun doesn’t even know what he’s doing. Doesn’t know that every time he nods slightly after a bite, Suho’s heart does a full somersault. Doesn’t know that his simple presence, seated across the table, eating food Suho carefully picked out, is making Suho feel like he just won some kind of invisible lottery.

Suho keeps trying to look away, to stay cool, to not memorize the exact way Sieun tilts his head when tasting broth or the way he wipes the corner of his mouth with his sleeve instead of the napkin like an overworked intern who’s forgotten he’s somewhere expensive. But it’s impossible.

And every time Suho’s knee shifts a little too close under the table, every time his arm stretches a bit to reach something and brushes the tablecloth on Sieun’s side, he has to physically coach himself out of spiraling.

——Don’t touch him. Don’t lean in. Don’t scare him off. You finally got him here. You’re feeding him. This is real. He’s really here. Oh my god, he’s really——

He nearly misses a step in conversation when Sieun makes an offhand comment about how this might actually be the best meal he’s had all year.

Suho blinks. Then smiles again. “Yeah?” he says, trying not to sound like he’s lighting up from the inside.

Sieun nods, still chewing.

Suho looks down at his plate and pokes at his rice to keep his hands busy. Play it cool, he tells himself again. Just act normal. You’re just two coworkers out to dinner. You didn’t almost have a heart attack when he smiled earlier. You are the picture of calm and charm and this is fine. It’s fine.

He dares to glance back up.

Sieun is licking a bit of broth from the edge of his chopsticks, totally unbothered, and Suho has to immediately look back down again before he short-circuits on the spot.

He takes a deep breath. Smiles to himself.

He’s never been less fine in his life.

The plates are cleared one by one, leaving behind only the soft glow of the candle between them and the comfortable warmth of a meal well shared. Suho leans back slightly in his seat, watching as Sieun wipes his mouth with the last of his napkin, then sets his chopsticks down with quiet finality.

Suho’s smile is effortless as he pulls out his wallet. “Don’t even think about it,” he says when Sieun opens his mouth, probably to protest. “It’s my treat. Birthday rule.”

Before Sieun can argue, the bill is paid with a smooth flick of Suho’s card, the receipt tucked away before it even hits the table. Sieun watches the whole exchange silently, the corners of his mouth twitching, not quite a frown, but not far off either. When Suho turns back around and flashes him a casual grin, he looks like he’s just won something.

As they step out into the soft hum of the city night, the air carries a quiet chill, and Suho pockets his hands, glancing sideways. “How are you getting home?”

Sieun blinks, distracted for a beat by the brightness of the streetlamps overhead. “Ah… the bus.”

Suho’s brow furrows. “You sure? I can get you a cab.”

Sieun shakes his head, stuffing his hands in his coat. “It’s far. I don’t want to—”

“I don’t mind.”

Sieun lifts his chin a little, stubborn. “It’s okay.”

For a moment, Suho looks like he might push back. But then he exhales through his nose and lets it go. “Alright. Fine. You win this round.”

He pulls out his phone, thumbing through an app to call a taxi for himself. It doesn’t take long before a sleek black car rolls up to the curb, headlights glowing soft in the dark. The driver gets out and opens the back door, and Suho gestures him to wait with a nod before turning back to Sieun.

“Thanks for coming out with me,” Suho says, quiet now, almost sincere enough to make Sieun’s throat go tight.

Sieun nods, awkward with his hands still in his pockets. “Thank you. For dinner.”

Then Suho steps a little closer.

Too close.

Sieun freezes like a deer caught under a streetlight, unsure what to do with his limbs or his lungs or the sudden heat rising in his chest. His heart stutters.

Suho leans in slowly, not touching, but close enough that Sieun instinctively closes his eyes like bracing for impact.

And then, softly, warmly, Suho’s breath ghosts against his ear.

“Happy birthday.”

The words are low, like a secret. Not teasing. Just sincere. The warmth of it curls beneath Sieun’s skin like it belongs there.

He flushes instantly, cheeks going pink to his ears. He gives a small, tight nod, still not trusting his voice.

Suho pulls back with a grin he tries to hide but fails. “Get home safe, Sieun.”

Sieun mumbles something like “see you tomorrow” and quickly turns, his legs moving faster than his brain can manage. He makes it all of five steps before his foot catches the edge of a loose tile on the sidewalk, sending him stumbling forward with a little half-yelp.

He catches himself, but just barely, and doesn’t look back.

Behind him, Suho bursts into warm, helpless laughter, the kind that bubbles up and makes people passing by glance over with soft smiles. He shakes his head fondly and climbs into the taxi, waving once through the window as the car pulls away.

Sieun, mortified and pink-faced, adjusts his suit and ducks his head as he walks toward the bus stop, the warmth of Suho’s words still tingling in his ear.
————————————————————————
The next morning, the office building looms ahead like a judgmental monolith, its glass windows catching the early light in a way that feels far too aggressive for 8:43 a.m.

Yeon Sieun bolts across the pavement, his satchel flapping against his side and his coat barely clinging to one shoulder. His hair is slightly disheveled, one stubborn strand curling at his temple like it’s mocking him, and his tie is crooked, more of a loose suggestion than an actual knot. His breath puffs out in frustrated bursts as he dashes through the rotating doors and straight into the marble-floored lobby. He skids slightly on polished tile, mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like “never again”, and makes a beeline for the elevators.

He jabs the call button too many times, like urgency will magically change the elevator’s speed. It doesn’t. The digital numbers tick slowly downward, and Sieun exhales sharply, adjusting the strap of his bag and trying to tame his hair with a rough swipe of his hand.

He hadn’t meant to oversleep. He never oversleeps. He’s the kind of person who sets two alarms, twenty minutes apart, and wakes up before either of them. But last night, after the dinner, after the whisper, after the accidental intimacy of hearing Suho’s unfiltered thoughts again, he’d laid in bed for hours. Staring at the ceiling. Heart racing. Thoughts spiraling.

He barely got three hours of sleep. His brain is still a scrambled mess, full of noise and static, and he’s not even sure how he managed to button his shirt this morning. His whole body feels off-kilter, like it’s been rotated five degrees to the left.

Ding.

The elevator doors slide open, and just as he moves to step in, a familiar figure appears from the hallway on the right.

Ahn Suho.

Impossibly composed. Clean-cut in a pale gray suit, coat draped over one arm, hair sleek and precise like he just walked out of a morning commercial. He looks like everything Sieun is not: awake, polished, functional.

Their eyes meet for a brief second, and Suho’s mouth twitches at the corners, amused. He lifts a brow. “Rough morning?”

Sieun freezes for half a second too long, then stiffly nods like a malfunctioning robot. “I overslept,” he says, voice clipped.

Suho steps into the elevator with him, his gaze lingering just a second longer than necessary. “That’s rare for you.”

Sieun doesn’t respond. His entire brain has short-circuited again. Don’t touch me, he thinks desperately, pressing himself as flat as possible against the far wall. Please don’t stand too close, I can’t handle another mind broadcast before caffeine—

Suho simply presses the button for their floor and leans casually against the railing, casting a side-glance Sieun’s way.

“You looked nice yesterday,” he says suddenly.

Sieun’s neck stiffens. He stares straight ahead, refusing to react.

“I mean,” Suho continues, “I didn’t get to say it then. But I thought it.”

Sieun closes his eyes for one, long second, like he’s buffering.

The elevator begins its slow ascent, quiet but heavy. And beside him, Suho hums lightly, like the start of another thought is building behind that pleasant exterior.

Sieun tries to disappear into the wall.

It’s not even 9 a.m. and he already wants to call in sick.

The elevator hums softly as it ascends, the sleek, mirrored walls reflecting the quiet tension that simmers between them. Sieun is still facing forward, rigid and expressionless, like if he stands perfectly still, maybe Suho won’t notice the absolute chaos going on inside his head. He can feel the residual heat of Suho’s presence next to him, annoyingly close, but not quite close enough to justify moving away without looking suspicious. The air feels too still. Too aware.

Suho, meanwhile, is doing an abysmal job of hiding the faint curve tugging at the edge of his mouth. He glances at Sieun out of the corner of his eye, the way one might observe a very entertaining cat pretending it wasn’t just startled by its own shadow.

“You know,” he says, tone deceptively casual, “your tie is completely crooked.”

Sieun stiffens, his eyes darting to the mirrored wall in front of them. Sure enough, the tie sits at a slanted angle, one end slightly longer than the other, the knot loose and off-center. He opens his mouth to fix it, but before he can lift a hand, Suho is already moving.

“Here—hold still.”

Sieun jolts, eyes going wide as Suho steps directly into his space, reaching up without hesitation. One hand gently tugs the end of the tie while the other adjusts the knot with smooth, practiced fingers, like he’s done it a thousand times. His touch is light but confident, his face a little too close, and Sieun’s brain instantly begins to malfunction.

And then… it happens again.

The moment Suho’s fingers brush the edge of his collar, the thoughts spill in.

——His bedhead is so cute. God, I wish I could see what he looks like when he just wakes up more often. He’s always so stiff at work, but like this—this is way too endearing. Focus. Fix the tie. Don’t stare at his lips. Don’t make it weird——

Sieun frowns instinctively and lifts a hand to flatten his hair, trying not to blush. He doesn’t need to hear this. Not now. Not after last night. Not in an elevator where there’s nowhere to run. He can’t even bring himself to meet Suho’s eyes, especially not when Suho’s fingers are now brushing down the front of his blazer, smoothing the fabric like it’s normal to just fix someone’s entire outfit before breakfast.

“There.” Suho leans back, looking satisfied. “Now you look like a functioning adult.”

Sieun says nothing. His arms hang awkwardly at his sides, his face a perfect mix of expressionless and mortified. His tie is straighter. His blazer does look neater. But it doesn’t change the fact that Suho’s thoughts are echoing in his skull and he’s dangerously close to short-circuiting all over again.

And then—ding. The elevator doors slide open.

Suho flashes him a charming, lopsided smile and gestures toward the hallway. “After you.”

Sieun walks out in a daze, his tie perfectly aligned, his dignity in shambles, and the lingering thought still ringing in his ears like a curse.

Sieun trudges through the office like a ghost of himself, the polished floors far too bright under the overhead lights, the low hum of morning productivity already buzzing at full volume. People are at their desks, chatting over coffee, typing briskly, functioning, while Sieun feels like he’s held together with paper clips and willpower. His freshly adjusted tie feels like a noose, and his shoulder is still tingling from where Suho brushed against him in the elevator.

He makes it to his desk, drops into his chair with a graceless slump, and exhales like he’s just run a marathon. His monitor glows back at him, cruelly awake and full of emails he doesn’t have the energy to open. He rubs his face with both hands and briefly considers climbing under the desk and refusing to emerge until the weekend.

Just as his muscles begin to relax, a loud “Boo!” erupts right behind him.

Sieun jumps—violently—his whole body lurching forward as his mouse clatters off the desk and onto the floor. He turns around with wide, betrayed eyes only to find Baku standing there, grinning like a troublemaker who’s just set off a firecracker in a library.

“Morning, sunshine,” Baku says, absolutely delighted with himself. “Man, I’ll never get tired of how easy you are to scare.”

Sieun glares, breathing hard. “One day I’m going to have a heart attack and it’ll be your fault.”

“Worth it,” Baku replies, still grinning. He plops down into the chair beside Sieun’s desk and props his chin on his hand. “Anyway, I come bearing actual news. The boss wants to see you.”

Sieun stills. A fresh wave of dread washes over him.

“Mr. Na?” he asks, like there’s a chance Baku means someone else. A part of him hopes Baku’s playing a prank again.

“Yep. The Baekjin himself. Asked for you specifically.” Baku raises his brows. “You in trouble?”

Sieun doesn’t respond right away. Mr. Na Baekjin, head of strategic development, wasn’t scary in the traditional sense. He wasn’t loud. He wasn’t cruel. But there was something about him, calm, sharp-eyed, clinical, that made people sit up straighter when he walked into a room. He didn’t smile often. When he did, it usually meant something had gone exactly to plan, or someone was about to be eviscerated with politeness.

Sieun sighs softly, adjusting his cuffs. “No idea,” he mutters. Then, like a switch flipping, his entire posture shifts. His back straightens, his shoulders square, and his expression smooths out into unreadable professionalism. Calm. Quiet. Collected.

Baku whistles low under his breath. “Damn. There he is. Work mode Sieun.”

Sieun grabs a notepad and rises to his feet with quiet purpose. “If I’m not back in ten minutes,” he says flatly, “delete my browser history.”

Baku salutes. “Godspeed.”

Sieun walks off, his footsteps steady, his face a careful blank. But deep down, a nervous flutter curls in his stomach like static electricity.

Mr. Na never called people in for small talk.

The hallway leading to Mr. Na Baekjin’s office is unnervingly quiet, like sound has been sucked out by the weight of his presence alone. Every footstep Sieun takes feels louder than it should be against the carpeted floor, and by the time he reaches the tall glass-paneled door, he’s practically rehearsing how not to sound like he’s internally unraveling. The plaque beside the frame reads Director of Strategic Development in elegant black letters, and beneath that, in smaller text, Na Baekjin. Simple. Clean. Sharp. Just like the man himself.

Sieun hesitates for half a second longer than necessary. He smooths a hand down his already pressed shirt, checks the angle of his tie—still straight, thanks to Suho—and raises his knuckles to knock.

He taps once. Twice. Light, professional.

“Come in,” comes the reply, calm and clipped, but not unkind.

Sieun opens the door slowly and steps inside.

The office is vast but minimalist, a wall of glass flooding the space with natural light. Sleek, black shelving lines one side, filled with neatly arranged binders and reference books. The furniture is all sharp lines and muted tones, cool grays and polished silver. A small, untouched coffee cup sits on the corner of the desk, steam long gone. And there, standing by the window with one hand in his pocket, is Na Baekjin.

He’s tall, statuesque in posture even while relaxed, with pale skin that reflects the soft morning light and gives him a porcelain-like stillness. His neatly styled black hair is combed back with not a strand out of place, and his charcoal-black eyes are half-lidded as he looks out over the cityscape below. He’s missing the blazer part of his suit, just the button-down and vest now, sleeves rolled with a precise care, as if even in relaxing he’s meticulously composed. He doesn’t turn immediately. For a moment, Sieun wonders if he’s forgotten he called him in.

Then, Baekjin speaks without looking back. “You’re late.”

Sieun freezes. It wasn’t accusatory, just a simple statement of fact, delivered with the kind of neutral observation that somehow manages to unsettle more than shouting ever could.

“I apologize,” Sieun says evenly, stepping further in and closing the door behind him. “It won’t happen again.”

At that, Baekjin finally turns. His gaze lands on Sieun with clinical precision, quiet, unreadable, dissecting without hostility. Just interest, maybe. Or scrutiny. It’s always hard to tell. His eyes are impossibly steady, like he’s already several moves ahead in a chess game Sieun didn’t realize had started.

His tone remains cool. “Sit.”

Sieun obeys, folding into the chair across from the desk with practiced composure, resting the notepad in his lap even though Baekjin hasn’t told him what this meeting is about.

There’s a moment of silence, thick, contemplative, as Baekjin walks slowly back toward his desk, setting down something Sieun hadn’t noticed in his hand: a file, thin but neatly organized. He doesn’t sit right away. Instead, he stands behind his chair, resting a hand on its back, his gaze now fixed entirely on Sieun.

“I’ve been reviewing your department’s quarterly analysis,” he says finally, tone smooth and measured, like a scalpel. “Your projections were accurate. Down to the decimal.”

Sieun blinks. “Thank you, sir.”

“Not praise,” Baekjin replies flatly. “Just observation.”

Of course it is. Baekjin isn’t known for compliments. If anything, that statement might’ve been the equivalent of thunderous applause.

Still, Sieun says nothing, just waits, calm on the outside, even though there’s still a low buzz of unease under his skin. It’s always like this around Mr. Na. Like standing in a room where the air is colder by two degrees and you have to constantly check your posture. But Sieun also knows that Baekjin respects precision, efficiency, silence that means something.

And that, maybe, is why he was called here at all.

Baekjin sits slowly, folding into his chair with the same composed, deliberate movements he brings to everything. The soft creak of leather and the faint click of his pen on the desk are the only sounds in the room for a beat. Then, with no shift in tone, no preamble, Baekjin says, “I’ve noticed you’ve been staying late. Frequently.”

Sieun stiffens slightly, fingers twitching in his lap. Of course Baekjin noticed. Nothing escapes him. Still, something about the directness of the statement, the way Baekjin says it like an equation he's double-checking, makes Sieun feel exposed in a way he didn’t expect. He nods carefully, posture straightening. “Yes, sir. I’ve been catching up on long-term projects. It’s not that I’m slow, it’s just—”

“You don’t need to explain,” Baekjin cuts in, raising a hand gently. Not dismissively. Just factually, the way one might interrupt a spreadsheet that’s about to calculate something unnecessary. “Your pace has never been in question.”

Sieun’s mouth closes mid-thought, surprised.

Baekjin reaches into a drawer and pulls out a slim folder, pristine, sealed with a clip. He places it neatly on the desk, then slides it across to Sieun with two fingers. “You’ll be compensated for the overtime. The hours have been approved and recorded.”

Sieun reaches for the folder, his hand brushing it with quiet hesitation. The paper is cool to the touch. Neat lettering spells his name across the top. And it’s just as his fingers close around the edge of the file that it happens, again.

——He even came in on his birthday. Does he think I didn’t notice?——

The thought is sharp, crisp, but laced with something Sieun isn’t used to detecting from Baekjin: concern. Not pity. Not softness. But a low, careful hum of unease, almost like an equation that refuses to balance. ——He looks even more tired than usual. That’s not sustainable.——

Sieun’s eyes jerk up instinctively, startled. Baekjin is already watching him, unreadable. Perfectly still. Not an inch of warmth on his face, no visible trace of the thoughts Sieun just heard. His charcoal eyes are steady, focused, the kind of gaze that feels like it’s measuring not just your response but the five responses you might have after that.

Sieun’s brows crease just faintly, confused. There’s no hint of softness in Baekjin’s posture, no flicker of familiarity. And yet, that thought. That quiet note of worry. It lingers in Sieun’s mind like an echo in a marble room.

He grips the folder a little tighter.

“I—thank you,” he says carefully, unsure what else to say, how to react to this strange overlap of cold professionalism and muted concern.

Baekjin simply nods once, as if dismissing the moment already. “Keep track of your hours properly. It’s inefficient to burn yourself out, even if your output remains consistent.”

Sieun gives a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head, as if trying to clear the lingering static of Baekjin’s thoughts from his mind. It’s disorienting—being on the receiving end of concern that isn’t visible. Like hearing warmth through a locked door. He clutches the folder against his chest, unsure what to do with the heaviness sitting behind his ribs.

Baekjin, still composed behind his desk, glances briefly to the side where a neatly packed takeout box sits, untouched. The seal isn’t broken. The scent of it is faint, warm, like something expensive from the building’s top-floor café. “Take that with you,” he says, tone brisk but not sharp. “I’m not hungry. It’ll go to waste.”

