men please dni & fuck off - just know if you don’t, i will block you. thank you 🙏
𝓪𝓫𝓸𝓾𝓽 𝓶𝓮. 𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽.
shreya/shrey! she/her, 18, bi, british born and raised desi!
ults: blackpink & twice.
stan list: blackpink, twice, red velvet, seventeen, & treasure.
this is my second account (i use my first as a way to keep in touch with lit/songs/culture from where im ethnically from) so i can’t have moots im so sorry 😔😔
i do not write/publish my work anywhere but Tumblr—kindly, if you see my work on anything else, please let me know and share the link, thank you!
𝔀𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓲 𝔀𝓻𝓲𝓽𝓮
will write: girls groups (mainly twice) & any other group in MY stan list, wlw, idol x idol, idol x FEM reader, hc’s, angst, fluff, smut, suggestive, sfw, nsfw, and potentially requests as long as they fit in with my rules.
will NOT write: idols that are minors, GP reader/idol, no male readers, anything that i do not want to/makes me uncomfortable.
requests/asks are open, however, please understand i am NOT obligated to write them.
please click here to see how you can support me. thank you xx
𝓻𝓾𝓵𝓮𝓼
no male readers!!
dni; men. if i see your blog interacting with mine, and there is no indication that you are a female, you WILL be blocked.
hi guys, i’m so sorry for being completely inactive for the past three months. i appreciate many of you reaching out to me to check that i’m okay, and i’m very sorry that i have not replied.
below is my explanation for my inactivity but please note that it involves some sensitive aspects.
towards the end of december, i was in the car with a couple of my friends when a drunk driver hit us. in this accident, i had some severe injuries, including some broken bones, that i am still healing from. however, i should be grateful that a few injuries are all that i sustained because one of my friends in the car ended up passing away.
it has taken me a while to fully comprehend what has occurred and i’m very sorry to have just disappeared on you all. please understand that it wasn’t me just quitting my blog, instead it was me sort of forced to stop with my fics to focus on my health and recovery, whilst also mourning the loss of a friend that i was very close to.
soon, i will continue posting. i’m not exactly sure when but it will not be long, but please bare with me and have some patience because i have still not fully returned to “normal” in terms of health and mind.
please know that this explanation is not me trying to gain sympathy or anything of sorts, it is plainly just an explanation of my inactivity.
thank you so much for reading & being patient, and i am truly sorry to have just stopped posting.
now playing: stunner - ten, tempo - kyu, run for the hills - tate mcrae.
synopsis - on your first day, you make the mistake of stepping into ceo park jihyo’s office. the sharp encounter leaves you avoiding her for months, keeping to the edges of every corridor. but distance only sharpens her awareness of you, until she realises she’s looking for you without meaning to.
pairing - park jihyo x afab!reader
note - ageless, genderless & male accounts will be blocked if interacting with mine. fic has a ridiculously poor and inaccurate portrayal of the working environment and the outfits fem reader wears would not be allowed in said working environment (no one cares cuz you are hot asf, you know it and so does jihyo). please note that part of the fic includes some content that may make some uncomfortable or trigger you, so please do read the notes for each part. so sorry for the long wait for the update (ha that rhymed), please click below for the series masterlist to make sure you have read the prior chapters. anyway, thank you & stay happy, healthy & safe my loves! xx
click for series masterlist.
jihyo’s never really liked thursdays. they’re neither here nor there—too far from the weekend to feel hopeful, too close to the end to feel productive.
but today, she hates thursdays.
because it’s the eighth time this week she’s passed the finance floor under the guise of needing to check something—anything—only to find you not at your desk.
you’re in the conference room, apparently. giving another report to your department lead. and she should be in hers, reviewing the latest projections. but she isn’t. she’s here. again.
she tells herself it’s about leadership. about presence. but when she glances through the glass and sees the way your eyes shine when you speak—focused, assured, bright in that way that makes her chest twist—she knows she’s lying.
you glance up mid-sentence. her breath catches. you don’t smile. you don’t falter. but you know she’s there. and for jihyo, that alone is enough to ruin her composure for the rest of the day.
later, she lingers outside the break room a little too long, fingers curled around the rim of her coffee cup like it’s the only thing keeping her tethered. your laugh carries through the half-open door—low, warm, softened by affection—and she hears her name in your voice, playful, teasing.
a second later, you appear.
she doesn’t move.
you almost walk into her.
there’s a beat where neither of you speak.
then you blink, startled, and say, “miss park.”
