Minho

The corporate office was mostly empty, the typical daytime buzz replaced by the hum of the air conditioning and the distant, rhythmic tap of a stray keyboard. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the evening sun was flattening against the skyline, casting long, geometric shadows across the rows of vacant desks. Jisung sat in the quiet glare of his monitor, his eyes burning from hours of looking at spreadsheets, the silence of the floor stretching around him like a held breath.

Then, Minho’s voice cut through the quiet, close enough to make Jisung’s shoulders instantly tighten. His pulse gave a sudden, erratic jump in his throat as the director leaned down over his desk. One of Minho's palms came to rest flat on the polished wood, while the other settled directly between Jisung’s shoulder blades – a heavy, grounding pressure that felt far too deliberate to be purely professional. Han Jisung had always been the quiet, efficient employee, the type to bury himself in his work and never make waves. And Lee Minho – Minho was the kind of man who knew exactly how to use that diligence to his own advantage.

— Han Jisung, have you finished your report? he murmured, his breath brushing the shell of the younger man's ear. — There’s only an hour left until it’s due.

The voice was smooth, carrying a quiet, controlled authority that made Jisung completely forget how to breathe.