Sieun blinks. His eyes flick to the box, then back to Baekjin. “Ah—yes, of course. Thank you.” He bows slightly, a little stiff in his movements, but respectful, cautious. He picks it up with both hands, as though afraid to spill anything—like the gesture might have weight beyond what’s inside the box.

He’s halfway to the door when Baekjin adds, evenly, “Also. When it’s just us, you don’t need to call me ‘Mr. Na.’”

Sieun stops, glancing over his shoulder.

Baekjin doesn’t look up from the document he’s already turned to. His pen hovers briefly above the paper, like he’s only half-focused on it. “Just Baekjin is fine.”

Sieun hesitates, unsure if that’s an order or a suggestion. Probably both. “...Alright. If that’s what you prefer. Baekjin.”

The name sounds strange on his tongue, too casual, too intimate for the cold man behind the desk. But Baekjin doesn’t react. He only gives the smallest nod, backlit by morning light, already absorbed in numbers and margins.

“You’re dismissed.”

Sieun bows again, slower this time, before quietly turning to go. The door clicks softly behind him as he leaves.

Baekjin doesn’t look up.

But his eyes don’t move from the same line on the page for a full thirty seconds after Sieun’s silhouette disappears through the glass.

Chapter Text

Sieun moves through the office like a shadow slipping across glass, quiet, fluid, never drawing more attention than necessary. His steps are careful but unhurried, his expression unreadable. In one hand, he balances the neatly packed takeout and the folder Baekjin gave him, his grip steady, his posture straight despite the swirl of exhaustion still coiled in his shoulders.

When he reaches his desk, he sets both items down with practiced gentleness. No sound, no fuss. Just the soft thud of a file against laminate and the subtle click of a plastic lid. He sinks into his chair with the same grace, adjusting his seat a fraction, straightening his keyboard. Back to default settings. Back to the familiar rhythm of order and structure.

His hands move to the keys instinctively.

Sieun has always been calm, too calm, some might say. He doesn’t chatter in the break room. He doesn’t fidget with pens or complain about office snacks. People assume he’s aloof, maybe even cold. But really, he just operates differently. Logically. Quietly. He doesn’t see the point in unnecessary noise. If he can do his job well and keep to himself, that’s all that matters.

Especially now.

Especially when the world has decided to turn people’s minds into open windows and handed him the keys.

As long as he doesn’t touch anyone, doesn’t brush against their sleeve, doesn’t jostle them in the elevator, doesn’t accept a pat on the shoulder or lean too close, it stays quiet. Bearable. Manageable. That’s all it is now… a matter of distance. A clean, controlled variable.

Simple enough.

He’s always been alone, anyway. Solitude isn’t new. If anything, he’s good at it.

So he breathes in, slow and deep, and lets himself disappear into work. Into the comfort of spreadsheets and numbers and emails that don’t have voices behind them. It’s easy to drown in tasks, easier than sorting through the strange flickers of affection from Suho, or the quiet concern of Baekjin, or the lingering, low static of human thought just waiting to be triggered by something as small as skin.

If he just keeps his head down, stays focused, keeps his distance, then maybe, just maybe, the world will stay quiet a little longer.

Sieun eventually glances down at the takeout box, its corners still warm from being tucked in his hand. The scent is subtle, sweet, not the savory lunch he expected. He unlatches the lid with careful fingers, and inside sits a single, elegant pastry. Delicate layers of golden dough, a light dusting of powdered sugar, and what looks like a soft swirl of cream tucked into the center like it’s hiding something. It’s the kind of dessert that looks too expensive to be casual and too pretty to eat quickly.

He hesitates for a moment, then reaches for it. His fingers brush the edge of the flaky crust, and he breaks off a small piece, bringing it to his mouth.

The taste is ridiculous. Buttery, soft, slightly citrusy. Rich without being overwhelming. He blinks once, surprised, then takes another bite, this time slower, savoring it.

He hadn’t eaten breakfast. Not a bite. Overslept, scrambled through his morning, hair still slightly mussed and tie barely acceptable. He didn’t have time to grab his usual kimbap or even a sip of vending machine coffee. But now, now there’s this. A quiet, thoughtful something handed to him without fuss, like a bookmark slipped into a book someone knew he’d been meaning to read.

Sieun keeps eating with uncharacteristic calm, letting each bite melt on his tongue as his fingers resume typing. He’s back in work mode, screen bright, posture precise, but this time, with a quiet satisfaction grounding him. His mind, for once, isn’t racing.

Across the aisle, Baku watches with thinly veiled curiosity, eyebrows raised like a cartoon character. He leans forward just enough to see over the low cubicle wall, eyeing the pastry like it holds state secrets.

But Sieun doesn’t look over.

He doesn’t answer Baku’s silent questions.

He just keeps typing and quietly chewing, like nothing at all is unusual.

The second the office clock strikes 2pm, Baku launches out of his chair like a spring-loaded missile. His chair rolls backward, nearly toppling over, but he doesn’t notice, or care. He’s already stalking across the cubicle divide like a predator with one target: the ever-stoic Yeon Sieun.

“Lunchtime!” he announces with a grin, arms wide like he's declaring a national holiday. He zeroes in behind Sieun, hand raised dramatically.

But just as his palm swings down to clap Sieun on the shoulder—whoosh—Sieun leans subtly to the left without even glancing up from his monitor.

Baku’s hand hits empty air.

He blinks. “Huh?”

Undeterred, Baku tries again, coming at a different angle. But Sieun shifts again, barely a twitch of his upper body, just enough to avoid contact. His eyes don’t leave the screen. His fingers keep typing.

Baku frowns, then starts grinning. “Ohhh, is this a game now? We playing tag or something?” He reaches again, more dramatic this time.

Sieun shifts forward, still not looking at him. “Don’t touch me.”

Baku gasps like Sieun just told him to eat an expired protein bar. “Excuse me? What happened to office bonding?”

Sieun finally glances sideways, unimpressed. “It’s not bonding if I have to file a complaint afterward.”

“Wow.” Baku clutches his heart. “Ice cold. I’m touched.” He pauses. “Well, trying to be.”

Then, with a burst of energy, he lunges forward and ruffles Sieun’s hair, fingers dragging through the messy strands like a gleeful older sibling. “Come onnnn, what’s with you lately?”

Sieun flinches like he’s been zapped, glaring as he twists away. “Baku, I swear—”

But Baku just laughs, full-bellied and unbothered, and ruffles even harder. “So what… what’re you gonna do? All you do is get all stiff and murdery. It’s kind of adorable.”

And there it is… the thoughts.

Sieun doesn’t mean to hear them, but Baku’s hand is still in his hair and suddenly Baku’s internal voice is blaring like a megaphone:

——Man, his face is all scrunched. Looks like a wet cat. Hah—he probably is just grumpy because of Mr. Na. This is the most expression he’s had all week. Kinda proud of myself.——

Sieun glares so hard he could probably burn a hole in the carpet. “I said don’t touch me.”

“Aw, you’ll miss it when it’s gone,” Baku says with mock sorrow, finally backing off with both hands raised in surrender. “Seriously though, let’s go eat. I see you didn’t bring any food so cafeteria it is. I’ll even let you sit three seats away in peace if you’re good.”

Sieun exhales slowly through his nose like he’s practicing breathing exercises to avoid homicide.

Still, he stands up and follows Baku a moment later.

At a distance.

As they step into the hallway, the remnants of their banter still hanging in the air, Baku lets out a soft chuckle, brushing imaginary dust off his hands like his work here is done. But after a beat, he glances sideways at Sieun, his grin gentler this time.

“Hey,” he says, voice more casual than usual but not unserious, “I won’t touch you again like that if it really makes you that uncomfortable.”

Sieun pauses mid-step. His shoulders, always held a little too stiff, sag just slightly. Like a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding finally slipped out.

“It’s… complicated,” he says, not looking at Baku. “But don’t worry about it.”

Baku, being Baku, just grins, no questions, no pressure. “Roger that,” he says with a big thumbs-up. “Operation: Hands-Off Sieun officially initiated. You won’t even know I have arms.”

Sieun gives him a look that almost, almost resembles a smile. Or soon to be indigestion. It’s hard to tell with him.

They arrive at the cafeteria on the second floor, loud, chaotic, filled with office workers swarming the food counters like a herd of stressed-out penguins in blazers. Trays clatter, chairs scrape, and the smell of fried everything lingers in the air like an overconfident perfume.

Sieun takes one look at the crowd and immediately backpedals, his expression curling into a tight frown like the noise physically offended him.

“Too many people,” he mutters, scanning the space like a SWAT team planning an extraction. Then, quietly, he turns to Baku. “Can you get food for me?”

Baku gasps. “You’re trusting me with your lunch? Your sacred, structured, nutrient-balanced midday fuel?!”

Sieun deadpans, “Don’t ruin it.”

Baku claps a hand to his chest. “You wound me.”

Without waiting for more commentary, Sieun turns on his heel and scans the cafeteria for refuge. Eventually, he spots it… a sad, lonely little table in the far corner, sandwiched between a potted plant and the water cooler like it’s being punished. Perfect.

He slides into the seat, posture straight, arms crossed lightly, pretending the constant hum of background noise isn’t irritating every nerve in his body. People don’t notice him. He’s good at being background.

Across the room, Baku is already piling a tray with what he clearly believes are Sieun’s “favorites,” which probably means at least one item will be suspiciously breaded and questionably spicy.

Sieun sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose, and waits.

At least it’s quiet in this corner. Well… until Baku returns.

A shadow spills across the table.

Sieun, assuming it’s Baku returning with a tray full of nutritional betrayal, barely looks up, until he catches a whiff of something expensive and cologne-y and not fried chicken.

He glances up.

Suho is standing there.

Looking down at him.

Smiling that casually devastating, ever-charming smile like this is totally normal and not the equivalent of a K-drama lead showing up uninvited during the most unglamorous moment of someone’s life.

Sieun’s brain short-circuits instantly.

“Hey,” Suho says, voice warm and dangerously soft. “Why aren’t you eating?”

Sieun stares at him.

Just… stares.

Mouth parted slightly. Eyes a bit too wide. The kind of expression you’d expect from someone who just accidentally liked an old pic of their crush while stalking their social media.

Suho’s smile falters a little, not quite dimming but shifting into something sheepish. He rubs the back of his neck. “Did I… interrupt your moment with the water cooler or…?”

Before Sieun can reboot his thoughts into anything resembling language, Baku explodes into the scene like someone tossed a Labrador in human form directly at the table. He practically slams the tray down in front of Sieun, nearly knocking over his water in the process.

“Voila! One Sieun Special, minus the actual order because I ignored your preferences,” Baku declares proudly. He finally notices the extra body and blinks. “Oh! The ace of the department himself,” he grins, turning to Suho with the full confidence of someone who didn’t just drop a meat bun into Sieun’s rice. “Gonna eat with us?”

Sieun opens his mouth again, this time to say no, absolutely not, please leave, but…

“Sure,” Suho says, already pulling out the chair across from them.

Sieun internally screams.

“Oh,” Baku says, surprised. “Nice. I was joking but cool.”

Suho smiles, perfectly at ease. “I like the vibe here. Quiet. Away from the crowd.”

Sieun, meanwhile, is trying to remember how his limbs work. His ears feel hot. His rice is definitely cold now. His soul might be leaving his body.

Baku casually starts unwrapping his chopsticks. “This is great. It's like a surprise team lunch. Bonding. All that corporate-friendly stuff.”

Sieun silently wonders if “accidentally dying of embarrassment” counts as a workplace injury.

Suho picks up a pair of chopsticks, smiles over the table, and adds cheerfully, “Thanks for letting me join. I’ve actually been wanting to eat with you for a while.”

Sieun immediately drops his chopsticks into his rice.

Baku snorts into his drink. “Oh yeah. This is my new favorite table.”

The table settles into a surprisingly peaceful lull. Three sets of chopsticks clink quietly against bowls. The background buzz of the cafeteria drones on, punctuated by the occasional chair scrape or someone’s awkward slurp from across the room.

Sieun focuses hard on his food, eyes locked on his rice bowl like it personally wronged him. If he doesn’t make eye contact, maybe he won’t short-circuit. Again.

Baku hums cheerfully between bites, clearly the only one immune to the silent tension thickening like gravy between Sieun and Suho. Suho, for his part, is eating calmly, at least on the surface. Every so often, he glances up from his tray just long enough to make Sieun twitch like he’s being monitored by the CIA.

Then, just as Sieun dares to believe he might escape this lunch with his dignity intact, Suho casually speaks.

“Did you get home safe last night?” Suho asks, casual, but his tone is softer than the question deserves.

Sieun freezes mid-chew. A grain of rice lodges awkwardly in the wrong pipe. He coughs once. Then again. His face goes red.

Baku reacts instantly, reaching over to hand him his drink and patting him on the back like he’s trying to reset a vending machine. “Whoa, breathe, buddy! This is a cafeteria, not a battlefield!”

Suho’s expression tightens.

His eyes flick to Baku’s hand on Sieun’s back, then to Sieun’s very much not breathing face. His gaze narrows… not hostile, but unmistakably sharp. “You alright?”

Sieun manages a weak nod, gulping down the drink and trying to melt into the chair. His throat burns. His soul, meanwhile, is trying to ghost itself out of his body.

Baku snorts, completely oblivious. “Wait, wait. You two were together last night?” He raises both brows, utterly delighted. “That why you looked like you hadn’t slept this morning?”

Sieun practically chokes on air this time. “W-We weren’t—! I mean—He just—” His hands flap for a second before he grabs his chopsticks like it’ll anchor him to the earth. “He bought me dinner. For my birthday. He was just being polite.”

He says it all in one breath, like tearing off a bandage and hoping nobody noticed the wound underneath.

But Suho just smiles, not his usual office smile, but a quieter, more knowing curve of his mouth. He doesn’t even hesitate.

“I wanted to treat him,” he says, calm and matter-of-fact, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “It wasn’t about being polite.”

Baku blinks. “Huh.”

There’s a short silence.

Then he turns back to his food and says brightly, “Anyway, I had instant noodles last night and accidentally spilled broth in my bed, so I hope you both had a better time than that.”

Sieun, face red, ears red, existence red, stares into his rice and contemplates the possibility of climbing inside the bowl and never coming out.

Sieun reaches for his drink without looking. His fingers graze the side of the cup, but it’s just slightly off-center, not where he left it.

At the same moment, Suho reaches out too, sliding the cup toward him with a quiet murmur. “Here.”

Their fingers brush.

It’s barely a touch. A blink-and-miss-it contact across plastic and condensation.

But it’s enough.

Sieun stiffens. His brain goes quiet, then roars. Like someone opened a window during a storm.

——He’s cute when he’s flustered. I should back off. He looks overwhelmed. But… I don’t want to. I just want to sit here a little longer. I’m sure he doesn’t mind——

The words hit like a punch wrapped in silk. Not loud. Not invasive. Just real. Raw.

Sieun jerks his hand back like he touched something burning. The cup wobbles but stays upright. Baku doesn’t notice, too busy chewing through a skewer with the kind of focus normally reserved for military operations.

Suho’s expression shifts. Not surprised. Not apologetic either. Just quiet. Like he knows something just happened but isn’t going to ask. Yet.

Sieun forces himself to breathe. He stares at the rice in front of him like it’s a lifeline, grip tight on his chopsticks. His heart feels loud. His face feels hot.

“Everything okay?” Suho’s voice is soft. Too soft.

Sieun nods. Too fast.

Baku finally looks up, still chewing. “You look like you saw a ghost,” he says, pointing a half-eaten stick of fish cake in Sieun’s direction.

Sieun clears his throat. “Just… spicy,” he says, barely convincing even himself.

Baku snorts. “You haven’t even touched the spicy stuff yet.”

Sieun grabs a piece of kimchi like it’s a prop in a play and shoves it into his mouth.

Suho doesn’t press. He picks up his own chopsticks and resumes eating, calm and measured. But he watches Sieun out of the corner of his eye.

Only once. Only for a moment.

Sieun doesn’t look up. He’s too busy pretending his mouth is on fire and not his entire nervous system.
————————————————————————
The office hums with the low murmur of tired footsteps, the rustle of jackets being shrugged on, and the soft ping of elevator doors opening in the distance. It’s the end of the workday, but the desk lights in Sieun’s corner are still on, flickering against the dimming skyline outside like a stubborn candle.

Sieun is halfway through organizing a report when Baku leans dramatically over the partition, his expression desperate, like a man clinging to the edge of a cliff. “Sieun… buddy… angel of mercy…”

Sieun doesn’t even look up. “No.”

“You don’t even know what I was gonna ask yet!”

“You’re going drinking,” Sieun mutters, checking the clock on his monitor. “And you want me to cover your part of the project.”

Baku gasps. “Are you… are you psychic now?!”

Sieun sighs, finally meeting his eyes with a flat, unimpressed stare. “You announced your plans loud enough for the vending machine to hear it.”

Baku gives a sheepish grin, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay, fair. But listen, I really can’t skip. I already promised the guys I’d go, and if I bail now, they’re gonna call me a flaky tofu again and never let me forget it.”

Sieun raises an eyebrow. “Sounds traumatic.”

“It is!” Baku clasps his hands together in front of him, bowing his head. “Please, please, I swear I’ll pay you back. Dinner, coffee, anything. It won’t be a regular thing, I just owe them from last week and I—”

Sieun cuts him off with a soft sigh, glancing at the clock again. His night is as empty as his fridge. He has nothing better to do. “Fine.”

“Legend!” Baku crows, already half turned toward the exit. “I owe you my life! My liver owes you its future! I’ll bring you something tomorrow! You’re the best, seriously.”

Sieun waves him off with a lazy flick of his pen. “Go before I change my mind.”

Baku bows deeply at the waist like a merchant thanking a benevolent king and bolts out of the office with his coat flying behind him, yelling something about “don’t wait up!”

The door shuts with a soft thud behind him, and Sieun lets out a long breath, glancing at the stacked files Baku left behind.

He pulls one closer, cracks his knuckles, and gets to work.

Just another quiet night.

The office gradually empties around him, one soft goodbye at a time. Chairs scrape back, the rustling of coats and shuffle of bags fill the space where earlier there’d been the quiet tap of productivity. Sieun barely notices. The glow of his monitor is the only thing that matters, the only light still on in their little section of the office as the screens around him dim one by one, blinking off like stars at sunrise.

Eventually, it’s quiet. Unnervingly so.

Sieun blinks at his screen, eyes gritty with exhaustion. His head is pounding dully from staring too long. He reaches up, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand, and leans back in his chair with a long, shallow sigh. His neck aches. His spine feels like it’s one wrong stretch away from turning to dust.

He tilts his head up toward the ceiling, trying to reset his posture, and flinches hard.

Suho is right there.

Hovering above him, bent forward, his tie dangling slightly and his smile warm like he’s been there for a while just watching.

Sieun jerks upright so fast he almost launches himself into the ceiling. “Wh—?!”

Suho laughs softly, stepping back just a bit, hands raised in mock surrender. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t,” Sieun lies immediately, face already heating as he straightens his posture and tries to pretend his soul didn’t just leave his body for a full two seconds.