and something about the way you say it—half-smirk, half-challenge, like you know what you do to her and do it anyway—has her pulse flaring just beneath her collar.
she clears her throat. “i thought you were still in your meeting.”
you tilt your head. “wrapped early. they were impressed.”
she nods. “of course they were.”
your eyes search hers for something. she doesn’t know if you find it. but you walk away with a knowing smile. and she watches you go like someone starving watches the last light leave the room.
later still, she catches you on your way back from lunch. she doesn’t plan it. not really. she just happens to leave her office the moment you’re coming down the corridor, face flushed from the sun, fingers swiping something off your phone screen.
your blouse is cream. tucked neatly into a darker skirt that stops mid-thigh. your heels aren’t high, but the shape of your legs, the way your hair falls over your shoulder, the way your mouth curves when you spot her—it all burns.
you slow.
she says your name.
“a moment?” she asks, softly.
you nod. “of course.”
inside her office, the silence is charged. she closes the door behind you and it feels like crossing a threshold you can’t uncross.
she doesn’t sit.
neither do you.
“i’ve got a gala to attend,” she says, voice too formal. “next week. i’ll need someone from finance there.”
you raise a brow. “someone?”
“you.”
your laugh is small. surprised. “you want me to accompany you?”
“i’d like that,” she says. then, quieter—“a lot.”
you search her face again.
then you nod.
“what should i wear?” you ask.
she steps closer.
“something that’ll make me regret inviting you in public.”
you smile. it’s slow. devastating.
“dangerous,” you murmur.
her eyes dip to your lips.
“only if you let me touch you after.”
you hum. “maybe if you behave.”
and you’re gone before she can say anything else.
alone, jihyo exhales like she’s been holding her breath since monday.
and for the first time in a long time, she doesn’t mind that it’s still only thursday.
⸻
the gala is on a saturday night.
you meet her at the venue. not by accident, not by coincidence—she told you when and where, what time to arrive, what door to come through. her voice had been low over the phone, not quite a command, but not something you could ignore either.
you’d messaged her asking what to wear.
she replied asap. dark. simple.
so you wear a backless satin number, midnight-dark, with a high slit and no straps.
it clings to your waist, skims the line of your thighs, and glows faintly under the street lamps outside the grand hall.
you wait by the entrance, ignoring the occasional stare, the glances from passing guests. her car pulls up smooth and silent. the door opens.
she steps out.
black suit. silk lapel. no tie. the top button of her shirt undone. and when she sees you—
her breath catches. just barely. but you see it.
you say nothing at first.
you just look at her, and she just looks at you.
“you said simple,” you murmur.
she doesn’t smile. not really. just moves closer, eyes trailing down the line of your figure in the tight dress like she’s committing every inch to memory.
“but you look dangerous,” she murmurs back.
you take her arm without a word.
inside, it’s noise and light and velvet carpeting, clinking glasses and polite laughter, too much perfume and not enough warmth. but jihyo holds her composure like armour. she glides through the crowd with you at her side, measured and careful.
she introduces you as her associate. finance department. nothing more.
no name. no title beyond the professional.
you don’t flinch. you expected it. wanted it.
because the last thing you want is anyone else to know what she looks like when she’s undone. how she kisses. how she murmurs your name like it’s a secret worth breaking rules for.
but still—
her fingers touch the small of your back too often. linger too long. when you’re both speaking to the same pair of investors, her hand rests on your wrist, like she needs the anchor.
at one point, she leans in to murmur something near your ear—some quip, maybe, about one of the board members who’s had too much to drink—and her lips graze the shell of your ear.
you feel it in your knees.
when you step away, you catch her eyes following you across the room. more than once.
you find her again near the terrace, eyes cast out over the city skyline through the high windows, one hand curled loosely around a half-full glass.
you slide up beside her, not quite brushing shoulders.
“you’re not exactly being subtle,” you say quietly.
her gaze flickers, but she doesn’t look at you.
“no one’s looking at me,” she says. “they’re all looking at you.”
you hum. “jealous?”
she doesn’t answer right away.
when she does, it’s quiet.
“always.”
you let that sit for a moment.
then—“you’re lucky i like you,” you say.
her eyes meet yours.
and then she says, low, almost like she’s warning herself—
“come with me.”
you follow.
she leads you through a side corridor, up a set of stairs tucked behind an alcove. the space narrows. goes quiet. then opens again into a high-ceilinged private lounge overlooking the city. thick curtains drawn back. golden lighting. polished floors and no one else around.
“did you plan this?” you ask, stepping in, your voice echoing just slightly.
“maybe,” she says.
you turn to face her.
“miss park,” she stops. eyes on yours. waiting. “this doesn’t feel very work appropriate.”
a slow tilt of her head.
“good.”
she moves toward you—and you let her.
your back meets the window. the glass is cool, your breath a little less steady now.
she lifts a hand to your jaw. thumb brushing just beneath your cheekbone.
and then she kisses you.
not with hesitation. not with panic.
with need.
her lips part yours like a question she’s already answered. she kisses you like she doesn’t care who she’s supposed to be. just that she wants you.
and you kiss her back because you’ve wanted this—wanted her—for far longer than you ever admitted aloud.
you reach for her. pull her closer by the lapels of her blazer.
she presses her body to yours like she needs the contact just to breathe.
“you’re going to ruin me,” she whispers between kisses.
“you’re already ruined,” you reply, and she groans, deep in her throat, burying her face against your neck.
after, when you’re both catching your breath, clothes still on but creased, lips swollen, her forehead rests lightly against yours.
you close your eyes.
her hand slips down your spine. rests gently at your waist.
“come home with me,” she says.
you hesitate.
her voice softens.
“i’ll drive. you don’t have to stay. just… come with me.”
you don’t say yes.
you just nod.
and she leads you back through the halls like she’s afraid to let go of your hand.
⸻
you don’t expect to find her there again.
not this late. not in the quiet that comes after the office empties out—when the halls echo and the lights hum faintly overhead and the whole floor feels like it’s holding its breath.
you pause at the end of the corridor, a folder tucked under your arm, and glance through the sliver of glass in the meeting room door.
she’s inside. bent slightly over the table, the edge of her sleeve brushing paper. she’s frowning, lips parted, one hand on her hip and the other fiddling absently with the cap of a pen. her hair is down—looser than usual—and her blazer’s nowhere in sight.
you hesitate.
then you push the door open with the quietest click.
her head lifts instantly.
you see the moment her expression shifts—like a tide rolling in. something soft flickers through her eyes before she pulls herself up straight, smoothing the hem of her shirt and clearing her throat.
“didn’t think anyone else was still here,” she says, voice even.
“same,” you reply.
you step in, set the folder gently on the table, and pretend your pulse isn’t speeding up just from being near her.
her eyes linger a second too long.
“you look tired,” she says after a pause.
“so do you.”
a faint smile ghosts her lips, then fades. she glances down at the papers again, then back up at you, fingers tightening slightly against the table.
“i’ve been thinking about you all day,” she says—quiet, like she didn’t mean to say it out loud.
your breath catches.
“jihyo—”
“i know,” she says, cutting herself off. “i know. but i can’t help it.”
you don’t move. neither does she. but the room feels different now—warmer, heavier, full of something unsaid.
then, softly: “you wore that dress on purpose, didn’t you?”
you glance down at yourself. it’s a subtle work-appropriate dress, simple jewellery—but you know what she means.
you lift your gaze. meet hers. “maybe.”
her jaw clenches. she looks away like it physically hurts to keep eye contact. then she breathes out, slow and ragged.
“you’re going to be the end of me,” she mutters.
you tilt your head. “then stop staring.”
she does look at you then, sharply. eyes dark.
“can’t.”
your heart stutters.
you clear your throat. “you should get back to work.”
“you should leave before i forget how to be professional.”
you hold her gaze.
neither of you move.
finally, you take a step back. her eyes track every motion.
you reach the door, pause, glance over your shoulder.
“goodnight, miss park.”
her breath catches.
“say that again and i’ll—”
“what?” you ask, playful, biting. “lose control?”
she doesn’t answer.
you smile faintly and slip out before you can say something else.
but her eyes are still burning through your back.
⸻
the day starts like a wound.
jihyo doesn’t realise she’s already bracing until she sees it—until the elevator doors part and the new hire steps out just behind you, shoulder tilted slightly too close. his mouth is moving, probably something about the logistics forecast he’d been tasked to present, and you’re nodding, lips ever so slightly curved, brows arched, sunlight streaking across the planes of your face like it’s choosing you on purpose.
jihyo doesn’t move. she watches from down the hall, mug in hand, body turned just enough to look like she’s mid-thought and not mid-jealousy. but her eyes are fixed.
you laugh at something. throw your head back just slightly. the new hire grins. he says something else, and his hand grazes your elbow—light, casual, forgettable.