Suho glances at the empty desks around them. “Still working? You’re the last one here.”

Sieun exhales through his nose, dragging his mouse across the screen. “Someone dumped extra work on me. I’m just finishing it up.”

Suho makes a thoughtful sound and leans down slightly, bracing one hand on the back of Sieun’s chair, the other against the desk as he peers at the monitor. His chest brushes against Sieun’s shoulder lightly, not firmly, but enough.

And that’s all it takes.

——He’s still working? I knew he was reliable but this is too much. His eyes look tired. He should’ve said no to that guy. I should’ve walked him home last night. He looks… small like this. Still cute though. He smells like soft laundry detergent. Stay cool, Suho. Don’t be weird. Just help him.——

Sieun freezes. Completely.

He stares straight ahead, terrified to move even an inch as Suho continues scanning the screen like nothing’s wrong. His heartbeat roars in his ears, and he doesn’t dare look up because if he does, if he meets Suho’s eyes, he might short circuit.

He can’t breathe. Suho’s thoughts are too loud. Too kind. Too close.

He’s not ready for any of it.

Not the compliments.

Not the worry.

And definitely not the part where Suho thinks he smells nice.

He stares at the spreadsheet like it’s the last barrier between him and emotional meltdown.

And Suho, oblivious to the chaos he’s causing, just hums softly and says, “Let me know if you need help finishing. I’m not in a rush.”

Sieun doesn’t trust himself to speak, so he just nods.

Stiffly. Like a broken bobblehead.

Suho quietly pulls over an empty chair and sits beside Sieun, sliding in close enough for their arms to nearly brush. He doesn’t say anything at first, just adjusts his sleeves, leans slightly toward the screen, and reads what’s on it with focused eyes. There’s a moment of stillness, like even Suho knows not to break the quiet rhythm Sieun’s built around himself. But then, gently:

“What if we realigned this portion?” Suho suggests, pointing at a data block on the spreadsheet. “Might streamline the process for the finance team.”

Sieun, without missing a beat, reaches for his mouse and scrolls to another tab. “That’d delay invoice confirmation by two days,” he says plainly, voice calm and low. “The finance team prefers this layout because it isolates client discrepancies in the weekly batch. Otherwise, they’d have to backtrack manually.”

Suho blinks, processing. “Ah. That makes sense. I didn’t think of that.”

Sieun nods once, still typing. “Most people don’t.”

There’s no arrogance in his tone, just fact. Measured. Unapologetically efficient.

Suho watches him work for a moment, intrigued. He’s quick, but never rushed. Everything Sieun does is deliberate, no wasted clicks, no frantic mouse movements, no hesitation when navigating between tabs. It’s not flashy. It’s not loud. But it’s solid, sharp, and impressive in the kind of way most people overlook.

Suho, the department’s golden boy, the “Ace,” as some call him, with all the praise and expectations that come with it, finds himself oddly humbled.

He’s good at what he does. But Sieun is really good. In a different way. Quieter. Unrecognized. But meticulous, competent, and endlessly composed.

And the more Suho sees, the more he wonders why no one’s ever really talked about it.

He leans back a bit in his chair, watching Sieun organize the last few entries. “You’re kind of a machine,” he murmurs, clearly impressed. “In a good way.”

Sieun doesn’t look over. He just murmurs, “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It was a compliment,” Suho says with a soft laugh. “No wonder the manager trusts you with the tough stuff.”

Sieun finally glances at him, brief but sharp. “That, or he knows I won’t say no.”

Suho tilts his head, lips quirking, and says nothing.

But silently, he notes again just how much of Sieun’s work seems to go unseen. And how much of it probably shouldn’t.

They finally finish up the last spreadsheet, the cursor blinking its final smug blink like it knows what kind of overtime trauma they’ve both endured. Sieun exhales as he closes the laptop, shoulders sagging slightly from hours of near-perfect posture. He stands and gives Suho a polite bow, stiff but sincere. “Thank you for your help.”

Suho stands as well, brushing imaginary dust off his slacks. “You don’t have to thank me. I’m just glad I could help.”

Sieun, still gathering his things, offers a faint smile, small, blink-and-you-miss-it, but real. “I finished a lot faster than I thought I would.”

He glances at the wall clock and pauses.

And then his eyes widen slightly. “...I missed the last bus.”

There’s a moment of silence. Suho tilts his head.

“Oh,” he says, way too casually. “Well… you can come over to my place.”

Sieun nearly drops his bag.

“I—no—I’m okay,” he replies quickly, holding both hands up like Suho just offered him a live grenade. “Really.”

Suho lifts a brow and smiles, too calm, too casual. “It’s late. And cold. And you live far, right? Just crash at mine.”

Sieun hesitates, lips parting like he’s about to find some excuse, any excuse, but Suho is already walking toward the door, throwing a casual “C’mon” over his shoulder like this is no big deal.

It is, in fact, a very big deal.

They step out into the crisp night air, the city hushed around them. Sieun rubs the back of his neck with a sigh, disheveled hair sticking up again as it always does when he’s stressed. “This is ridiculous,” he mutters to himself.

“You really don’t like fixing your hair, do you?” Suho laughs beside him, and without asking, reaches out to smooth the tufts of hair down again.

And that’s when it happens.

Sieun hears it.

——He’s coming to my apartment. He’s really coming. I bought the same shampoo he used hoping he’d come over. I wonder if he’ll sit on my couch or my bed? Maybe both. He’d look good in a hoodie. Oh my god, what if he borrows one? Would that be too much? Wait, I should light a candle. No. Too obvious. Play it cool, Suho. Just, maybe invite him to bake something next time. Wait, what if he says no?——

And then, images.

Flashes of Suho’s daydreams. Sieun curled up in an oversized hoodie. Eating toast on a couch. Laughing at some imaginary joke. Falling asleep on Suho’s shoulder.

Sieun physically recoils like he just got hit by a truck.

He stares at Suho like he’s seen the face of God… and it was way too enthusiastic about matching pajamas.

“...I—I—I’m walking,” he blurts, then takes a full five steps away from Suho like he’s just declared a legally binding restraining radius.

Suho blinks. “Wait what?”

“No offense,” Sieun says quickly, avoiding eye contact. “I just remembered that I… uh—I need air. Outside air. To think. And walk. Separately. From you.”

Suho stares, lips parting, confused and vaguely betrayed. “You’re literally the one who missed the bus.”

Sieun gives a jerky nod. “And I’m literally going to miss some more buses. By choice.”

Suho watches him awkwardly start walking toward absolutely nowhere.

And then he laughs. Loudly.

Sieun nearly trips over a curb.

“You’re seriously gonna walk all the way home?” Suho says, striding after him like a golden retriever that refuses to be ignored. “In the cold? With your tiny coat and sore-looking legs?”

Sieun doesn’t even turn around. “My legs are fine.”

“They look offended by the idea of walking more than five blocks.”

“I’ve walked farther.”

“You looked like you were limping earlier.”

“I wasn’t limping.”

“You definitely made a face.”

“I always make that face.”

“That face looked like suffering.”

Suho catches up and stands in front of him now, casually blocking his way like a very charming, well-dressed brick wall. “Look,” he says, smiling just enough to be dangerous. “Just come with me. Ten minutes. We can leave first thing in the morning. I’ll even set an alarm for you if you’re that scared of arriving to work late

“I’m not—” Sieun starts, but then Suho opens the car door like it’s already decided.

And somehow… against Sieun’s judgement, the next moment Sieun knows, he’s seated in Suho’s damn car, buckled in like a hostage who gave up the will to protest five seconds too late.

The radio is playing some low, jazzy pop song, and Suho hums along to it under his breath, tapping his fingers against the wheel like he does this all the time, picking up coworkers who definitely don’t belong in his passenger seat. Sieun sits stiffly, face turned toward the window like the glass might offer him a way out of this spiral.

The drive is quiet. Comfortable, even. Which somehow only makes it worse.

When they finally arrive, Suho’s apartment complex is tall and modern, tucked in a nicer part of the city. Of course it is.

Inside, the elevator ride up feels too fast, and Sieun blinks as the doors open straight into a warmly lit, absurdly clean space. Wooden floors. Minimalist decor. Plants that are somehow alive.

He steps in politely, hands stiff at his sides, eyes scanning like he’s preparing a floor plan report.

“You can sit,” Suho says, kicking off his shoes effortlessly and tossing his keys into a ceramic bowl. “Make yourself comfortable.”

Sieun hesitates. Comfort is not something he’s equipped for.

Still, he moves toward the couch and carefully lowers himself onto the edge, like it might bite. His spine is straight. His knees are together. He looks like someone waiting for a job interview in a furniture catalog.

Suho glances over and smiles faintly.

“Wow,” he says, heading into the kitchen. “You really don’t do this often, huh?”

Sieun blinks at him. “...Do what?”

“Sit. Like a human.”

Sieun’s eyes drift down, scanning the pristine room in his usual hyperaware silence. That’s when he spots it, a book lying open on the coffee table, spine bent gently, like it had been abandoned in a hurry. He picks it up without thinking, fingers brushing against the slightly dog-eared page.

The title is bold and familiar… Weak Hero.

He stares at it for a moment.

Then—

“Ah!” Suho suddenly appears in a blur, practically diving across the room like he’s about to intercept a national secret. “That’s nothing! Don’t look at that… It’s, uh—just something I picked up. For reading! Light reading! Haha—”

He grabs the book, fumbling with it awkwardly like it’s suddenly radioactive, and simultaneously starts sweeping his arms across the room, straightening a pillow here, wiping down a non-existent smudge there. “And sorry for the mess. It’s usually cleaner. I swear.”

Sieun raises an eyebrow. The place looks like a model apartment. But he doesn’t say that. Instead, he calmly says, “I read Weak Hero too.”

Suho freezes.

“You do?”

Sieun nods, deadpan. “It’s good.”

Suho visibly deflates, like a soda can releasing its entire emotional carbonation, and then lights up like someone turned on his favorite playlist. “Wait really? Who’s your favorite?”

Sieun pauses. He doesn’t even need to think about it. “Gray.”

“Gray!” Suho grins, looking delighted. “I knew it. You’ve totally got Gray energy by the way. Smart. Quiet. Probably could kill me.”

Sieun blinks. “...That’s not how I meant it.”

But Suho is already sliding onto the couch beside him, book now gently discarded again, all grinning enthusiasm and shining eyes. Their knees brush slightly, an unintentional tap, and for a split second the room fills with something warm.

——I thought he’d laugh at me if he found out… this is actually really nice. I didn’t know we had this in common. I want to talk to him more about it. He’s even more perfect than I thought——

Sieun’s eyes widen in horror.

There it is again.

The internal monologue. The thoughts. Loud and honest and swirling too close for comfort. His body stiffens instinctively, and he retracts his knee slightly, but Suho doesn’t seem to notice, he’s too busy excitedly flipping through the pages of the book like they’re suddenly in a book club.

After a moment, Suho finishes stacking a few dishes in the sink and tossing a jacket onto the back of a chair. He dusts his hands off, glancing toward the hallway.

“You can wash up first if you want,” he says, smiling as he leans against the wall. “Towels are on the shelf. I’ll lend you something to wear.”

Sieun stands awkwardly, suddenly hyperaware of everything, his breathing, his heartbeat, the echo of Suho’s thoughts still lingering in his mind.

He nods. “...Okay.”

Then he disappears down the hall in a flustered blur, needing exactly twelve minutes of solitude, a cold face wash, and a mental reboot.

The door creaks open with a soft click, and Sieun steps out of the bathroom in nothing but a towel, steam curling around his ankles. His dark hair clings to his forehead in damp strands, water still glistening along the sharp lines of his collarbone. He looks slightly dazed, maybe from the heat, maybe from the absurdity of all this, standing in Suho’s apartment, post-shower, half-dressed.

Suho turns his head, casually, like he was about to ask something, but he freezes mid-motion.

Visibly.

There’s a delay, like his brain just lost connection to the rest of him, and then his eyes go wide. His lips part, then press shut again. He’s staring. Hard. And then—

Blush. Immediate. Fierce. From the tops of his ears to the base of his neck.

“Uh… uh, here,” Suho stammers, thrusting a neatly folded set of pajamas at him like it’s a peace offering. “These are um, they should fit. I bought them a while ago. They’re just a spare pair so don’t worrry.”

Sieun, already reaching for them, freezes slightly at that.

The thoughts enter as usual.

——I didn’t think he’d ever wear them. I mean, come on, how would that even happen? But he’s actually going to wear them. He looks like a walking K-drama scene. What is my life——

A soft, amused breath escapes Sieun before he can stop it. It’s not a full laugh, barely a puff of air, but it’s unmistakably real.

Suho blinks. “...Did you just laugh at me?”

“No,” Sieun lies easily, turning back toward the bathroom. “Don’t be weird.”

Suho stares after him, stunned, like he’s just unlocked a secret achievement. Then he glances down at the now towel-free space where Sieun had been standing, and puts a hand to his chest.

“Okay. Calm down,” he mutters under his breath. “He’s just a co-worker. An unbelievably cute and important co-worker… but a co-worker nonetheless.”

The door creaks again, and Sieun reappears a few moments later, now clad in the pajama set, a simple, oversized shirt and soft drawstring pants, the color a muted dusty blue that makes his skin look unfairly flawless. His damp hair has flopped naturally into place, and his usually guarded face is a shade softer than usual, mellowed by warm light and exhaustion.

Suho’s heart stops.

Then stumbles.

Then speeds up with a vengeance.

“Gonna—gonna wash up now,” he blurts, almost tripping over the corner of the rug as he half-jogs toward the bathroom like a man escaping a bomb threat.

Sieun watches him go with a blink, then quietly walks over to the couch and sits down, folding his legs neatly beneath him. The room is calm again. Quiet. And if his lips twitch ever so slightly upward as he silently waits for Suho, well no one’s there to call him out on it.
————————————————————————
Suho emerges from the bathroom, towel slung over his shoulder, hair damp and tousled in that effortless way that only ever happens by accident. He rubs a hand through it, sighing quietly as cool air greets his skin. The scent of minty soap still clings to him, sharp and clean, but it does little to calm the fray of his nerves.

He steps into the living room, and freezes again.

Sieun is curled up on the couch, one arm tucked beneath his head, the other resting lightly against his chest. The pajamas have shifted slightly, revealing a bare ankle and the smooth line of his neck. His breathing is even, the tension in his shoulders gone, face softened completely in sleep.

Suho doesn’t move for a moment. Just stares.

Like if he blinks, Sieun might disappear. Like this might be a dream, too perfect in its quiet to be real.

Slowly, quietly, he walks over.

He crouches down, hesitating only a second before gently shifting Sieun’s legs so he can lie flat. Sieun mumbles something incomprehensible, but doesn’t wake. His brow furrows briefly, then smooths out again as Suho carefully lifts a folded blanket from the back of the couch and drapes it over him.

It settles softly against Sieun’s chest. Suho lingers a moment longer, watching the way the light from the hallway casts faint shadows over his face, the way his lashes rest against his cheeks, the faint part of his lips.

He looks peaceful. Trusting.

Trusting him.

Suho swallows hard and stands, backing away slowly as if afraid to break the spell. He flicks off the living room light with a gentle click, the apartment slipping into dim, golden darkness.

As he makes his way to his bedroom, he glances back once.

Sieun hasn’t moved.

Suho exhales, closes the door behind him, and leans back against it.

He runs a hand through his hair again, then mutters into the quiet, “Yeah. No way I’m sleeping tonight.”

Not with Sieun, beautiful and inexplicable, asleep in the next room. Not with the weight of possibility so close and the sharp ache of want burning just under his skin.

Suho plops face-first onto his bed with a heavy thump, muffling a high-pitched, strangled sound into his pillow, somewhere between a scream and a laugh. If anyone heard him, they might mistake it for the melodramatic cry of a teenager in the throes of her first crush. And honestly? That’s not too far off.

He flips onto his back, pillow half-smushed against his cheek, staring up at the ceiling like it’s holding all the answers to the universe.

Sieun.

In his apartment. In his pajamas. On his couch. Asleep like he belongs there. Like this is just... a thing they do now.

Suho throws an arm over his face and groans.

How did they even get here?

Just days ago, Sieun barely spoke to him outside of work-related necessity. Cold, distant, composed to a fault. A walking ice sculpture. Suho used to joke with himself that if he ever got a full sentence out of Sieun that didn’t involve logistics or a spreadsheet, he’d consider it a national holiday.

And now?

Now Sieun’s sleeping in the next room like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like it doesn’t make Suho want to scream into his pillow a second time. Which he does.

Muffled scream. Again. Louder this time.

He flails dramatically, kicking at his blankets with the kind of intensity reserved for lovesick teenagers or toddlers throwing a fit.

“I cannot handle this,” he whispers into the dark.

He doesn’t believe in a higher power, not really. Never needed to. But right now? Lying in bed with his heart still racing and the image of Sieun’s soft smile burned behind his eyelids?

He believes in something.

Fate. Timing. A glitch in the simulation, maybe.

Whatever it is, it feels like the universe cracked open for a second and whispered, Here. You get this one.

And Suho, a hand pressed to his chest, grinning like a fool even though no one can see him, isn’t about to waste it.

Chapter Text

The morning light seeps in through the half-drawn curtains, casting warm gold across the room in slow-moving stripes. The smell of food, something savory and crisp, drifts in from the kitchen, soft and curling like a hand nudging Sieun awake. He stirs, eyes fluttering open sluggishly. For a second, he forgets where he is.

The couch is firm under his back, the blanket warm around his shoulders. He’s cocooned in it, nestled with the quiet hum of a home around him. Not his home.

Then it hits him.

Suho’s apartment.

He sits up slowly, groggy and disoriented, blanket still wrapped snugly around his shoulders like a shawl. His hair’s a mess again, flattened oddly on one side and sticking up on the other, and the pajamas cling loosely to his limbs in a way that makes him look even smaller, younger than usual. He rubs a hand across his eyes, groaning softly.

From the kitchen, a pan sizzles.

Suho’s voice breaks the quiet: “You’re up.”

Sieun blinks toward the sound and catches sight of him.

Suho stands by the stove in a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled neatly to the elbows, the collar open where a tie would usually be. His dark slacks are perfectly pressed, blazer nowhere in sight, and his hair is freshly dried and styled just enough to look both professional and criminally good at the same time.

But the moment he turns and sees Sieun, still wrapped like a sleepy burrito, eyes heavy and shoulders hunched, Suho freezes mid-motion.

His gaze lingers for just a second too long. His hand still holds the spatula over the pan, completely motionless. His eyes drag slowly from Sieun’s ruffled hair to the blanket trailing behind him to the subtle dip of his collarbone where the pajamas hang loose.

Then, abruptly, Suho looks away, cheeks flushing as he clears his throat.

“You should… probably go get changed,” he says quickly, his voice a touch higher than usual.

Sieun, oblivious, just yawns into the back of his hand and stands up, the blanket slipping down his back. “Mm. Yeah.”

He stretches, lazily scratching the back of his neck, not noticing how Suho darts his gaze away again like looking too long might get him arrested.

Suho focuses aggressively on the pan. “Bathroom’s free. Your suit’s folded on the chair.”

“Thanks,” Sieun mumbles, padding off to get dressed with no idea that Suho is currently experiencing a slow, silent meltdown behind him.

Only after Sieun disappears down the hall does Suho dare glance toward the empty couch.

His heart gives one solid thump.

He mutters to himself, face burning, “Why does he have to be cute first thing in the morning?”

Then, as the toast pops up and the eggs finish frying, Suho just shakes his head, smiling helplessly to himself like a man completely, utterly doomed.

Sieun steps out of the hallway, now fully dressed in his suit, tie knotted neatly, blazer smoothed down, every button fastened just right. His hair is tamed, but a single lock still rebelliously curls at his temple, giving him an almost boyish look despite the professional ensemble. The soft fabric of Suho’s pajamas no longer clings to him, and yet, the cozy memory of the night before seems to linger faintly in the air.

He moves toward the small dining table, pulling out the chair quietly and sitting down. The morning light spills across the polished surface, highlighting the simple spread laid out: eggs, toast, a bit of grilled ham, and even a small bowl of cut fruit. Suho, standing at the kitchen counter, carefully plates the last of it, then turns and carries it over with a casual grace that’s clearly practiced.

He sets the plate down in front of Sieun, then takes his seat across from him, hands folding under his chin for just a second as he watches.

Sieun picks up his fork, still blinking some of the sleep out of his eyes, and takes a bite.

And then, something changes.

It’s not dramatic, just a quiet shift in his expression, a soft flicker of something genuine and content. His eyes widen slightly, and his usually neutral mouth curves up into a subtle smile, involuntary and real.

“It’s good,” he says, a little surprised at himself. “Really good.”

Suho lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, leaning back with an exaggerated sigh of relief and a grin spreading across his face. “Thank god. You had me sweating for a second.”

Sieun raises an eyebrow. “Why? Did you think I’d spit it out?”

“Not out loud,” Suho says with a wink. “But you have that whole ice prince vibe. I wouldn’t put it past you to silently judge my cooking with your icy eyes”

Sieun huffs, barely holding back a smile as he goes in for another bite.

There’s a brief lull where they eat quietly, the soft clink of silverware and the morning city noise filtering faintly in from the window. It feels… normal. Comfortable. Almost domestic.

Then, Sieun speaks, voice low and thoughtful between bites. “It’s been a while since I had home-cooked food.”

Suho glances up at him, something gentle and unreadable passing through his gaze. “Yeah?”

Sieun nods, not offering more. He doesn’t have to. The way he says it, soft, matter-of-fact, tells enough.

Suho tilts his head and smiles, half playful, half sincere. “Well, guess I’ll have to cook for you every morning”

Sieun blinks. “What?”

“I said—” Suho starts to repeat, but just as Sieun’s brain catches up, he chokes.

Literally.

On toast.

He fumbles for his napkin, coughing into it, while Suho quickly slides a glass of water across the table. “Whoa—! Hey, breathe!” he says, laughing as Sieun hastily gulps down water, red-faced and flustered.

“I—” Sieun rasps, still recovering. “I don’t think I will be able to come everyday”

Suho lifts his hands innocently, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Relax. I was kidding.”

Then, under his breath, softer: “Mostly.”

Sieun doesn’t catch that last part, but he catches the warmth in Suho’s eyes, the way he tries to mask his eagerness with that easy charm. He fidgets slightly in his seat, unsure what to do with the strange flutter in his chest.

They eat in easy silence for a few more minutes, the mood settling into something strangely serene, as though they’ve always done this—shared quiet breakfasts, the occasional glance across a small kitchen table, the smell of grilled ham and toasting bread soft in the air.

Sieun finishes his food first and sips his water, glancing at the clock. His eyes flick briefly toward Suho, who’s still working through his last bite like he’s not in any rush at all.

“You should probably finish getting ready,” Sieun says quietly, nudging the edge of his plate forward as if that might help speed things along.

Suho looks up, blinking, then hums in acknowledgement and starts to rise, but not before Sieun notices a crumb and a smudge of sauce clinging stubbornly to the corner of his mouth.

Without thinking, Sieun reaches across the table.

His thumb brushes just beneath Suho’s lower lip, wiping the sauce away in one smooth motion before he even realizes what he’s doing. The motion is instinctive, quiet, unceremonious, but the effect is instant.

Suho’s whole body stiffens like someone just poured ice water down his back. His eyes go wide, and a vivid blush creeps up his neck all the way to his ears. He shoots to his feet so fast his chair almost tips.

“Uh—I—yeah. Getting ready. Right.” His voice is higher than usual, and he scrambles for his blazer like it personally offended him.

Sieun blinks, belatedly realizing what he just did. He sits back in his chair, stunned into stillness, unsure whether to apologize or pretend it never happened. Before he can decide, Suho is already halfway across the room, shoulders tense, trying very hard to focus on his reflection in the hallway mirror.

He shrugs on his blazer with more force than necessary, tugging the sleeves straight, then reaches for his tie, but his fingers fumble clumsily with the fabric. He twists it around the wrong way, loops it back through, frowns, and tries again, all while deliberately avoiding eye contact.

Sieun watches for a moment, then sighs.

Wordlessly, he gets up and crosses the room. Suho freezes as Sieun approaches, arms still half-raised, tie dangling helplessly from one hand.

“I’ve got it,” Sieun mutters.

He reaches up and gently takes the tie from Suho’s fingers. Suho doesn’t move, but Sieun can see the pink climbing back up his neck again.

As Sieun loops the tie around Suho’s collar and begins tying it with practiced ease, the space between them closes, just slightly, but enough to make Suho’s breath catch.

And then… The thoughts hit

——Why am I like this? God, he touched my mouth, I’m going to short-circuit. Now I can’t even tie a damn tie? Seriously, Suho? What is this, high school? Look at him. He probably thinks I’m some kind of idiot,
The thoughts pour in, frantic and self-deprecating, each one louder than the last, and Sieun almost forgets how to finish tying the knot.——

He fights the smile that threatens his lips, biting the inside of his cheek to stay composed. Suho, despite his outward confidence, was currently having a full-blown meltdown.

Sieun tugs the tie gently into place, straightening it with a small pat against Suho’s chest. “Done,” he says simply.

Suho blinks. “Oh. Uh. Thanks.”

Sieun steps back, glancing off to the side, but a soft laugh escapes him before he can stop it.

Suho tilts his head. “What?”

“Nothing,” Sieun lies, folding his arms, eyes dancing just a little. “You just… don’t usually mess up your tie.”

Suho’s ears go red again. “Right. Must be the company.”

Sieun raises an eyebrow. “That a compliment or a threat?”

Suho grins, nervous, crooked, but real. “Take your pick.”
————————————————————————
Suho gestures toward the car, and Sieun shrugs, following him with that quiet, effortless grace he always seems to carry. The drive is quick, smooth streets, minimal traffic, Suho’s car humming with clean efficiency. Neither of them talks much, but the silence isn’t uncomfortable. The kind of silence that feels worn-in, like a favorite sweater. The radio plays something soft in the background, barely audible, while morning light flickers through the windshield in golden bands.

When they pull into the company’s underground lot, Suho parks with the practiced ease of someone who’s made this trip too many times. Sieun unbuckles, brushing imaginary dust off his slacks, and they both step out into the fluorescent-lit quiet. Suho adjusts his tie, now perfectly straight, thanks to Sieun, and leads them toward the building.

The moment they walk through the front doors, the atmosphere shifts.

Suho transforms.

Gone is the flustered, lovesick man fumbling with his tie. Here stands Suho, department ace, all charm and composure and effortless charisma. The lobby buzzes with conversation and footsteps and the muted beeping of key cards, but Suho moves through it like he belongs to the air itself. Heads turn. People call out greetings.

“Morning, Team Lead Ahn!”
“Suho! Great job on the Cho project!”
“You’re glowing today, what’s the secret?”

Suho smiles with easy warmth, offering nods and playful remarks. “Hard work and bad coffee,” he jokes, and the group around him laughs as if he’s just delivered the punchline of the year.

Sieun, on the other hand, lingers behind. His eyes narrow slightly at the attention. Not because he’s annoyed, though he might be, a little, but because it makes his skin prickle, like standing under a spotlight in an otherwise dark room. He doesn’t like the feeling.

So, in classic Sieun fashion, he quietly peels away.

Not a word, not a gesture. Just a subtle shift in weight, a pivot on the heel, and he slips past the crowd unnoticed, heading toward the elevators tucked behind a marble column.

Suho’s still surrounded by coworkers when he glances to the side and realizes… Sieun is gone.

He turns slightly, his smile faltering just for a second as he scans the lobby. Tall enough to see over most of the heads, he peers around for that familiar lean figure, the ever-neutral expression, the careful steps. But Sieun’s nowhere in sight.

“Excuse me for a moment,” Suho tells the group, and they nod, laughing and continuing their chat as he steps away, trying to spot any trace of where Sieun went. When he can’t find Sieun he frowns and turns back to the crowd. They usher him to the cafe to get coffee as he flashes them a charming smile.

Meanwhile, upstairs, Sieun steps out of the elevator alone.

The office floor is quieter this early, a low hum of printers and the faint clacking of keyboards filling the space. He exhales softly as the doors close behind him, the chaos of the lobby left far below.

Here, he feels more like himself, surrounded by familiar desks, cool lighting, and the steady rhythm of work already in motion.

He adjusts the strap of his bag on his shoulder, moves with quiet purpose toward his desk, and sets his things down with practiced precision. The elevator chimes faintly in the distance again, but he doesn’t look back.

The sharp scrape of a chair echoes across the office floor, loud and sudden like a crack of thunder in the otherwise steady rhythm of the morning. A commotion brews near the central aisle of desks, sharp, ugly words rising above the usual murmur of keyboards and phones. Heads turn. Eyes lift from screens. The source is clear: one of the more notoriously difficult managers, Mr. Choi, standing red-faced and loud, a stack of papers clutched in his hand.

“Who made this proposal?!” he barks, shaking the packet as though it personally offended him. “Who thought this was acceptable?!”

The room stiffens. Everyone pretends to be busy. The air tenses with that particular kind of corporate fear, the collective dread of being pulled into someone else’s disaster.

But then, from across the row of desks, a chair scrapes back slowly.

Sieun rises.

His face is unreadable, as always, but there's a glint in his eyes, something sharp and alert beneath the calm. “I did,” he says clearly, his voice calm but firm.

The manager turns, eyes narrowing. “You?” he sneers. “This is completely wrong! Were you even listening during the meeting? What is this nonsense?”

Sieun doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t blink. “You never gave clear instructions,” he replies, brown eyes steady. “The email had no specifics, and the direction in the brief was vague at best. I worked with what I had.”

A small gasp somewhere in the office. It isn’t often someone challenges Mr. Choi directly, let alone with such cool composure.

Mr. Choi flushes deeper, veins bulging slightly in his neck. “Watch your tone. Is this how you speak to a superior?” He throws the proposal at Sieun, the pages scattering as they slap against Sieun’s chest and then the floor. One edge hits him in the forehead, sharply enough to sting. Sieun winces, but doesn’t move. Not until the papers start slipping to the ground, fluttering like startled birds.

“You need to learn about respecting authority,” the manager growls, stepping forward, reaching, grabbing the lapel of Sieun’s suit jacket with fingers curled tight, yanking.

The office freezes.

Then—

A voice, cold and level, slices through the air like a blade:
“What is going on here?”

Everything halts.

Mr. Choi drops Sieun’s suit immediately, turning in a flurry of awkward movement. His demeanor flips instantly, panic flickering behind his eyes.

“Ah—Director Na!” he gasps, trying for a professional smile. “I was just... correcting my team. Giving some guidance.”

Na Baekjin stands a few paces away, expression unreadable, his posture straight and commanding. He’s shed his blazer again, sleeves rolled with precise neatness, his white shirt crisp, tucked flawlessly into tailored slacks. His charcoal eyes, normally cool, burn with something more dangerous. Blood-red under the office lights. Sharp and cutting.

His gaze lands on Mr. Choi with the force of a hammer. “Guidance,” he repeats, voice low and slow. “Is that what you call shouting across the department and assaulting your junior staff?”

Mr. Choi opens his mouth… then closes it.

“I read that proposal,” Baekjin continues, stepping forward. “It was well-drafted considering the lack of information provided. If it’s unsatisfactory, perhaps the issue lies in your failure to brief your team properly.” His tone sharpens with each syllable, words like precision tools in his mouth. “You're lazy, Manager Choi. And next time you want to ‘correct’ someone, do it through email.”

Mr. Choi nods quickly, sweat beading on his forehead. “Yes, sir. Of course. Understood.”

Baekjin doesn’t look at him again. His eyes shift to Sieun, and for a flicker of a second, his expression softens, just slightly. Barely there.

“Yeon Sieun,” he says, calm and cool once more, “meet me in my office in five minutes.”

Sieun bows his head slightly. “Yes, sir.”

Baekjin turns and walks away without another word, the silence of the office parting like the sea before him. Mr. Choi shuffles awkwardly back toward his desk, clearly humiliated. The moment passes like a storm. Whispers begin the moment Baekjin disappears around the corner.

Sieun exhales slowly, then kneels down to gather the scattered proposal sheets from the floor. His hands are steady, movements precise, as always, but there’s a lingering tension in his chest. Not from fear.

From confusion.

Because when Baekjin had turned to leave, he brushed against Sieun and Sieun had heard it again, that quiet voice beneath the surface.

——“He’s exhausted. And still doing better work than the rest of them.”——

Sieun blinks.

The office is still and heavy with the low hum of the overhead lights when Sieun steps inside. He closes the door behind him with a soft click, the sound swallowed by the thick silence of the room. The blinds are half-drawn, filtering sunlight in soft lines across the polished desk and marble floor, casting faint shadows that stretch across Na Baekjin’s silhouette like slats of armor.

Baekjin sits behind his desk, sleeves still rolled to his forearms, shirt slightly wrinkled as if he’s been too busy to fix it. He doesn’t look up right away. He’s staring at something, perhaps the screen of his laptop, perhaps nothing at all. His expression is hard to read, as always… pale, elegant, and carved in thought.

Sieun bows politely at the threshold. “I apologize for the disturbance earlier,” he says, voice smooth and steady despite the tension still trailing through his limbs.

Baekjin finally looks up and sighs.

It’s not an irritated sound, not really. More… restrained frustration. Quiet. Controlled. It hisses slightly between his teeth as he leans back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest with slow, deliberate motion.

“You shouldn’t be the one apologizing,” he says flatly.

Sieun blinks, but doesn’t respond. He crosses the room with graceful, economical steps and takes the seat across from Baekjin. His posture is proper, back straight, hands folded on his lap, every movement precise. A practiced calm hangs over him, like mist, shielding, unreadable.

Baekjin’s eyes follow him, burning with something sharper now.

“Yeon Sieun,” he begins again, “you are… by far, one of the most capable employees in this building.”

Sieun doesn’t flinch. He’s heard variations of praise before, though it rarely amounts to more than fleeting acknowledgment. He says nothing, just listens.

Baekjin doesn’t stop. “And yet, despite your performance, your reviews, and the hours of unpaid overtime you somehow never complain about—” He lifts his hand, fingers curled into a loose fist. “You’ve remained in the same position for years.”

There’s no accusation in his tone. Just disappointment. As if the fact personally offends him.

Sieun finally responds, his voice as quiet as ever. “It doesn’t matter.”

Baekjin’s jaw tenses.

“It should,” he says after a beat. “It does. The business world doesn’t reward talent unless it’s paired with assertion. You could be the smartest man in the room, and you often are, but if you won’t speak up, they’ll always pass you over.”

Sieun looks down briefly, his chocolate brown eyes unreadable, then back up again. “It’s fine,” he murmurs. “I’m not... ambitious.”

Baekjin leans forward, elbows on the desk. “Then be practical. At least protect yourself.” His tone sharpens slightly. “You think someone like Manager Choi would hesitate to throw you under the bus in front of an executive? You think anyone else in that department would defend you?”

Sieun doesn't answer that. He already knows the answer.

Baekjin sighs again and sits back, his eyes narrowing. “You don’t need to be aggressive. But you do need to care. You’re too—” He hesitates, searching for the word. “Detached. And that’s a dangerous thing in a place like this.”

Silence stretches for a few seconds. Then-

“I understand,” Sieun says softly.

His expression hasn’t changed. Calm, composed, polite. His eyes reveal nothing. But Baekjin watches him closely, almost like he’s trying to decipher a code written in a language no one else can read.

He taps his fingers once on the desk and then stands, walking over to the cabinet near the window. He pours two glasses of water, bringing one back to set gently in front of Sieun.

Sieun blinks up at him.

Baekjin’s voice is quieter now. “Drink. You look thirsty, take care of yourself.”

Sieun’s fingers curl around the glass. He gives the slightest nod.

And Baekjin returns to his side of the desk, face blank again, save for a faint shadow of something, concern, maybe, that flickers and then vanishes.

Sieun’s fingers curl neatly around the glass before he sets it down with a soft clink. The silence, between him and Baekjin stretches again—measured, but not uncomfortable. Just quiet, like the pause between chess moves.

Then Baekjin speaks, cool and level. “If you're free during lunch, I’d like you to eat with me.”

Sieun’s gaze flickers upward in mild surprise. He blinks once, processing. Baekjin continues before he can respond.

“I want to go over your contract. You’re not being compensated properly, especially for the overtime hours you've logged the last few months. I have enough pull with the board to renegotiate a higher pay bracket for your position.” He says this plainly, without ego, as though stating a weather forecast. “But I’ll need your consent to initiate that process.”

Sieun hesitates, lips parting, but no words come out at first.

This—this isn’t something he’s used to. People don’t usually go out of their way for him. They don’t offer things unless they expect something in return. Especially not executives.

His brown eyes drop to the table briefly. “You… don’t have to do all that.”

“I’m aware,” Baekjin replies simply. “But I’m choosing to.”

Sieun studies him for a moment. There’s nothing warm about Baekjin’s expression. No false smiles or gentle reassurances. Just a steady, calculating calm. But somehow, that makes the offer feel even more sincere. Less sentimental. More real.

“…Alright,” Sieun murmurs. “Lunch, then.”

Baekjin nods once, brisk and businesslike. “I’ll send a message when it’s time. You’re dismissed.”

Sieun stands, bowing slightly at the waist in that automatic, respectful way he always does. He turns and quietly exits, the office door clicking shut behind him.

The moment he steps out into the hallway, the atmosphere shifts. The stillness of Baekjin’s office is replaced by the familiar noise of the floor, keyboards clacking, voices murmuring, phones ringing. Sieun walks with quiet, practiced grace back to his desk, the file folder still tucked under his arm, but before he can even sit…

“Sieun!”

Baku’s voice hits him like a cymbal crash.

Sieun flinches a little.. not because he’s startled, but because Baku always seems to bring the energy of a marching band into a library. He appears beside him with wide eyes, practically vibrating with concern.

“I heard what happened—ugh, that manager’s the worst,” Baku grumbles, his face twisted in exaggerated frustration. “He threw something at you? Are you okay? Like physically? Mentally? Emotionally?”