except jihyo doesn’t forget it.
her knuckles tighten around the mug. her breath shortens, cuts clean in her chest. she turns on her heel before she can see more. heads back to her office without acknowledging the little buzz of her assistant greeting her, without hearing the latest memo from ops. her jaw is set. her spine is steel.
the rest of the morning is distance.
you don’t know why.
jihyo passes by your desk twice. doesn’t look. doesn’t speak. when you hover near her office for a meeting, she nods at others but not you. her voice is clipped, neutral, everything polished and untouchable.
you try not to let it hit. try not to let your chest tighten the way it does. but something about the chill in her gaze knocks you sideways.
for your mid-afternoon snack, you go to the break room. need a breather. you open the fridge, fingers reaching for the yoghurt you stashed earlier, when—
“hey,” says a voice behind you. you turn.
it’s him. the new hire. he smiles easy. his tie’s loose around his collar like he hasn’t figured out company dress code yet, and his sleeves are rolled halfway up his forearms.
“was just about to heat up the leftover pasta from lunch,” he says. “want some?”
you blink. polite, automatic.
“no, thank you.”
he nods. shrugs. “suit yourself. you’re always super busy, huh?”
“it’s just a lot to stay on top of,” you say. “but i like it.”
“i can tell,” he says. “ceo park must love having you.”
the sentence makes you still. something about the phrasing. your fingers tighten faintly around the yoghurt pot.
you don’t respond.
but then something shifts behind you. you turn slightly, eyes catching movement through the glass—jihyo.
her gaze is fire.
she’s standing across the hall, hand paused on a door that leads to the office of your department lead, body angled ever so slightly like she’d been on her way in—until she saw you.
you can feel her stare.
the tension crackles between the three of you—except he doesn’t notice it. jihyo doesn’t move. you meet her eyes and something twists in your stomach.
it clicks.
you understand.
you finish your yoghurt in silence. excuse yourself. go back to your desk.
when evening arrives, she’s still ignoring you.
a part of you is frustrated. another part just—aches. because you know her by now. know what she does with feelings too big to name. she retreats. she armours herself. and you can’t help but feel like the shield she’s using is forged from the distance between your desks.
you open your drawer. stare at your notepad. then, without much thought, you reach for a pen. tear a piece of paper from the pad. smooth it flat. and begin to write.
your handwriting is slow, careful. the lines are neat. the words aren’t many.
you don’t try to justify or explain. you just tell her one thing:
if you wanted to talk to me, i’d always listen.
you don’t need to disappear to protect your pride.
i’m not going anywhere, j.
you sign it with your initial. softly. like a whisper she might be able to hear if she’s quiet enough.
you pause, just for a second. then, impulsively, you reach into your bag. pull out the small bottle of perfume you keep in a zipped side pocket. spray once—softly, faintly—into the air, and wave the paper through it. just once. just enough.
fold the note carefully.
as the office begins to quiet—people leaving, lights dimming—you hold the note in your palm and walk towards her office. your steps are quiet. you don’t knock.
her door is closed. the lights inside are low, but you can tell she’s still in there.
you crouch down. slide the note under.
and then you leave.
and jihyo doesn’t realise how long she’s been pacing up and down her office until she gets an email notification on her smartwatch from her assistant with a reminder about the contract update.
she waves it off.
she can’t focus.
all she can see, all day, is the image of that man—too close. his hand. your smile.
and it’s irrational, maybe. but the way it lit a fire in her chest made her want to throw her title away and cross every line just to pull you into her arms.
she sits. stands. sits again.
and then she sees it.
a piece of folded paper—tucked just under the edge of the door.
she frowns. moves toward it.
pauses when she sees your handwriting on the outside.
for a second, she doesn’t breathe.
her hand hovers.
she picks it up. slowly. like it might shatter in her grip.
it smells like you.
she knows it’s ridiculous. but it does. soft, floral, something with warmth and sweetness underneath with notes of jasmine. she inhales like it’s the only air she’s had all day.
her hands shake as she unfolds it.
she reads.
and the words knock the breath from her chest.
you called her jihyo.
not miss park.
jihyo.
she stares at the note for a long time.
and then she presses it to her lips.