Sieun raises a brow, trying to slide his chair in with minimal fuss. “You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m being appropriate,” Baku insists, circling Sieun like a concerned mother hen. “You’re too calm, that’s the problem. One of these days you’re gonna just take a stapler to someone and I won’t even blame you.”

Sieun sighs and gently sets the folder down on his desk. “He didn’t hit me. It grazed my head. I’ve survived worse.”

“See? That’s not normal,” Baku groans. “That’s not a thing people should just say with a straight face.”

Sieun presses his lips together, as though suppressing a smirk, and begins booting up his computer again.

Baku crosses his arms and squints at him. “So? What did Mr. Vampire Executive want?”

Sieun glances at him, expression dry. “His name is Na Baekjin.”

“Yeah, yeah, but that man looks like he drinks espresso with blood on the side. What’d he say?”

Sieun hesitates. “He said I shouldn’t be apologizing. And that he wants to help adjust my contract.”

Baku’s brows shoot up so fast they nearly launch off his forehead. “He what? Wait, are you being scouted?! Are they trying to move you to another division? Are you gonna ditch me?!”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Sieun says calmly.

“Oh,” Baku exhales, dramatically placing a hand over his heart. “Thank god. I can’t deal with that department without you. They’re all terrifying and nobody ever laughs at my jokes.”

Sieun side-eyes him with a barely concealed expression of exhaustion. “No one laughs at them here, either.”

“Rude.”

Sieun doesn’t respond, just starts typing again, his mind already pivoting back into work mode. But there’s a faint crease of thought between his brows.

Lunch with Baekjin. His contract. A renegotiation.

It’s… strange.

Not bad. Just unexpected. Like the wind shifting without warning.

Sieun works quickly on revising the proposal, his eyes narrowed in concentration. Eventually, the office is buzzing as lunch hour begins, chairs scraping back, the soft murmur of casual chatter replacing the morning’s frenzied keystrokes. Sieun stands from his desk, movements precise and quiet, like always. He straightens his blazer with a light tug, brushes invisible dust from his sleeve, and steps into the hallway.

His mind is already ahead, thinking about the lunch meeting with Baekjin, how he’s supposed to talk about his contract, how he’s not sure how to feel about it at all. Focused. Composed.

At least, until he turns the corner.

And stops.

Just a few feet ahead, Suho stands facing a glass wall near the elevator, alone, stiff as a board. He hasn’t seen Sieun yet.

And he’s… practicing.

Sieun watches, expression unreadable but distinctly caught off guard.

Suho’s brows are furrowed slightly in concentration, lips moving in a near-silent mutter.

“Hey. No. Too flat uh… ‘Hi Sieun.’ Too eager? Maybe like, ‘Oh, hey! Fancy seeing you here.’ That’s awful… who says that—okay okay, just—just say hi. Like a normal person. Like a cool normal person—”

Sieun tilts his head, eyes blinking slowly.

Suho drags a hand through his hair, visibly bracing himself. He breathes in, deep, measured, like he’s about to give a presentation in front of a boardroom full of sharks. Then—

He spins on his heel and turns around.

His gaze lands directly on Sieun.

And immediately, he freezes. His entire body jolts as if someone pressed pause on his existence. His mouth opens slightly, then closes. His practiced lines vanish like smoke in a breeze.

“...Hi.”

The word is strangled. Muted. Not practiced. Not cool. Definitely not casual. It falls out of his mouth like he forgot how to use it mid-sentence.

Sieun just stares at him, blinking slowly, the way one might observe a bird flying into a window.

There’s a long pause.

Then Sieun, calm as ever, nods once. “Hi.”

He says it evenly, with all the warmth of an email confirmation. But there’s a flicker of something in his gaze, a spark of bemusement, curiosity maybe, like he’s mentally reviewing the last minute of Suho’s solo performance.

Suho, red in the ears now, lets out a short, breathy laugh. “Uh… I was just… stretching. You know. Office posture’s brutal.”

Sieun doesn’t respond to that. Not verbally.

Just lifts a single brow, then glances at the hallway clock. “I have a meeting.”

“Oh. Right, yeah—me too. Busy guy stuff,” Suho says, clearly trying to recover the last shreds of his dignity. He steps to the side, gesturing down the hallway like he’s letting Sieun pass, but he nearly bumps into the wall as he does it.

Sieun walks past him in silence, eyes forward, but just as he rounds the next corner, a tiny smirk, not quite a smile, but close, tugs at the corner of his mouth.

Suho doesn’t see it.

If he did, he might never recover.

Suho pauses and strides to catch up with Sieun. He catches up in a few quick strides, his longer legs making up the distance easily. He’s trying to act normal again, like he hadn’t just embarrassed himself rehearsing a single greeting like he was auditioning for a rom-com. But as soon as he’s beside Sieun, something shifts in his expression. His brow furrows.

“Wait—” he says, squinting. “Is that…?”

Before Sieun can react, Suho suddenly reaches out and grabs his face.

Like, actually grabs his face.

His hands are warm and careful, thumbs gently tilting Sieun’s chin up as if he’s inspecting a priceless vase with a hairline crack. Sieun jerks in place, stiff as a statue, his arms hovering awkwardly midair like he’s unsure whether to slap Suho away or just… melt into the floor.

“Are you hurt?” Suho blurts, frowning as he zeroes in on a faint cut just beneath Sieun’s hairline. A thin, almost invisible red line, likely from that paper proposal the manager threw earlier. It’s not deep, but the skin’s broken, and a tiny streak of dried blood is barely visible against his pale forehead.

Sieun blinks. Slowly. Like he’s trying to reboot.

Suho leans in closer.

“Was this from the Manager earlier? The one with the blood pressure problem and anger management issues?” he asks, aghast. “God…this place is a lawsuit waiting to happen.”

He’s clearly in full nurturing mode now, gently brushing Sieun’s fringe aside to get a better look.

Sieun, meanwhile, has shut down completely.

His brain is screaming Too close! Too close! and the unfiltered thoughts from Suho’s head are not helping either.

—— He’s bleeding. He’s actually bleeding. God, I can’t believe I didn’t notice earlier. His skin’s so pale, how did I not… why is this weirdly cute… NO, FOCUS. Bandaid. First aid. Triage. Don’t stare at his lips. ——

Sieun jerks slightly.

“...I’m fine,” he mutters, voice more strangled than intended.

That’s when Suho seems to realize what he’s doing.

His eyes go wide, and his hands drop from Sieun’s face like he just touched a hot stove.

“I—I wasn’t uh. Sorry… That was just reflex! Like instinct! Medical emergency instinct! I don’t usually manhandle people in the hallway!”

Sieun just stares at him, cheeks pink, expression unreadable.

Suho clears his throat, visibly trying to collect himself. He claps his hands once, too loudly.

“Right. We’re getting a bandaid. Now. You’re coming with me. Let’s go.”

Before Sieun can protest, Suho grabs his wrist, not aggressively, but firmly, and starts dragging him down the hall like a panicked school nurse on a mission. The two of them make an odd sight, Suho looking like a frantic but dashing rom-com lead, Sieun trailing behind him in stunned silence, blinking like he’s just been abducted by a golden retriever in business casual.

Employees passing by pause mid-conversation, watching the scene with mild confusion. One guy raises his coffee cup in vague solidarity. Someone else whispers, “There goes Team Leader Ahn. Who is that guy with him, is he new?” to which another replies, “Honestly, I’ve never seen him so maybe.”

Sieun lets himself be tugged along, because frankly, it’s too much effort to fight Suho’s strange whirlwind energy right now.

In the quiet of a small break room tucked between office floors, Suho crouches in front of Sieun with a soft, almost annoyingly delicate touch. He tears the wrapper off the bandaid like it’s some sacred rite, brows drawn in exaggerated concentration. Sieun sits still in one of the chairs, stiff-backed and expressionless, except for the faintest crease in his brow that betrays his confusion.

“This might sting,” Suho murmurs, which is unnecessary because it’s a bandaid, not open-heart surgery.

Still, Sieun doesn’t move as Suho gently brushes back the fringe of his hair, exposing the small scratch just at his temple. The pads of Suho’s fingers are warm, careful, like he’s afraid Sieun might shatter under too much pressure. His other hand holds the bandaid like he’s lining up a sticker in a scrapbook.

“There,” Suho says, smoothing it down with a barely-there touch. “Perfect placement. Ten out of ten.”

Sieun blinks. “You make it sound like it’s a fashion accessory.”

“Well,” Suho shrugs, leaning back slightly but still crouched in front of him, “you do wear it well.”

Their eyes meet for a second too long.

Suho’s expression softens, gone is the theatrical concern, the flailing energy. For just a breath of a moment, it’s quiet. Intimate. Like the rest of the world muted itself for them. His eyes scan Sieun’s face, resting on the place where the bandaid sits, and then, just briefly, on his lips.

Sieun clears his throat.

“...Thanks.”

Suho grins, a lopsided thing, bright and boyish. “Anytime.”

Sieun stands, brushing imaginary dust off his slacks. He tugs down his jacket sleeve, adjusting himself back into ‘emotionally stable and unreadable adult’ mode.

“I should go. I have lunch with Director Na.”

Suho—still on the floor—suddenly pops up like someone hit the eject button.

“Oh! Cool. Me too.”

Sieun pauses. “You have lunch with Director Na?”

“Yup.” Suho says it a little too fast. “All the time. We’re, uh... buddies.”

Sieun raises a perfectly unimpressed eyebrow. “Buddies.”

“Totally,” Suho continues, already walking beside him like the matter’s settled. “We golf. We text. He sends me emojis sometimes.”

Sieun narrows his eyes. “What kind of emojis?”

Suho hesitates. “...The cool sunglasses one?”

Sieun keeps walking. “You’re lying.”

Suho throws his hands up, grinning sheepishly. “Okay, maybe we don’t text. But I have spoken to him. And if he’s having lunch with you, then I definitely want to come.”

Sieun sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Why?”

“Because,” Suho says brightly, “if I let you go off and have lunch with a suspiciously well-dressed, intimidating executive without backup, how am I supposed to protect your honor? I’m your team lead. Just trust me”

Sieun looks at him flatly. “It’s not a duel. It’s contract negotiation.”

“Exactly. Blood sport,” Suho quips, then claps Sieun on the back before he can dodge. “Don’t worry. I’ll be charming and subtle.”

“You’re neither of those things.”

“I think you’re the only person that has that opinion” Suho says, practically skipping ahead to hold the elevator for him, “I’m very charming.”

Sieun steps in slowly, already regretting everything.

He sighs and touches his forehead, the bandaid sticks to his temple like a tiny, pastel sign of defeat.
————————————————————————
The cafeteria is buzzing with its usual lunchtime din, chatter bouncing off tiled floors, the clink of utensils, the hum of machines. But in the far corner, seated at the most inconspicuous table as though he’d carefully chosen the spot to be ignored and yet command presence all at once, sits Na Baekjin. His posture is relaxed, but the crisp lines of his white shirt and the steady movement of his pen as he reviews a stack of papers make him feel entirely untouchable. Even without his blazer, Baekjin looks like someone in control, every button perfect, black hair smoothed back neatly, and sharp, charcoal eyes focused and unreadable.

Sieun spots him first and slows his steps, the usual calm in his expression flickering just slightly with hesitation. Behind him, Suho steps with easy confidence, scanning the table curiously before breaking into his best charming smile, composed, wide enough to be friendly but not overeager. Sieun’s presence alone doesn’t pull Baekjin’s attention. It’s Suho’s that does it. The director looks up from his documents, the clack of his pen pausing. His eyes narrow, not in anger, but with that cool calculation that always seems to silently say Why are you here?

Suho, undeterred, offers a quick bow and speaks smoothly. “Sorry to barge in, Director Na. Sieun and I made lunch plans earlier, I didn’t realize he’d be eating with you.”

He says it lightly, voice easy, as if their presence here together was just a little coincidence. A harmless bump in scheduling. A very normal thing coworkers do.

Sieun shoots him a subtle side glance.

Baekjin’s gaze lingers on Suho a moment longer, like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. Then, finally, he nods, slow and thoughtful. “I don’t mind. Sit.”

They both do, Suho sliding in across from Baekjin while Sieun takes the seat beside him. On the table are three stacked, neatly arranged containers, their contents clearly homemade: a bed of multigrain rice, thinly sliced bulgogi in a light marinade, colorful sides of spinach namul, pickled radish, and rolled egg slices with scallions. Not a cafeteria tray in sight.

Without a word, Baekjin pushes the containers toward Sieun.

Sieun, ever quiet, nods in thanks and begins to unwrap them with careful fingers. The plastic seals peel off with soft pops, and he instinctively reaches into the nearest basket to grab utensils and napkins. He begins plating the food onto the empty dishes provided, his movements methodical and graceful. It’s not a conscious show, just the way Sieun does everything, measured and quiet, like every small task is part of something sacred.

Suho watches this with thinly veiled surprise, he’s used to Sieun being efficient, yes, but this feels different. It’s almost… intimate, in the way someone might silently set a table for a family meal.

Baekjin, meanwhile, goes back to reading a page of his document as Sieun finishes setting the last dish down. But his eyes flick up briefly, watching the way Sieun smooths out a napkin beside each plate with a kind of quiet dignity.

There’s something oddly domestic about it.

Suho smiles, trying to shake off the flicker of jealousy that rises in his chest at the thought that this kind of lunch, this quiet, meticulous arrangement, might not be new between the two of them.

“So,” Suho says, trying to lighten the mood as he picks up his chopsticks. “Director Na. Do you always bring enough food for three? Or is this just very convenient luck?”

Baekjin doesn’t look up. “I don’t believe in luck. But I do believe in having foresight.”

Suho’s grin falters just a touch.

Sieun, oblivious, or pretending to be, takes a bite of the bulgogi and nods softly in approval, his expression unreadable except for the smallest flicker of relief in his eyes. It’s good. Comforting, even.

Across from him, Baekjin flips a page of the report and finally speaks again, his tone dry but not unfriendly. “Eat. I made enough.”

Sieun nods, Suho hums his thanks, and for a moment, the three settle into a strange, quiet triangle, balanced between tension and something that might almost be warmth, depending on how you tilt your head.

Sieun lifts his chopsticks with quiet precision, eyes scanning the contents of the neat bento-style box in front of him. He doesn’t say anything, not that he ever does unless necessary—m, but his fingers pause briefly over a portion of sautéed mushrooms mixed into the japchae. He picks them out gently, without fuss, and slides them to the side of the container. Then, wordlessly, he moves the rest of the noodles onto a small plate and places it in front of Baekjin.

Baekjin, who’s just finished scribbling a note into the margin of his contract printout, raises an eyebrow.

He hadn’t said anything. Hadn’t gestured. But Sieun doesn’t look up, simply goes back to dividing the food like he’s always done it.

Baekjin glances down at the plate, and then back at Sieun.

He remembers now, just once, months ago, he’d pushed aside the mushrooms during a catered executive meeting. Barely noticeable. He’d thought no one had seen. But here was Sieun, quiet and observant to a fault, picking up on even the smallest of details.

Baekjin clears his throat, low and faintly awkward, though his expression never changes. He picks up his chopsticks and takes a bite of the japchae, now mushroom-free. “...Thank you,” he murmurs, barely audible, but it’s there.

Sieun gives the faintest of nods in reply, his face unreadable as always. But there’s a flicker in his chocolate brown eyes, a softness in the set of his shoulders. It’s casual. Like this kind of attentiveness is second nature to him.

They eat in a brief silence after that, a strange kind of harmony settling over the table. The clinking of metal against ceramic, the occasional shuffle of paper or sip of water. Not uncomfortable. Just... calm.

Then Suho, fork halfway to his mouth, finally speaks, breaking the quiet with a slightly forced casualness. “So, Director Na,” he says, “did you make all of this yourself? Or are you hiding some secret chef persona on top of being terrifyingly competent at your job?”

Baekjin doesn’t even look up. “The maid made it,” he says flatly.

Suho blinks. “Ah. Right. Of course.”

The silence creeps back in awkwardly, just for a beat. Suho stabs a piece of radish a little too hard and smiles to himself like cool, okay, that wasn’t weird at all.

Sieun glances up from his plate, chewing thoughtfully. He swallows and says, with quiet sincerity, “It’s good.”

Baekjin looks at him then, the chill in his eyes thawing slightly. The corner of his mouth curves, not a full smile, but something close enough to make Suho pause mid-bite.

“I’m glad,” Baekjin says, and the warmth in his voice is subtle but real.

Suho’s eyes narrow faintly as he watches the exchange, something unreadable flickering across his face.

Sieun, unaware of the currents moving around him, simply continues eating, calm and collected, his presence as grounded as ever.

But for Baekjin, the lunch no longer feels like a formality. And for Suho, the growing realization that he may have more competition than he thought begins to settle in with every soft glance Sieun receives.

Baekjin finishes the last of his meal, brushes an invisible speck from his sleeve, then reaches into the sleek leather folder beside him and pulls out a neatly clipped set of papers. “Let’s go over your contract,” he says, his tone even, though there’s a sharper edge of focus in his eyes now. He lays it flat on the table, tapping a specific section with one long finger. “Here.”

Sieun leans in, setting down his chopsticks and smoothing his hand over the page. The edge of his thigh brushes lightly against Baekjin’s as he slides closer, their shoulders nearly touching. It’s not intimate, not in the obvious sense, but there’s a quiet gravity to it. A shared focus. The air shifts subtly between them.

Baekjin doesn’t move away. He adjusts the angle of the paper instead, so Sieun can read more easily, and begins to speak in a low, controlled voice. “You’re being undercompensated. Especially for your workload and hours logged. This clause, here, it limits your overtime payout significantly.”

Sieun nods, scanning the text. His eyes narrow slightly in thought, the way they always do when he’s in work mode. “I never really thought about negotiating it,” he murmurs. “I just… took the standard.”

“You shouldn’t have,” Baekjin replies sharply, though not unkindly. “You’re not average.”

Sieun glances at him then, the words catching him off guard. His expression remains mostly composed, but his brows shift slightly, his mouth parting like he’s about to say something, and doesn’t. Not yet.

From across the table, Suho watches the two of them closely. He hasn’t touched his last bite of food. The way Baekjin leans in. The way Sieun doesn’t shy away. The quiet murmur of voices exchanged with mutual understanding, it hits something low and bitter in his stomach.

Still, he swallows it down, stands up, and forces a pleasant smile across his face. “I’ll go get us something sweet,” he offers cheerfully. “You guys talk. I know contract stuff should be private.”

Sieun blinks up at him, a little surprised by his exit, but nods politely. “Thanks.”

And then, just barely, he adds, “That’s thoughtful.”

Suho’s chest flutters like someone lit a sparkler under his ribs. “I’ll get the best thing they’ve got,” he says, trying to sound nonchalant, but his giddy grin betrays him completely.

And with that, he practically skips off, long legs carrying him across the cafeteria like he’s on a mission from the universe itself. Dessert. Drinks. Anything to be helpful. Anything to feel close to Sieun again.

Because while Baekjin might have the spreadsheets and the influence and the sharp, unreadable glances…

Suho has sweetness.

And if there’s any part of Sieun that likes sweetness too, he wants to be the one to offer it.

Sieun tries to focus.

The contract in front of him is neatly annotated, sections highlighted with precision, clauses underlined in Baekjin’s exacting handwriting, but the words blur and double every time he attempts to read. Because Baekjin is still sitting right beside him. Their shoulders just barely brushing. The heat of him, the sharp scent of his cologne, the way his voice moves low and smooth through each explanation, it’s all fine. Professional. Normal.

Except Sieun can hear his thoughts.

——He’s thinner than last quarter. Probably skipping meals again.——

—Needs to ask for more. He won’t. I’ll do it.——

—He’s not listening. Distracted. Doesn’t want to be here? No… tired. Tired again.——

Sieun stiffens slightly.

It’s not the content of Baekjin’s thoughts, it’s the way they arrive. Clipped. Mechanical. Thoughtful in the most logical way, and yet somehow deeply human. Baekjin doesn’t think in swirls or rambles or long poetic monologues like Suho sometimes does. His inner voice is stark. Clean. Calculated.

But there’s care, buried in the function. Not concern as in panic, but concern as in responsibility. He sees Sieun as capable, yes, but also fragile in ways Baekjin clearly thinks he hides too well.

——Won’t last at this pace. Overloaded. Doesn’t complain. That’s the problem.——

Sieun's throat tightens.

He shifts a little in his seat, tries to put a centimeter more distance between them without making it obvious. But he doesn’t dare move too far, Baekjin would notice. Baekjin notices everything. And if he asks why, Sieun doesn’t have the energy to invent a lie good enough to explain why his chest is tightening from hearing silent thoughts that shouldn’t be his to hear.

So he nods, carefully, pretending to follow the flow of conversation.

“Mm. That clause makes sense,” he says, even though he’s barely processed the sentence. His voice is even, unreadable.

Baekjin hums in agreement, flipping to the next page. “We’ll rewrite this section. You’ve done more than enough to warrant a raise. I’ll forward it to HR after review.”

More thoughts flicker like static under the surface of Baekjin’s steady presence:

——Should’ve noticed sooner.——

——He never says anything. Makes it difficult. Still. Not an excuse.——

Sieun grips the edge of the contract a little tighter, the paper cool beneath his fingertips. He tries to breathe slowly, in and out, focusing on the paperweight across the table, the hum of conversation elsewhere in the cafeteria, anything but the strange vulnerability curling around him from Baekjin’s thoughts.

He doesn’t know how to handle this version of Baekjin. Stern but attentive. Cold but quietly considerate. He’d expected criticism, tight-lipped disappointment, a lecture at most. He hadn’t expected someone sitting this close, cataloguing his wellbeing like an obligation… or a quiet form of care.

So he nods again, a little late this time, and murmurs, “Thank you,” not sure if he means for the advice or the thoughts Baekjin doesn’t know he’s shared.

Baekjin, as always, just gives the smallest nod in return, expression unreadable, eyes already scanning the next paragraph.

And Sieun keeps listening, whether he wants to or not.

After a few minutes, Sieun is drained and he stops resisting.

The moment he lets go, truly lets go, the thoughts rush in all at once. Not a trickle or a hum or a faint murmur beneath the surface, but a flood. A surge of silent noise crashing against the walls of his mind. Like flipping open a book mid-sentence only to find every page screaming to be read at once.

Baekjin’s thoughts are sharp, clipped, calculated, but now they arrive with a rhythm that Sieun can’t control. They fill every corner of his head like a static current, like a memory he never asked for but can’t look away from.

——He’s pale again. Did he sleep? Doubtful. Why does no one else notice these things?——

——His fingers are trembling. He’ll deny it, of course. He always does.——

—What was that bruise on his neck last week? Was that Suho?——

That thought comes and goes fast, like a flicker Baekjin swats away before he can think it through.

Sieun’s breath stutters.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. He just sits there, pen still in his hand, back straight, face unreadable. But inside, he’s dizzy. Floating. Drenched in the inner mechanics of a man who, outwardly, seems completely unbothered by the world.

——They think he’s cold. He’s not. Just doesn’t show weakness. Doesn’t know how.——

——He’s never asked for anything. Not once. No one does that unless they’re used to being ignored.——

Baekjin flips another page beside him, slow and methodical, his fingers barely brushing Sieun’s sleeve. The touch is small, casual, but it jolts Sieun like a shot of ice to the chest. Not because of the contact, but because of the thought that comes with it.

——He’s smaller than me. Not weak. But still. I wonder if he realizes he’s allowed to lean on someone now.——

Sieun swallows.

His heartbeat is too loud in his ears. His palms are slightly damp against the edge of the table. But he doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t push the thoughts away. He lets them wrap around him like fog, pulling him deeper into the complicated shape of Baekjin’s mind, so organized, so restrained, and yet brimming with a care that the man himself would probably never voice aloud.

And maybe that’s what undoes him. Not the content of the thoughts themselves, but the contrast. The stillness of Baekjin’s face beside him. The way he holds his body so still, his voice so calm, while his mind is clearly miles ahead, worrying, noticing, thinking.

——I’ll get him promoted if I have to rewrite the department structure myself. He won’t thank me. That’s fine. He’s still listening. He’s always listening. But no one listens to him.——

Sieun’s fingers twitch slightly over the table. He blinks slowly, like surfacing from underwater, like re-entering his own body.

It’s strange, feeling more seen from someone’s thoughts than from their words.

He wonders, fleetingly, what Baekjin would do if he knew. If he understood that Sieun was sitting here, flooded with every unspoken thing Baekjin never intended to share. Every quiet effort. Every frustration. Every subtle, measured form of care.

And for the first time in a while, Sieun doesn’t feel like a ghost in the room.

He feels… noticed.

Not just by the world.

But by someone who sees in silence what others miss in noise.

The moment Suho returns, a bright energy floods the atmosphere, like a breeze cutting through a heavy room. He’s grinning, arms full of neat little takeaway bags and dessert boxes that smell faintly of fresh cream and caramel. His presence alone is enough to break the tension that’s been quietly simmering at the table.

“Hope I’m not too late,” Suho announces as he sets everything down with casual flair. “I had to fight a very aggressive office worker for the last tiramisu. Blood was nearly shed.”

Sieun blinks, slowly surfacing from the dense weight of Baekjin’s thoughts. It’s like stepping out of fog. The sudden, almost absurdly normal sound of Suho’s voice offers a surprising kind of clarity. He gently pulls back from where he had been unconsciously leaning, just enough distance to ensure no more accidental contact.

The noise in his head quiets.

His shoulders slacken almost imperceptibly. The thoughts, those carefully filtered pieces of Baekjin’s mind, fade into the background, and for the first time in minutes, Sieun feels like himself again. Or at least, like someone with a bit more control.

He breathes in through his nose, then out. “Thanks,” he murmurs, managing a polite smile toward Baekjin as the man begins straightening the proposal pages and sliding them into a folder with mechanical grace.

Baekjin doesn’t say anything, but Sieun catches the flick of his gaze. Observing. Always observing.

And maybe that’s what gets to him most.

Sieun doesn’t like it. The way Baekjin’s mind had cracked open and poured into his without permission. The way the thoughts stuck, even now, like fingerprints on glass. It wasn’t fair. He knows it’s not. He hadn’t asked to hear any of it, and Baekjin hadn’t offered.

He rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand, weary in that slow, internal way that headaches like to settle in.

“Hey.” Suho’s voice cuts through the hum of his thoughts again, gentler this time. Concerned. “You okay?”

Sieun blinks over at him. “Just… a headache.”

Without missing a beat, Suho starts rummaging through his coat pocket, tongue poking out the side of his mouth like he’s on a mission. A second later, he pulls out a small silver tin and flips it open with a flourish. “Aspirin. I always keep some with me. Office survival essentials.”

Sieun accepts the pill with quiet gratitude, his fingers brushing Suho’s for the briefest second. No thoughts. No intrusion. Just warmth, and the quiet comfort of someone prepared for everything. He downs the aspirin with a sip of water from a paper cup Suho also seemingly produces from thin air, like some magician of mid-day emergencies.

Meanwhile, Suho starts unpacking the desserts, plating them on little office cafeteria saucers he must’ve snagged on his way over. “Okay,” he says brightly, setting a rich chocolate tart in front of Baekjin, “this one’s yours. I picked it because it looks like something an esteemed director such as towels would eat with alarming grace.”

Baekjin raises a brow, but accepts it with a quiet, “Thank you,” and an unbothered poise that only makes Suho grin wider.

He turns to Sieun, offering a slice of cheesecake with a playful sparkle in his eye. “And yours,” he says, “because you look like someone who needs more sugar and less stress.”

Sieun almost huffs a laugh. Almost. His lips twitch slightly, which Suho notices immediately, his grin deepening in victory.

The three of them eat in relative silence after that, Suho filling the spaces with occasional light conversation about nothing at all. Sieun doesn’t say much. But the dessert is good, and the ache in his head begins to ebb as the taste of vanilla and strawberry settles on his tongue.

And for a moment, he lets himself feel the normalcy. The odd peace of being surrounded by two people who care, one openly, the other in secret. One whose thoughts he can hear too clearly, and the other whose thoughts he’s thankful he doesn’t have to.

He chews slowly, then glances at Suho, who’s now dramatically dissecting his own pastry with the seriousness of a food critic. A warm, ridiculous presence.

At least, Sieun thinks, not every thought needs to be read to be understood.

Suho digs back into one of the dessert bags with the kind of enthusiasm that makes it look like he’s unwrapping treasure. “I almost forgot, Igot these too,” he says, his voice chipper as he pulls out a sleek, minimalist box of assorted chocolates. “Imported. Fancy. Probably overpriced, but whatever. They looked cute.”

He opens the box with a proud flourish and tilts it toward Sieun, as if he’s just produced a rare gem. Inside, nestled in gold paper cups, are small round chocolates, each dusted with a light shimmer of cocoa powder and labeled with tiny stickers indicating flavor: dark espresso, almond praline, raspberry ganache… and citrus zest.

Suho leans forward to grab one of the latter, clearly intrigued. “Ooh, this one looks—”

Sieun, without a word, calmly plucks it from the tray before Suho’s fingers can even touch it. It’s done so casually, so efficiently, that it takes Suho a second to realize what just happened.

Sieun eyes the chocolate, then says in his usual flat tone, “Orange.”

Suho blinks. “Huh?”

“There’s orange in it.” Sieun holds it up and points faintly to the tiny orange peel icon on the corner of the sticker. “You’re allergic to citrus.”

Suho stares at him, genuinely dumbfounded. “Wait… how do you know that?”

Sieun shrugs, already turning the chocolate in his fingers like it’s no big deal. “You avoided the orange-glazed chicken at the last office event, and you use a citrus-free hand soap. Once you asked the barista if a drink had ‘any hint of lemon,’ even though it was black coffee.”

A beat of silence. Then Suho gasps, full, theatrical gasp, and clutches his chest.

“You saved my life.”

Sieun rolls his eyes, though there’s the faintest upward quirk to his mouth. “It’s not that serious.”

“It is exactly that serious,” Suho says dramatically, as if Sieun just threw himself in front of a bus. “I would’ve swelled up like a tragic balloon and died right here in front of you. You’d have to explain it to the board. ‘Cause of chocolate, ma’am,’ you’d say. ‘Suho perished bravely in battle with a truffle.’”

Sieun sighs through his nose and reaches for the next chocolate. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“And you’re being heroic,” Suho retorts, all sparkly eyes and barely restrained grinning. “A knight in slim-fit officewear. At least let me buy you coffee tomorrow as thanks.”

“You were already going to,” Sieun mutters, cheeks barely tinged pink as he looks away.

Before Suho can celebrate that tiny win, Sieun picks up another chocolate, something dark and nutty this time, and slides it gently toward Baekjin, who’s been quietly observing the whole interaction with his usual unreadable expression.

Baekjin glances down, then up at Sieun. There’s the faintest pause, like he’s caught off guard by the gesture.

“Thank you,” he says simply, and takes it with a small nod.

Suho watches this brief exchange with wide eyes, clearly unprepared for how… oddly formal and lowkey intimate it feels. Baekjin doesn’t make a face, doesn’t smile much, but the air between him and Sieun settles into something calm, maybe even appreciative.

Sieun just shrugs and leans back in his seat again, popping the citrus chocolate into his own mouth. “It’s decent,” he says after a moment, chewing thoughtfully. “Tastes like orange peel.”

Suho stares at him in awe. “Even willingly sacrifices yourself. God, you’re so cool.”

Sieun deadpans, “I think you’re just easily impressed.”

But he doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t say no to the praise. And he doesn’t look away too quickly when Suho flashes him that goofy, fond grin either.

Baekjin rises smoothly from his seat, brushing a nearly invisible crumb from his cuff with the kind of practiced, almost indifferent grace that only he could pull off. He gives one last glance toward Sieun, eyes unreadable as always, then offers a faint nod of dismissal. “I’ll be in meetings for the remainder of the afternoon. Keep the contract with you for now, review it at your own pace.”

Sieun nods, polite and neutral as ever. “Yes, Director.”

Baekjin’s eyes flick to Suho, just for a second, maybe less, but enough that the air feels colder. He doesn’t say anything. Just walks off, footsteps silent, posture perfect, leaving the two of them in the now-quiet cafeteria.

As soon as Baekjin disappears around the corner, Suho lets out a low, dramatic breath, dragging his hand down his face. “Jesus,” he mutters, slumping forward just slightly. “Sitting next to him feels like walking on glass. On a mountain. In a suit.”

Sieun hums, vaguely amused. “It’s not that bad.”

Suho turns to look at him, incredulous. “Are we talking about the same man? That guy makes eye contact and I feel like I need to apologize for existing.”

Sieun doesn’t bother to argue. He just quietly stacks their empty trays and wipes the table down with a practiced hand. “You’re just sensitive.”

“I am sensitive,” Suho says, dramatically placing a hand on his heart. “And that man looks at people like they’re either wasting his time or already disappointing him.”

Sieun gives him a sidelong glance, lips twitching. “Maybe you’re projecting.”

Suho scoffs. “Okay, rude. And slightly accurate.”

They leave the cafeteria together, their steps falling into rhythm without thinking. The hallway hums with the dull energy of the post-lunch lull, people returning to desks, yawns being stifled, the occasional voice drifting from a meeting room.

As they reach the office lobby, Suho slows, dragging his feet just a little.

Sieun stops in front of the elevator, pressing the button. “You said you had an off-site appointment?”

“Yeah.” Suho’s voice sounds less enthused now, like he’s already anticipating boredom. “Some client follow-up. Paperwork and smiling until my face cramps.”

The elevator dings and Sieun steps inside. Suho lingers at the door, fidgeting slightly, as if trying to buy a few more seconds.

“I’ll be back before the day ends,” he says, like Sieun was planning to ask. “Maybe we can, uh… talk again later?”

Sieun tilts his head, quietly puzzled. “We’re coworkers. We’ll see each other.”

Suho grins, and it’s bright and crooked in that way that makes people forgive him too easily. “Yeah, but I meant after work. Or during work. Or you know—just not while we’re doing… spreadsheets.”

The elevator doors begin to close, and Suho takes a step back, waving lazily. “Anyway, don’t miss me too much.”

Sieun just raises an eyebrow as the doors shut.

Back in the quiet of the elevator, Sieun exhales slowly, glancing down at the contract still tucked beneath his arm. Suho’s voice still echoes faintly in his mind, dramatic and persistent. And under that, just the tiniest flutter of something unfamiliar.

Not bad.

Not good either.

Just… new.

Chapter Text

The office is quiet in that post-lunch haze…keyboards clacking, phones humming, and low voices blending into the rhythm of a workday slowly dragging its feet toward evening. At his desk, Sieun types with calm, unhurried precision. His brow is slightly furrowed, eyes narrowed at the screen, his posture relaxed but alert. There’s a soft tap of his fingers on the keys, the occasional flicker of his mouse. It’s peaceful… rare, almost meditative.

Behind him, Baku approaches Sieun’s desk with all the stealth of a toddler trying to tiptoe across creaky floorboards. He’s practically bouncing in place, his fingers itching for mischief, his grin already forming before he even does anything. The afternoon sun spills through the office windows in golden slants, catching on Sieun’s chocolate brown hair as he types away, focused and silent as ever, looking like he’s in a world of numbers and logic far away from the chaos Baku usually thrives in.

Instinctively, Baku raises his hand to tap Sieun on the shoulder, just a friendly little surprise, nothing aggressive, maybe a light jump scare at most. But then he freezes mid-motion.

He remembers.

Last time, Sieun had jerked so hard he nearly sent his coffee flying across the desk. His eyes had gone wide in this mix of annoyance and surprise, and he’d muttered a dry, "Don’t touch me," like Baku had just tried to inject him with the plague. And even though Baku had laughed it off back then, the memory lingers now, his arm hovering awkwardly in the air.

Right. No touchy.

Baku glances around for a different approach, something less invasive but equally annoying. His eyes land on the pen clipped to his shirt pocket. Slowly, with the care of someone diffusing a bomb, he pulls it free and leans in.

Then—poke.

The pen taps Sieun’s shoulder like a polite mosquito. Not enough to hurt, just enough to break the trance of his deep work concentration.

Sieun turns slowly, like a machine booting back into human mode. His brown eyes are as flat and unimpressed as ever, and he looks at Baku for a long, silent second.

Baku grins at him with all the innocence of a puppy caught chewing on shoes. “Heyyy.”

Sieun blinks once. Slowly. His gaze shifts to the pen still in Baku’s hand, then back to Baku’s face. If his expression could speak, it would say: Really? A pen?

“Figured it was better than you stabbing me with your eyes again,” Baku says, rocking back on his heels with a bright, sheepish look. His dark eyes sparkle with mischief, and he wiggles the pen a little like it’s a peace offering. “See? Non-threatening. No physical trauma today.”

Sieun watches Baku with a faint, expectant look, arms crossed, the glow of his monitor still painting the edge of his cheekbones in light. “What do you want?” he asks, voice flat but not unkind. The question is routine now. Baku never shows up without a reason.

Baku’s grin stretches immediately, like he’s been waiting for that exact cue. “Okay, okay, listen—don’t interrupt me,” he begins, raising a finger in the air dramatically like he’s giving a TED Talk. “There’s a company dinner tonight. I know, I know, before you say anything, yes, it’s one of those things. Loud, crowded, awkward. But hear me out.”

Sieun blinks slowly. He isn’t saying anything.

Baku barrels on anyway. “You never go. Never. Not once. Not even when we got free beef buffet, remember that? So I figured, this time, maybe, just maybe, you could actually show up. For once. Just this once. You don’t have to talk to anyone, you don’t have to smile.. honestly, you could sit there and glower into your water and I’d still consider it a win.”

Still, Sieun says nothing, just nods once. It’s subtle. Barely a movement. “I’ll go,” he murmurs.

Baku doesn’t register it at all.

“Look, if you don’t want to talk to people, just sit with me. I’ll deflect all the annoying coworkers, I’ll eat enough for both of us if you get overwhelmed, I’ll even—wait.” He stops. Mid-ramble. His eyes flick up to Sieun’s, narrowing suspiciously. “Wait. Did you just say…?”