⸻
the next morning, you’re in early. coffee in hand. a little tired, but steady.
you sit at your desk. open your laptop. start your inbox.
and then you see it.
a small white box.
your breath catches.
it’s neatly wrapped. tied with a thin black ribbon. there’s a card.
your name, written by her hand.
you open the card first.
it’s not long.
you deserve better than silence.
i am learning; one mistake at a time.
thank you for being patient with me. ~ j.
you swallow.
your heart stirs as you open the box.
inside is a necklace—fine gold, a simple pendant, small and delicate. you turn it in your fingers. the metal is warm against your skin.
you look closer.
on the back of the pendant, in faint, barely-there engraving—a ‘j’.
your lips part.
you don’t put it on right away.
instead, you hold it in your hand. press it gently to your chest. close your eyes.
and when you open them again, the corners of your mouth have curled upward—just a little. just enough.
⸻
the meeting is mid-morning. the kind that stretches too long and moves too slow. sunlight pours in through the conference room windows, warm and golden, slicing across the table in neat lines. it flickers off tablet screens, catches in coffee spoons, casts sharp shadows beneath the frames of glasses and across notepads filled with data.
you’re standing at the front of the room, presenting. composed. effortless. voice even and firm, tone dipped in subtle command. you speak with the weight of someone who knows the numbers, who trusts them to speak louder than anything else.
jihyo is watching you. has been, from the second you stepped up to the front.
at first, it’s the usual—her gaze tracking your movements, her mind parsing every word you say before you finish saying it, her jaw taut with focus.
but then—
the sun shifts.
and the light catches on the gold at your throat.
jihyo’s eyes snag on it—glinting beneath your collarbone, the necklace she gave you—subtle, delicate, with the faintest little pendant that catches the light like it’s meant to be seen only by her.
only—
the clasp is at the front.
tucked close beside the pendant. exposed, like you’d had it on you for forever that it moved by itself.
jihyo stops breathing for a second.
and then the meeting disappears.
she can’t hear the words anymore—not yours, not the questions tossed gently from the clients at the far end of the table. she can’t track the spreadsheet on the projection screen or the careful rhythm of your pacing. all she sees is the delicate curve of the chain, the way it rests against your skin, the flicker of gold trembling with each breath you take.
and that clasp.
out of place. wrong.
a flaw on something flawless.
something that taints you. your body.
her fingers twitch.
she’s suddenly, overwhelmingly aware of how small this meeting room feels. how many people are in this room. how loud the blood in her ears sounds.
you’re still talking. you haven’t noticed her gaze.
you should be wrapping up now. the data presentation is almost done. and she knows she should be focused, sharp.
a ceo at a client meeting.
an executive presence.
but her mouth is dry.
because the necklace is backwards.
and you’re wearing it.
you’re wearing it for her.
she doesn’t hear the last three slides.
the meeting ends. you answer one last question with a smile, calm and poised, and then step back to your seat. people begin gathering their things, chairs scraping quietly against the floor, soft murmurs of conversation filling the air.
jihyo doesn’t move.
she watches you slip into your chair again, thank a colleague who murmurs something in your ear. she watches your fingers smooth over your notes, your lips part slightly as you sigh, as if releasing all the tension of the presentation in one breath.
and she waits.
waits until the last person leaves.
until the glass door swings closed with a soft click and the hallway beyond goes quiet.
you stand. slow.
stretch slightly.
and she’s there.
behind you.
you don’t startle.
you don’t speak.
you just look up.
and jihyo doesn’t say anything either.
her hand lifts.
slow, deliberate.
she touches the chain.
her fingers brush the clasp, her thumb pressing gently to the metal. her other hand finds the end of the necklace at the nape of your neck.
your breath stutters.
she leans in.
you can feel her breath at your ear.
warm. shallow. trembling.
her fingers trail across your collarbone as she works the clasp around, guiding it back into place behind your neck. she’s close enough that you can feel the brush of her body against yours, the way her palm presses briefly, softly, to your sternum to steady you—no need for it, no logic in it—just touch.
her mouth is inches from your jaw.
she exhales through her nose, slow, heavy.
“you’re wearing it.”
your lips part.
barely.
you don’t look away.
“i’m wearing it for you.”
jihyo’s fingers still.
you tilt your chin just enough that the curve of your cheek brushes hers.
“i thought you’d notice.”
her hand lingers at your chest. she doesn’t move away.
“the clasp was at the front,” she murmurs.
you hum. “you always notice the small things.”
she exhales again.
her thumb strokes once against your pulse point before it drops. her hands retreat.
you don’t move.
she does.
only a step. but enough.
she lets the silence breathe for a second.
“you shouldn’t tempt me like this,” she says. voice low. rough. dangerous in a way that isn’t threatening—just aching.
you smile. slow.
and then turn around.
“you like being tempted.”
her mouth parts. closes.
“when it comes from you.”
she’s standing inches away, eyes darker than before, tension drawn across her shoulders like wire.
you tilt your head.
“fixing my necklace wasn’t exactly helping.”
“i had to.”
“oh?”
“i couldn’t look at it anymore,” she says. “i couldn’t watch everyone in that room see you, see you wear something so beautiful and not know it was mine.”
you blink.
the words slam into your chest like a punch wrapped in silk.
and then her hand finds yours.
gentle. tentative. fingers curling against your knuckles like a question.
you don’t answer it with words.
you just lean forward.
press your lips to hers.
the kiss doesn’t last long—both of you conscious of where you are—but it said more than words could.
your forehead rests against hers,
and you breathe.
she does the same.
you stay like that for a long moment.
not kissing. not touching more than that one held hand.
but everything in the air between you is louder than sound.
and jihyo?
jihyo doesn’t care about the rest of her schedule.
she only cares that the necklace is sitting right now.
and that you’re still wearing it.
for her.
but she cares more about you.
⸻
the tv plays something low and forgettable. just background noise. the light from the screen flickers faintly across the walls, casting soft, shifting shadows over the living room. outside, the city hums on, but in here it feels like the world has slowed—quieted to the thrum of two heartbeats too close to one another.
your shoulder is pressed into the curve of her side, your knees tucked beneath you, a blanket pulled over the both of you like a secret. jihyo’s arm rests along the back of the sofa, and the side of your head is pillowed against the flat of her chest.
you can hear her breathing.
you think maybe she’s trying not to disturb the moment, like a held breath might make it last longer.
“alright,” you murmur, fingers curling beneath the edge of the blanket, “your turn.”
“my turn?” her voice is soft, and you feel the low vibration of it in her ribs.
“to ask something. we’re getting to know each other, remember?”
a pause, and then, “right.”
you can tell she’s thinking too hard about it. she wants to ask the right question. the real one.
“favourite smell,” she says finally.
you grin. “baked bread. or books. something warm. you?”
“jasmine. and the inside of old cars. the leather. the dust.”
“you are such a contradiction.”
she huffs a breath—maybe a laugh. maybe an exhale of nerves.
“what’s your biggest irrational fear?” you ask.
“being forgotten.”
you go still for a moment. “that’s not irrational.”
she doesn’t answer.
you shift slightly to see her face better. she looks calm. but there’s tension in her jaw, like that answer cost her something.
“i won’t forget you,” you say, voice low.
her eyes find yours in the dim. “you say that now.”
“i mean it always.”
jihyo doesn’t reply. but her hand slips from the back of the sofa to rest—barely there—on the outside of your thigh.
you take that as a question in itself.
“i don’t like being lied to,” you offer, curling closer. “or being made to feel like i’m too much.”
“you’ve never been too much,” she says instantly.
you smile, small. “you don’t get to be the judge of that.”
“i do when i’ve spent months wishing i could handle more of you.”
your breath catches.
there’s a silence, and then she speaks again, quieter now.
“have you ever been in love?”
you blink.
then sit up slightly, shifting to face her.
“are we going there now?”
“we don’t have to.”
“no,” you say. “it’s alright.”
you pause.
“i’ve had relationships. a boyfriend. and… a girlfriend. back in uni.”
jihyo’s brows lift—just slightly. but you see the tension hit her shoulders like a wave. it doesn’t show on her face, but you feel it in the way her fingers twitch, in the way she blinks slower.
“what were they like?” she asks, carefully.
“both were different. the first was sweet but also taught me a lot. the girl…”
you trail off.
“she taught me how much it can hurt to want more than someone’s willing to give.”
jihyo’s jaw tightens.
“and you?” you ask.
she hesitates. “i’ve never… been in a relationship.”
you blink. “never?”
“never had the time. or maybe i never let myself have the time. i always thought… if i let someone in, they’d become a distraction. or worse, a weakness.”
“and now?”
she looks at you.
“now i know that’s not true. not when it’s you.”
you shift closer. your hand finds hers.
“you’ve never been in love?”
she shakes her head, slow.
“have you ever wanted to be?”
“only recently.”
you’re quiet for a long moment.
“do you think it’s possible to fall in love slowly?” you ask. “like—not all at once. but in tiny moments. unnoticed.”
“i think that’s the only way i’d survive it,” she says.
you smile. “dramatic.”
“honest.”
her thumb brushes yours.