Sieun raises a brow, expression unreadable. “I said I’ll go.”

Silence.

For a brief moment, Baku just stands there, mouth slightly open, like his brain is rebooting. Then the realization hits him all at once, and he stumbles back a half step like the words physically knocked into him.

“You’ll—you’ll go?!” he repeats, voice climbing a little too high in disbelief. “YOU?!”

Sieun tilts his head. “Yes. You’ve said it five times now.”

Baku practically vibrates in place, grinning like he just won the lottery. “You’re not messing with me, right? You’re not gonna bail last second and send a text like ‘actually I fell into a well, enjoy the soup’?”

“I don’t text you that often,” Sieun says dryly.

But Baku isn’t listening anymore. He fist-pumps the air, spins on his heel, and practically skips away from the desk, buzzing with uncontainable energy. “This is huge!” he shouts behind him. “I gotta find something nice to wear… I mean, you won’t notice but it’s the principle!” Baku fails to remember they have to wear their company suits, but it’s the thought that matters.

Sieun shakes his head quietly, already regretting this a little. But still… there’s a flicker of something, just beneath the surface of his usual stillness.

Something like curiosity. Or maybe anticipation

The office starts to buzz with that distinct energy of the end of the day, papers shuffle faster, computer screens are locked with more enthusiasm, and the distant sound of laughter and casual conversation rises like a slow tide. Sieun stays seated, unbothered, his fingers gliding steadily across his keyboard, the glow of his monitor reflecting faintly in his calm, coffee-brown eyes.

Around him, people begin to gather near the exits, clumping together in familiar teams and groups, chatting excitedly about dinner. Tonight’s location: Korean BBQ. The company spared no expense, it’s the first official gathering in a long time, and enthusiasm is at an all-time high. Coworkers huddle near the elevators, discussing side dishes, hoping they get a good table near the grill, gossiping already about who’s going to get too drunk and embarrass themselves.

Sieun keeps working, focused, calm. One more report to send, two more lines to review. Just enough to stay in his bubble for a few more minutes.

And then, like clockwork, a whirlwind of energy crashes into his personal space.

“Sieun-ahhhhh,” Baku groans, dragging out his name like a melodramatic sibling, leaning over Sieun’s desk and trying to peek at his screen. “You’re still working?! Everyone’s heading out!”

Sieun doesn’t even glance up. “I’m aware.”

“Then stop working!” Baku dramatically flops half his weight onto the desk like he’s about to melt into it. “You’re gonna miss everything! What if they eat all the brisket?! What if someone takes the last of the steamed egg?! What if they make me do the grilling?! I’ll die.”

Sieun finally looks up with a blink, his expression unreadable but vaguely amused. “I said I’ll come. I just need to finish something.”

“You said that twenty minutes ago!”

“That was twenty minutes ago.”

Baku groans again, louder this time, but there’s a playful glint in his eyes. “You’re gonna ditch, aren’t you? Be honest. You’re gonna fake a cough and go home and then text me a sad emoji later.”

Sieun exhales through his nose, not quite a sigh, but close. “I won’t ditch.”

“Promise?”

There’s a beat. A pause long enough that Baku thinks he might dodge the question again. But Sieun finally responds, tone flat but clear.

“I promise.”

That shuts Baku up for a second. He blinks, surprised, then breaks into a huge, satisfied grin. “Okay, okay! I’ll hold you to it. If you don’t show, I’m calling your mom.”

“She doesn’t have a phone,” Sieun says simply, eyes back on his screen.

“Lies!” Baku squawks, pointing accusingly. “You just don’t want me to have her number.”

Sieun doesn’t respond, and Baku makes a noise of protest before finally giving up, standing straight and brushing off his jacket with dramatic flair.

“Alright. I’ll go save us a good spot. Don’t take too long, Mr. Work Mode.” He throws in a wink and two finger guns before turning to leave, weaving into the excited crowd of employees gathered by the elevators.

The office gradually empties, footsteps and chatter fading into the hallway as the doors close behind them. Silence settles around Sieun like a familiar blanket.

He doesn’t mind it.

Quietly, efficiently, he gets back to work, the echo of Baku’s goofy grin still lingering faintly in the back of his mind.
————————————————————————
The second Sieun steps into the BBQ place, the smell hits him like a wall… grease, smoke, sizzling meat, and something vaguely sweet and fermented wafting from a boiling pot near one of the center grills. The noise is worse. Clinking soju bottles, boisterous laughter, chopsticks tapping against metal plates, someone already a little too drunk singing a trot song from the corner.

He winces almost imperceptibly. His nose wrinkles, not dramatically, just enough to betray how out of place he feels.

He stands awkwardly in the entryway, arms loosely at his sides, surveying the room with a kind of weary caution. His eyes flit toward a particularly loud table near the middle, and of course, there’s Baku, animated and glowing like someone turned up his internal volume knob. He’s surrounded by coworkers, some from other departments, all with flushed cheeks and crooked ties. Someone’s pouring him a drink. Someone else is laughing at something he said.

Sieun takes one step back. Just one.

He can disappear now. No one’s noticed him yet. He can fake a call, pretend he went to the wrong location, text Baku an apology and crawl back into the safety of his apartment. He doesn’t need grilled meat and awkward ice breakers. He doesn’t want half-drunken coworkers asking him questions about his love life and commenting on how “quiet he is, but probably secretly intense.”

He shifts on his heel to leave—

And a hand shoots out, catching the edge of his sleeve.

He turns, startled.

It’s Suho.

Sitting at the corner of a long bench seat, slightly flushed from the heat of the grill, still dressed neatly in his work slacks and a black button-up rolled to the elbows. He’s halfway through a pour of cider, but his focus is entirely on Sieun now, lips curled in a soft smile that deepens the longer he holds eye contact.

“Sieun,” Suho says, like he’s genuinely surprised but also stupidly pleased.

Sieun blinks, startled by the warm press of thoughts that bleed instantly into his mind like they were just waiting for the door to crack open.

——He actually came. Holy shit, I thought he’d ditch for sure. Did Baku bribe him? Or blackmail? Doesn’t matter, he’s here. He’s here and he looks good. Did he do something to his hair? No. Focus, Suho. Just—play it cool. Don’t be weird. DON’T BE WEIRD.——

Sieun’s eye twitches. Not from the thoughts exactly, but from the intensity of them. It’s like standing too close to a heater.

“You’re here,” Suho adds dumbly, smile still in place, even though his brain is screaming other things.

Sieun nods slowly, unsure if he should be amused or concerned. Probably both.

“I told Baku I’d come.”

Suho lets go of his sleeve, but only to scoot over on the bench, patting the now-vacant space beside him with entirely too much enthusiasm.

“Sit. We saved you a spot. Kind of.”

Sieun’s gaze flicks to the crowd, then back to Suho, then to the warm bench seat that Suho is clearly trying to reserve with sheer willpower.

“I don’t like—”

“I know,” Suho says quickly, lowering his voice to match Sieun’s calm, low tone. “It’s the least loud part of the table. I swear. No one here’s drunk yet. Just... come sit before Baku tries to drag you into a drinking game.”

Sieun hesitates. He gently moves his foot forward, it touches Suho’s thigh gently. His eyes scan Suho’s face, thoughtful, a little suspicious.

Suho holds his breath.

——Please don’t run away. Please just sit. Please just let me have this one moment where we’re not in the office and you’re not avoiding me like I have a contagious disease. I won’t even talk too much. I’ll shut up if he wants. He can just eat. He’s so cute when he eats. No—no. Focus. Breathe.——

Sieun exhales slowly.

And sits.

Suho immediately looks like someone just won the lottery, and even though Sieun pretends not to notice, he feels the heat climb to the tips of his ears.

Maybe this was a mistake.

But then Suho quietly slides a clean plate toward him and offers a small bowl of side dishes like it’s the most natural thing in the world… it’s not so bad.

The door swings open again with a faint chime and a hush rolls across the restaurant like a sudden breeze.

Na Baekjin steps in.

Immaculate, as always.

Even here, far from the polished halls of the office, surrounded by smoke and noise and coworkers in loosened ties, he stands like a still point in a chaotic room. His crisp white shirt is buttoned to the top, dark slacks sharp and wrinkle-free, a simple silver watch gleaming against his pale wrist. He hasn’t bothered with the blazer tonight, but the lack of it somehow only draws attention to the clean lines of his figure.

For a moment, no one says anything. Then someone from HR spots him and shouts, “Director Na!” with that mix of awe and desperation only seen when a superior might foot the bill.

A wave of greetings follows, people practically jumping to their feet to bow, wave, and earn his favor.

Baekjin nods politely, his expression unreadable. Cool charcoal eyes glide across the tables.

Until they land on Sieun.

He freezes, barely. A split second. His gaze sharpens almost imperceptibly.

Sieun, oblivious, is nibbling on a piece of grilled mushroom Suho placed on his plate. His face is passive, eyes on his food, every bit the picture of calm detachment. There’s a tiny smudge of sauce on the corner of his mouth, which Suho is clearly resisting the urge to wipe off.

Baekjin’s jaw ticks.

He clears his throat. “I won’t be staying long,” he says, voice clipped but polite, “I have a meeting in twenty.”

A few disappointed murmurs echo through the crowd.

“However,” he adds, pulling a sleek card from his wallet and handing it to the manager, “I’ll cover the tab for tonight.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then chaos.

The room erupts in cheers. One of the interns pumps a fist in the air like they’ve just won a lottery. Someone shouts, “Director Na is the best!” and another person is already calculating how much soju they can responsibly order without passing out.

Baekjin’s eyes linger one beat longer on Sieun.

Still oblivious.

Still chewing, head tilted slightly to the side as Suho leans in to whisper something. Suho is clearly trying to play it cool, but the pink flush in his ears gives him away. People nearby have started casually glancing their way too, perhaps not surprised that the department ace has company, but definitely intrigued that it’s Sieun.

Baekjin finally nods to the room and turns to leave.

He doesn’t say goodbye to anyone in particular.

But the way his gaze flicks one last time toward Sieun before he steps out says enough.

Almost reluctantly.

The door closes behind him with a soft thud.

Meanwhile, inside, the atmosphere picks up again with renewed energy. Coworkers slide closer to the grills, someone cranks up the volume on a portable speaker, and the tables come alive with clinking chopsticks and banter.

Suho, unfortunately, has become the center of attention. Someone asks him if he models on the side, another coworker, tipsy already, shoves a cup of makgeolli toward him and begs him to do a toast. He smiles good-naturedly, brushing it all off with effortless charm, but every so often, his eyes drift back to Sieun.

Sieun, for his part, looks like a cat awkwardly stuck in a dog park.

He pokes at the meat on his plate with surgical precision, hunched slightly in an attempt to appear smaller. A woman across the table leans in to talk to him, but he pretends not to hear. Suho notices this and reaches over to casually refill Sieun’s water, shifting slightly closer in the process.

“Doing okay?” Suho murmurs, low enough that only Sieun can hear.

Sieun glances at him. Nods. “No one’s touched me. So I’m fine.”

Suho snorts and hides a smile behind his glass.

Across the room, Baku raises a cup dramatically and shouts, “TO FREE MEALS!”

Sieun’s eye twitches. Suho just laughs.

Sieun begins to eat again, eating whatever’s placed on his plate. Suho doesn’t make a show of it.

It’s subtle. Every time Sieun finishes a piece of meat or clears a small dish, a new bite seems to appear on his plate within seconds, laid there with quiet care, never too much, never too fast. A perfectly seared piece of galbi, a crisp-edged slice of pork belly folded over a sliver of kimchi, a small stack of pickled radish slices to cut the richness. He does it in between conversations, never pausing, never announcing it. Like it’s second nature.

Sieun doesn’t comment, but his chopsticks don’t stop moving.

The food is good. Better than he expected. The grilled meats are smoky and tender, the sides are cold and vinegared and spicy in a way that feels oddly grounding. There’s a kind of rhythm to it, grill, eat, sip water, get nudged slightly closer to Suho by the shifting bodies around them. Someone behind him laughs loud enough to make his ears flinch, but Suho leans in just a bit, his presence a kind of shield against the general chaos.

Around them, the table is a tangle of stories and noise. Suho’s a natural at this, his charm, like the scent of the barbecue, is pervasive but not overbearing. He’s laughing with one of the HR associates about a typo in an email subject line that went viral in the company group chat last week. Then he’s turning to his left to ask the finance intern if they’re surviving their first month. Someone leans across to compliment his shirt, and he blushes a little, making a joke about how it was the only thing clean this morning.

It’s impressive, really. He never seems fake. Just… genuinely kind. Like he actually cares if people are having a good time.

Still, every few minutes, his hand drifts back toward Sieun’s plate.

Sieun, for his part, says very little.

He eats with quiet diligence, like he’s trying to keep his head down in the middle of a battlefield. His chopsticks move with quiet precision, his posture stiff but not unfriendly, his eyes occasionally scanning the room like he’s trying to locate all the exits in case of emergency.

He’s hyper-aware of the way Suho keeps inching closer, their knees almost touching now beneath the table. The occasional brush of Suho’s elbow when he reaches for the tongs feels magnified. The background noise, clinks, sizzles, laughter, fades just enough for him to notice the steady cadence of Suho’s voice, the way it dips slightly lower when he’s addressing him directly.

At one point, Suho turns and gently sets a piece of grilled squid on Sieun’s plate.

Sieun pauses, lifts a brow. “You know I don’t like squid.”

“I know,” Suho says, unfazed. “Try it anyway.”

Sieun narrows his eyes like he’s debating whether it’s a trap, then eats it anyway.

He doesn’t make a face. But he doesn’t ask for more.

Suho smirks and returns to his conversation with the girl from accounting.

The fire in the grill pops. A wave of oily smoke billows upward, and Sieun instinctively lifts his sleeve to shield his face. Suho uses the moment to fan the grill with a paper plate, fussing briefly with the vents, then turns and offers Sieun a can of cold cider pulled from the ice bucket.

He opens it for him without being asked.

“Thanks,” Sieun says, quiet but sincere.

Suho just nods. There’s a small crinkle at the corners of his eyes. “You eating enough?”

“I haven’t stopped eating since I sat down,” Sieun replies, deadpan.

“You have a small mouth,” Suho says without thinking.

Sieun chokes slightly on the cider. “Excuse me?”

Suho freezes. “Wait—I didn’t mean it weird! I just meant, like, you take small bites, and—oh my god, ignore me.”

Sieun stares at him for a moment, unreadable.

Then, almost imperceptibly, the corner of his mouth twitches.

Suho catches it like it’s gold.

“Oh my god,” he whispers, hand to his chest. “Was that a smile? Are you smiling right now?”

“I’m chewing,” Sieun replies, taking another deliberately slow bite of pork belly.

“That counts.”

The food keeps coming. Coworkers wander in and out of the conversation bubble surrounding their half of the table, and somehow, Suho maintains it all, effortlessly slipping in and out of casual banter, always managing to keep a sliver of his attention reserved for the man beside him. He offers Sieun a lettuce wrap without saying anything. Holds it out with one hand while still talking to someone across the grill about where to get the best kimchi jjigae in Gangnam.

Sieun takes it.

Suho grins and keeps talking, like he didn’t just internally explode from the brief brush of fingers.

And still, Sieun eats.

He hasn’t spoken more than a dozen sentences since arriving, but Suho looks at him like he’s never been more content.

At some point, someone from marketing slumps down beside them, sweating from the grill and beaming with the happy flush of two beers and zero inhibitions. “You two are like—so domestic,” she says, pointing vaguely between them with her chopsticks. “Like an old married couple who came straight from work to pick up their kid from soccer practice or something.”

Suho laughs it off, light and easy, but his ears go pink.

Sieun freezes mid-bite. Then sets down his chopsticks.

“I don’t like soccer,” he says coolly.

The girl laughs like it’s the best punchline she’s ever heard and wanders off to get another drink.

Suho is biting his lip to keep from laughing.

“You do know that made it sound more married, right?” he whispers.

“Don’t be weird, why would I marry you?” Sieun says, which is bold, considering he’s now accepting a third helping of grilled beef that Suho just placed in front of him.

“Why not?” Suho replies, absolutely glowing.

Sieun chokes slightly upon hearing those words and he turns his head incredulously looking at Suho with wide eyes. Suho grins unfazed.

The table is a chaotic battlefield of soju bottles, grilling tongs, crumpled napkins, and laughter loud enough to shake the metal exhaust fans overhead. Everyone’s eaten their fill, more than enough pork belly and spicy stew to fuel poor decisions, and now, naturally, the energy shifts.

Drinking games.

Sieun already feels the buzz of noise clawing at his ears. He's tucked into the corner, a stoic little statue with a plate of untouched lettuce wraps and kimchi, silently praying no one remembers he’s here.

Spoiler: they remember.

“All right!” someone shouts, slamming a shot glass down like a gavel. “Let’s play King’s Dare!”

Groans and cheers break out across the group. Even Suho’s smile falters slightly, just for a moment.

King’s Dare is a simple, chaotic mess: everyone draws a stick with a number on it. One stick says “King.” The King picks two numbers and gives them a dare. The victims can either complete the dare… or take a shot.

The sticks are passed out, and chaos begins.

First round… someone dares Baku to bark like a dog every time someone says “drink.” He agrees far too quickly. (It becomes a problem almost immediately.)

Second round… a junior staff member gets dared to sing a ballad, on one knee, to the nearest bottle of beer. She does it with the commitment of a musical theater major and earns raucous applause.

Suho, charming as ever, tries to stay on the sidelines with Sieun. He laughs at the right moments, dodges his turn with smooth excuses, but Sieun notices the slight tension in his jaw. The faintest smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

He also notices Suho hasn’t touched his drink.

Not once.

And while Suho’s good at playing it off, Sieun’s sharper than he looks. He doesn’t say anything, because drawing attention to it would only make things worse, but he watches, quietly nudging food onto Suho’s plate every now and then like a silent protective detail.

Then it happens.

A tipsy guy from HR, cheeks flushed and voice far too loud, raises his King stick and declares, “Number 3… and number 6!”

Everyone checks their sticks. Suho lifts his with a raised brow. “Three.”

Sieun looks down.

Six.

He blinks.

No. Absolutely not.

The room erupts in laughter and whooping cheers, the kind that make the air feel heavier, louder, messier.

“Three and six!” the HR guy bellows again, grinning like he’s just ignited a fireworks show. “Suho and Sieun! Let’s go!”

The cheers rise louder now, a chant building under the clatter of shot glasses and the hiss of sizzling meat. Suho turns slowly toward Sieun, one hand rising halfway as if to wave this all away. But it’s too late. The eyes are on them.

Sieun doesn’t move.

Doesn’t blink.

His entire body stiffens like someone just replaced his spine with steel. He grips the edge of the table like it might help him vanish through it.

"No," he says plainly, voice flat and emotionless, like it's not a refusal, but a fact. “I’m not doing that.”

Baku leans over, mouth agape, whispering dramatically, “You got picked? You and Suho? This is fate. The universe ships you.”