“what about childhood dreams?” you ask. “what did little jihyo want to be?”
“a singer,” she says. “or a vet. i wanted to help things. fix things.”
“you sort of still do.”
“and you?”
“i wanted to be a princess.” you laugh.
she laughs. it’s small, but real. “that actually makes sense.”
“how rude.”
you both grin.
there’s a pause, then: “favourite time of day?”
“late evening,” you say. “that quiet just before everything turns dark. you?”
“early morning. before the city remembers it’s meant to be loud.”
your head finds her shoulder again. her hand moves to rest over your wrist, holding lightly.
“ever wanted to run away?” you ask.
“every day.”
“where?”
“i don’t know. somewhere green. quiet. with someone who makes it worth it.”
your breath stills.
“would you ever actually do it?”
she shrugs. “maybe. if i found someone who asked me to.”
your fingers tighten slightly beneath her hand.
you lift your head again, look at her properly.
“you’re being very honest tonight.”
“i don’t want to waste any more time,” she says.
you lean in, slowly, eyes flicking between hers.
“neither do i.”
there’s a beat.
and then she leans in too.
your foreheads rest together.
you breathe.
you don’t kiss. not yet.
just sit there in the quiet. her arms wrapping around you. your legs drawn over hers.
her chest rises and falls beneath you. you can feel it. steady. sure.
“what are you thinking?” you whisper.
“that i could stay like this forever,” she replies.
you close your eyes.
and in the silence, it feels like she means it.
⸻
it starts small. it always does.
a murmur of heat in the boardroom, the soft whirl of the aircon failing to reach the back corners. the steady trickle of conversation from the clients across the polished table, one of them half-smiling at something unmemorable. it’s midday, and the sun streams through the tall windows like it’s trying to catch someone out. everything’s a little too bright.
you’re sitting near the end, pen loosely between your fingers, shoulders relaxed in the way they only are when you’re not fully aware of them. you’ve just asked a question—sharp, succinct, the kind that lingers a second too long after it lands. one of the clients answers with a laugh that doesn’t meet his eyes. jihyo doesn’t like him. hasn’t liked him since the first handshake.
she’s across the room, leaned slightly forward, watching the exchange like it’s a chess match. the sleeves of her blouse are rolled neatly to her forearms. there’s a faint tightness in her jaw.
and then she sees it.
your shirt—a pale pink, high-quality cotton, fitted more than just right. a button low on your chest has come undone. not overtly, not scandalously, but enough. enough to draw attention. enough for the older man on the left to glance once, then again, eyes skimming downward like he’s owed the sight of the white lace underneath.
jihyo stills.
your voice goes on, unaware. you don’t notice the shift. don’t notice the air snag in the space between words. you’re not looking at the eyes that linger too long.
but she is.
and then she moves.
quiet, fluid. her voice slices in, interrupting—“we’ll pause here.” not quite a command, not quite a suggestion.
you blink, caught mid-sentence. her tone doesn’t allow for questions.
jihyo’s eyes find yours. “come with me. just a moment.”
you follow instinctively, confused but obedient, no one stops you.
no one asks why.
no one ever does when it’s her.
she leads you out of the room without touching you, but it feels like she’s holding your wrist the whole time.
her pace is brisk, precise.
the corridor is quieter than it should be.
then she ducks into the nearest restroom.
“inside,” she says softly.
you follow her in, still catching up. the door swings shut behind you. the world narrows.
“what’s—”
“stand still,” she says.
her voice isn’t cold. it isn’t warm either. it’s trembling at the edge of something else. her fingers move to the button just above your sternum. her eyes flick up once, searching yours. something in her pauses.
you whisper, “jihyo?”
she swallows.
“you didn’t notice,” she says. her voice is quieter now. “they were looking.”
you glance down.
finally see it.
the undone button.
your skin in white lace exposed just enough.
you inhale, mortified. “shit. i didn’t—”
“i know.”
her hands are already moving, fixing it. one hand steadies the fabric at your waist. the other lifts the button through its hole with slow precision. it should take two seconds. it takes ten.
you don’t breathe.
her fingers linger, just a little too long. you can feel the pads of them through the shirt, the way they pause after the work is done, as if the fixing of it wasn’t the point at all.