Sieun stares ahead, unblinking.

HR guy snickers, “C’mon, it’s just a game. Don’t be boring. Otherwise, you drink.”

And there it is… the rule. The trap. If they don’t do the dare, they drink. Simple.

But Suho…

Suho hasn’t drunk anything all night.

No one’s said anything about it. No one’s noticed. No one except Sieun, who caught every casual pass of the shot glass, every deflection, every tilt of Suho’s head that suggested he wasn’t trying to be rude, just quietly avoiding. He’s been silently dodging shots for hours.

Sieun’s jaw tightens. He knows.

He doesn’t want to say it out loud. He doesn’t want to draw attention to Suho’s quiet boundaries. Doesn’t want to make Suho explain anything to this crowd of tipsy coworkers eager for drama and chaos.

But now, that very boundary is teetering on the edge of a choice Sieun doesn't want to make.

Then Suho laughs.

Soft and awkward, with his hand running sheepishly through his hair. His eyes flick to Sieun’s, nervous, apologetic, almost pleading.

“It’s just a game,” Suho says quietly, smiling in that lopsided way of his. “Let’s just get it over with.”

Sieun stares at him.

——Oh man, Sieun really seems to hate the idea… should I just drink? I don’t want to scare him away, he shouldn’t have to do anything he’s uncomfortable with——

The thoughts slam into Sieun like cold water. He blinks fast, as if it might shut them out.

“I… fine,” Sieun says, barely above a whisper.

Baku gasps, hand flying to his chest in theatrical shock. “He agreed?! Oh my God—this is historic. This is national news.”

The table starts chanting again, louder this time.

“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”

Sieun squeezes his eyes shut like he’s bracing for impact.

He doesn’t know what’s worse, the idea of kissing Suho in front of everyone, or the way his stomach keeps fluttering like someone just turned on a fan inside it.

And then, gentle fingers graze his cheek.

Not forceful.

Not rushed.

Just a featherlight touch.

Suho leans in. There’s a slight shift in the air, the faint scent of soap and cologne, the brush of heat as his breath fans against Sieun’s face.

And then—

Soft.

Barely there.

A kiss lands, not on his lips, but his eyelid. Warm, patient, and entirely tender.

Sieun’s lashes flutter against it in surprise.

He freezes.

The world goes quiet.

Or maybe not, the table definitely boos them, dramatic and exaggerated, people tossing napkins and groaning like they’ve been cheated out of their entertainment.

But Sieun doesn’t hear any of it.

Because what he does hear is Suho’s thoughts.

——I couldn’t do it. Not like that. Not in front of all these people. He looked so scared. I just wanted to be gentle. I didn’t want him to hate me. I don’t care if they boo. I just want him to know… I’d never do anything to make him uncomfortable.——

Sieun’s eyes shoot open.

He stares at Suho, stunned.

And suddenly, the room feels smaller. Too warm. Too loud. His heart won’t stop pounding in his ears and guilt coils in his stomach like a stone.

Because Suho’s thoughts, those soft, painfully sincere thoughts, feel far too kind. Too careful. Too much like real affection.

Sieun swallows hard.

He doesn't know how to react.

So, he does what he always does.

He lowers his eyes, takes a sip of water, and pretends like his face isn’t burning.

The table erupts.

“Boooooo!”
“Oh come on, that doesn’t count!”
“Do it properly!”
“Cowards!”

Laughter and teasing flood the space like a wave, messy and merciless. A handful of coworkers even pound on the table for dramatic effect, chanting “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” again like they’re a sports crowd instead of mildly tipsy office workers with too much pork belly and zero sense of shame.

Sieun doesn’t react. He doesn’t flinch or roll his eyes or glare like some might expect him to. Instead, his hand shoots out toward the center of the table, snatches a shot glass, and without a single word, he tips it back.

Down it goes in one clean, sharp motion.

The table stutters into silence.

Then:
“Oh.”
“…Damn.”
“Guess he really didn’t want to kiss Suho.”

Someone even mutters, a little too loudly, “Man, that’s harsh. Poor Suho.”

Sieun sets the glass down with a soft clink. His expression doesn’t change. It’s still calm, composed, cold. The same unreadable look that’s made him a mystery to the entire department since the day he walked in.

Suho turns, slowly, searching his expression. And something flickers across his features. Just the faintest shadow. Hurt.

Of course he’d take it that way.

To everyone else, it looked like Sieun was trying to desperately avoid kissing Suho on the mouth. A silent rejection served with a side of soju. It’s not that Sieun hated the thought, he’s just never done it before.

So Suho, smiling too lightly now, reaches for another shot.

“Guess I better take one too, huh?” he says, trying to laugh it off.

But before his fingers can even curl around the glass, Sieun’s hand is there again.

He grabs it. And downs it. Second shot. Clean. No hesitation.

A heavy pause ripples across the group.

Someone chokes on their soju. Another gasps. “Wait—did he just—?”

“Two?!” someone whispers.

The whispers grow louder, confused and slightly judgmental.

“What’s his problem?”
“Isn’t that a little rude?”
“Why’s he acting like Suho’s toxic or something?”

But Suho isn’t listening to them.

He’s staring at Sieun. His brows lift slightly, lips parting in something like stunned surprise. It’s subtle, small, but it’s the most off-guard anyone’s seen him all night.

Because it clicks.

Suho hasn’t touched a single shot all night. Not one. He’s deflected every attempt with charm and good timing, always laughing, always smooth. Nobody’s noticed.

Nobody… except Sieun.

Sieun, who just took both shots in his place. Who didn’t say anything, didn’t try to explain or call attention to it, just did it.

Just covered for him.

Just protected him, in his own strange, awkward, painfully Sieun way.

Suho’s chest tightens unexpectedly.

For a second, all he can do is stare at the stiff line of Sieun’s shoulders, the faint red at the tips of his ears, and the way his fingers twitch slightly where they rest near the edge of the table. He’s not looking at anyone. Certainly not at Suho. He just sits there in silence, absorbing the whispers, the misunderstandings, the weight of everyone assuming the worst.

But not once does he look regretful.

Not once does he try to explain himself.

Suho’s heart does a strange, warm flip.

It’s dumb. Dumb that a double shot could mean something. But somehow it does. Somehow, in that tiny, wordless gesture, Sieun had said I got you. And no one in the room but Suho even realizes it.

He reaches under the table and lightly nudges Sieun’s knee with his own.

Sieun blinks at the contact. He glances over, finally meeting Suho’s eyes. For a second, he looks startled. Then wary. Then… something else.

Suho smiles. Soft. Grateful. Just for him.

Sieun flushes darker and immediately looks away.

Sieun stands up abruptly.

It’s not dramatic. No scraping chairs or sharp words. Just… quiet. Sudden. Deliberate. He places his chopsticks down neatly on the edge of his plate and pushes his chair back, rising with the same stiff grace as someone leaving a board meeting.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” he says, monotone.

Suho glances up, concern flickering behind his eyes. “Are you—”

But Sieun is already turning away.

He threads through the chaos of the table without touching anyone, shoulders tight, gaze pointed straight ahead like he’s navigating a minefield. The laughter, the clinking glasses, the sizzling meat, it’s all too much. His chest feels hot and constricted, like he’s been breathing the same smoky air for too long and there’s no oxygen left for himself.

As he nears the entrance, a shape slumps against the wall just outside the restroom hallway.

It’s Baku.

Flushed red, shirt rumpled, clutching his stomach like he’s just run a marathon and lost a bet doing it. He lets out a dramatic groan, one arm thrown over his eyes.

“Uggghhhh—” Baku whines to no one. “I knew I shouldn’t have had the third round of tripe. Who eats three rounds of tripe?! I’m gonna die here. I’m gonna be buried with honor in a BBQ grave.”

Sieun pauses. Looks at him. For a moment, he considers just… leaving him there.

But then he exhales sharply through his nose and veers toward the door.

Except, he doesn’t turn into the restroom.

Instead, he walks straight out into the night.

The air outside is cool and damp, a light breeze lifting the heat from his skin. The neon signs hum softly. Streetlights cast long shadows onto the pavement. A convenience store sits across the street, glowing like a quiet sanctuary, rows of perfectly aligned instant ramen and heat packs and breath mints waiting inside like obedient little soldiers.

Sieun crosses the road.

He doesn’t rush.

The click of the automatic door is a small comfort, clean, mechanical, crisp. The inside of the store is blessedly quiet, aside from the faint classical music playing from the ceiling speakers, the kind only convenience store clerks tune out after hour two of a ten-hour shift. He walks with purpose down the narrow aisles, fingers trailing briefly over the brightly colored labels, eyes scanning until they land on the small green box he needs… stomach medicine.

He grabs a can of cold barley tea too.

And on a whim… a banana milk.

Because Baku likes banana milk.

Sieun doesn’t think about why he knows that. He just does.

The cashier doesn’t say much, just nods politely and bags the items. Sieun pays in cash and tucks the receipt into his pocket without a word.

When he steps back outside, the air feels lighter. His pulse is steadier.

He stands still for a moment in the glow of the store’s fluorescent lights, listening to the faint hum of passing cars and distant voices spilling out from the restaurant down the block. There’s something calming about it, the way the night stretches wide and silent, a stark contrast to the noisy, crowded warmth of the dinner he left behind.

Part of him considers just staying out here.

But Baku’s hunched form flashes in his mind again, clutching his stomach like a dying man.

So he sighs. And turns back.

The noise hits him again the second he reenters the restaurant, but this time, it’s easier to tune out. He skirts the crowded table entirely, slipping along the edge of the room like a shadow.

Baku is still where he left him, slumped, miserable, alone. A few coworkers walk by laughing without noticing him. Others are too absorbed in their own drinks to care.

Sieun approaches without a word.

He crouches beside Baku and gently presses the cold barley tea into his hand. Baku startles, lifting his head slowly.

“Huh?” His voice is hoarse. “What—Sieun?”

Sieun doesn’t answer. He holds up the small box of stomach medicine and gives it a tiny shake. “Take this.”

Baku blinks at him like he’s hallucinating. “You… went out to buy this?”

Sieun nods once, already opening the blister pack and popping out two small tablets. He presses them into Baku’s palm, then opens the barley tea for him.

Baku stares at the items, stunned. “You seriously—?”

“You were being dramatic,” Sieun mutters, but there’s no edge to it. Just quiet practicality.

Baku takes the medicine with a grimace, washing it down with a long gulp of barley tea. When he lowers the can, he exhales like someone who just returned from the brink of death.

“God… you’re like… like some weird angel of spiteful kindness,” he mutters.

Sieun doesn’t respond. He just hands him the banana milk.

Baku laughs weakly. “Oh my god. You really bought banana milk? Are you serious right now? Are you trying to make me cry in a hallway?”

“I didn’t not see you cry last month at the printer,” Sieun replies coolly.

“That toner message was very emotional,” Baku defends, taking the banana milk gratefully and clutching it to his chest. “I felt attacked.”

Sieun reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone.

“I’m calling you a cab.”

“Wait—no, I’m fine now. Seriously. I’ll walk it off. I’ll just… digest with shame.”

“You can barely sit up.”

“I can lean with confidence.”

Sieun already has the taxi app open. “Your address is still the same?”

Baku sighs and slumps against the wall, defeated. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

A few moments later, Sieun helps him stand. Baku leans heavily on him for a second, more out of exaggeration than actual need.

“You’re such a tsundere, it’s actually painful,” Baku mumbles. “Like, you’re out here saving my intestines and still pretending you’re not nice.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. You’re like… aggressively thoughtful. It’s rude, honestly.”

Sieun doesn’t argue. He just walks Baku outside, quietly reads the license plate of the arriving taxi, and helps Baku into the back seat like he’s tucking in a child too proud to admit they’re sleepy.

The driver confirms the destination. Sieun thanks him. Closes the door.

And stands there.

Alone again, under the night sky, the soft engine noise of the cab fading into the distance.

He doesn’t go back into the restaurant right away.

Instead, he walks a short distance down the block, around the corner where the noise doesn’t reach, until he finds a little patch of sidewalk with an iron bench beside a shuttered store.

He sits.

Lets his head fall back against the bench, eyes tracing the few visible stars above the city haze. A breeze rustles through the trees lining the road. A cat darts across the alley nearby. A neon sign buzzes faintly.

For the first time that night, he breathes.

No expectations. No attention. No eyes watching him like he’s a puzzle to solve.

Just quiet.

He doesn’t smile.

But he doesn’t frown either.

Somewhere behind him, the restaurant still bubbles with noise and warmth. Somewhere inside, Suho might still be waiting.

But for now, Sieun allows himself this small silence.

It feels like a soft place to land

Sieun is still staring up at the night sky, back pressed against the cool slats of the metal bench, his legs slightly apart, arms slack at his sides, and head tilted toward the handful of pale stars struggling past the city haze. The world feels quieter here. Less busy. Less sharp. The tension in his shoulders is starting to fade, his breath coming out in softer intervals.

Suddenly

A shadow leans over him.

“Hey.”

Sieun jolts.

His body reacts faster than his brain, sitting up in a rush, spine snapping straight. Unfortunately, Suho had leaned in very close, his face practically hovering over Sieun’s. The result is instantaneous:

Clunk.

They bump heads hard enough to echo.

“Agh—!”
“Ow—!”

Both boys jerk back simultaneously, clutching their foreheads with matching winces of pain. Suho curses under his breath, rubbing the spot just above his brow with an open palm, while Sieun ducks his head in pure mortified horror.

“I—sorry! That was—!” Sieun blurts out, eyes wide, ears burning crimson. “I didn’t see you—!”

Suho laughs. A light, airy, unbothered kind of laugh. The kind that glows around the edges.

“No, no, my bad,” he says, smiling through the sting. “I forgot you startle like a stray cat.”

Sieun scowls, flustered. “Do not.”

“You absolutely do. If I’d had a spray bottle you would’ve bolted.”

Sieun glares at him, one hand still rubbing his forehead. “You think you’re so funny.”

“I know I’m funny,” Suho says with an easy grin, and plops down next to him on the bench like they’re two old friends sharing a late train ride.

They sit in silence for a moment, both looking up at the sky. The air between them hums, a little lighter now. A breeze rustles the trees above them, stirring leaves into gentle whispers.

Then, quietly, Suho says, “I’m sorry.”

Sieun turns his head slowly, brows knitting. “What?”

Suho doesn’t look at him right away. He keeps his gaze on the stars, like he’s trying to read some celestial apology script from the sky itself.

“For earlier,” he says, voice softer now. “The kiss. I shouldn’t’ve sprung that on you. You looked like you hated it.”

There’s a pause.

A heavy, awkward pause.

And then—

“I didn’t hate it,” Sieun blurts.

Loud. Unfiltered. Mortifyingly loud.

Suho turns to him, startled, blinking like a deer in headlights. Sieun, for his part, immediately covers his mouth with his hand like he just said the nuclear launch codes aloud.

“I mean—!” he says behind his fingers. “I—I didn’t mean to yell that. I was just—clarifying.”

Suho’s eyebrows slowly rise, and then that damn smile returns. The one that pulls crookedly at the corner of his mouth and makes his eyes crinkle with barely restrained amusement.

“You didn’t hate it,” he echoes, clearly enjoying himself now. “Huh. That’s interesting.”

Suho doesn’t say anything at first. Just keeps looking at Sieun with a strange intensity that immediately sends alarm bells ringing in Sieun’s already-overheated brain. The laughter is gone from Suho’s eyes now, replaced by something quieter, steadier. His expression sobers as the breeze plays with his bangs, and for a moment, the air between them feels like it’s holding its breath.

“You know what that means, right?” Suho asks, voice low.

Sieun swallows. His throat feels dry. The question hangs there, taut as a wire.

He doesn't answer. He can't. The blood rushes to his face so quickly he’s sure he must be glowing, his silence stretching on and on as he stares back, wide-eyed and speechless.

Then Suho moves.

Slowly he reaches out and cups the back of Sieun’s neck, fingers warm and steady against his skin. Sieun’s breath catches. The touch is grounding, but intimate in a way that sends a tremor all the way down to his toes. Suho’s other hand lifts gently, brushing knuckles along Sieun’s cheek before sliding under his chin. His fingers settle there, light but firm, coaxing Sieun’s face upward.

“Look at me,” Suho murmurs.

And Sieun does, reluctantly. His lashes flutter, his eyes darting from Suho’s lips to his eyes and back again, his chest tight, every nerve lit up like it’s been rewired.

Suho leans in.

It’s slow… agonizingly, achingly slow.

There’s no rush in it. No teasing this time. Just a quiet certainty in the way Suho closes the space between them. His breath ghosts across Sieun’s lips, and Sieun’s eyes widen as they become all he can see. Suho tilts his head slightly, his lips parting ever so slightly, and Sieun’s own lips instinctively mirror the motion. Their noses nearly brush. The scent of Suho’s cologne, soft mix of cedar and something fresh, maybe citrus, wraps around Sieun like a blanket, like a memory he wants to keep.

His heart is pounding so hard he can barely hear over it…

BZZZZT BZZZZZZT

Sieun jumps like he’s been electrocuted. His phone, wedged in the shallow pocket of his blazer, buzzes loud against the metal bench.

“Ah—!” he gasps, practically flinching backward.

The sudden movement breaks the moment like a snapped thread. Suho lets go of him, hand slipping away from Sieun’s neck with a low exhale as he leans back just enough to give him space.

“Phone,” Suho says, voice soft but resigned. He drags a hand down his face, fingers splayed across his brow as if trying to shake off the weight of what just nearly happened. “You should… pick it up.”

Sieun fumbles for it, hands shaking slightly. He doesn’t dare look Suho in the eye, too aware of his own flushed cheeks and how close they’d just been, how close they still are.

“R-Right,” he says, ducking his head. He answers the call with a sheepish, breathless, “Hello?”

Suho doesn’t listen in, doesn’t try to eavesdrop, just watches him, that usual lopsided smile flickering faintly at the corners of his lips, though it’s a little more tired now. A little more held back.

Sieun listens to the voice on the other end, his friend Juntae is calling him. He listens carefully and nods a few times even though his friend can’t see him. His voice stays even, if a little rushed.

“Yeah, I—uh—it’s not… really a good time. Can we talk tomorrow?” he says, rubbing the back of his neck and sneaking a glance at Suho, who raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything. “Okay. Yeah. Bye.”

He hangs up and exhales, long and shaky.

The silence that follows is thick. Awkward in the way that leaves his fingers twitchy and his pulse still fluttering in his ears.

“I… I didn’t mean to ruin the moment,” Sieun says eventually, voice small, fingers twisting the hem of his sleeve.

Suho chuckles, reaching over and giving his shoulder a brief nudge. “You didn’t ruin anything,” he says, breezy and warm again. “Just gave me something to look forward to.”

Sieun blinks. “Huh?”

Suho leans back on the bench, arms stretching along the backrest like he’s settling into a throne. “Next time,” he says, flashing that confident grin again. “You won’t have any distractions. No phone. No startled cat reflex.”

Sieun turns away to hide the new flush crawling up his ears. “There won’t be a next time.”

Suho laughs again, low and amused. “You never know, it might happen.”