“jihyo,” you say again, and this time it’s more of a question than a name.
she lifts her gaze. and that’s the mistake.
because she sees your face. really sees it. your mouth parted slightly. your brow furrowed. the faintest pink on your cheeks. and beneath it all—trust. unguarded and open and hers for the taking.
she shouldn’t. she knows she shouldn’t.
but her hand moves before her mind can stop it. the tips of her fingers trail lightly up the fabric, over your collarbone, past your neck, to the place just behind your ear. soft. reverent.
and then she leans in.
her lips press to the side of your neck like a prayer. like a confession. like she’s only just allowed herself to want.
you freeze. then melt.
it’s not rough. it’s not desperate. it’s slow. aching. the kind of kiss that tastes like restraint stretched thin.
she breathes out against your skin. moves lower. jawline. just beneath it. another kiss, this time less careful. her lips part slightly against you. you can feel her breath, warm and shaky.
“jihyo,” you whisper. you’re not even sure what you’re saying.
her other hand finds your waist. the hold is grounding. it also makes your knees weaken.
you turn slightly into her, as if by instinct, like your body’s always known how to fold into hers.
and that’s when she pulls back.
abrupt. sharp. like she’s been burned.
her chest rises and falls too quickly. she looks at you like she doesn’t recognise her own hands.
“i’m sorry,” she says. it comes out too fast. “i—i shouldn’t have.”
you shake your head. “no, it’s—”
“we should go back,” she says.
but neither of you move.
and it takes almost a full minute before she reaches for the door.
when she does, her hand is trembling. just slightly. not enough for the world to see.
only you. only you ever see it.
⸻
it’s the kind of late that settles into the bones. not quite nightfall, but far past the end of the working day. the lights in the building have dimmed into their energy-saving mode, casting the corridors in soft, humming blues. the air feels heavy, too still, like the office itself is holding its breath.
your screen glows in front of you, open to a spreadsheet you’ve already revised three times. it’s not the work that’s keeping you here. it hasn’t been for at least an hour. it’s something else—something you can’t quite name, or won’t. not yet.
jihyo is still here too.
you sense her before you see her. the quiet shuffle of papers from her office, the low creak of her chair as she shifts. she hasn’t spoken to you since everyone else left, save for a soft murmur about a client file and a thank you when you handed her a coffee. but she hasn’t left either. and somehow, that says more than anything.
the city outside glows faintly through the window. headlights pass, indifferent. the sun dipped below the skyline long ago, but the heat of the day lingers in the glass, warm and sleepy.
you lean back in your chair, stretching. your spine cracks audibly. you don’t care.
across the room, she stands.
you glance up, and your eyes meet hers.
“done?” she asks, voice quiet, like the room might echo.
“yeah,” you reply, and it sounds louder than you mean for it to.
she nods once, smooth. deliberate. then, “come on. i’ll walk you out.”
it’s not a question. but it’s not an order, either.
just something soft that lives in the space between.
you don’t hesitate.
you gather your things slowly, slipping your laptop into your bag, winding the charger around your fingers, anything to delay the moment just slightly. not because you don’t want it—because you do. because it feels like the night might shatter if you move too quickly.
you walk beside her through the empty corridor, footsteps muffled against the carpet. the silence is thick but not uncomfortable. it breathes between you, slow and even.
the lift arrives with a soft ding. neither of you speak inside it.
when the doors open to the ground floor, the city greets you like an old friend. warm air, tinged with exhaust and late-night food stalls. seoul glows with that strange kind of beauty only visible to those who stay behind—the ones who wait for the quiet to return.
she steps outside first. you follow.
for a while, you just walk.
the streets are quieter now. the rush is over, replaced by the soft rhythm of feet and tyres and wind. a few shops remain open—convenience stores lit like beacons, bakeries packing away trays of uneaten sweets. somewhere down the block, you hear music. not loud. something melodic and aching from a passing car.
jihyo doesn’t speak for the first few streets. her hands are tucked into her pockets, her posture straight but not stiff, as though holding herself in place by force. you glance at her profile now and then, stealing seconds. her eyes flick toward yours once, catch you looking, and instead of looking away, she just… softens.
she doesn’t smile. but something loosens in her jaw.
you pass a quiet street corner where an old man waters plants in pots lined up along a fence. the pavement is cracked, the tiles uneven. neither of you trip. there’s a rhythm to the way you walk—unspoken, but known. her shoulder brushes yours once. she doesn’t pull back.
you reach a junction where the road splits left and right. to the left, home. to the right, nowhere in particular.
she doesn’t say anything. she just turns right.
you follow.
you’ve walked together before—between meetings, between buildings, on the way to company dinners—but never like this. never when the city was half-asleep and the air hung this low. you feel every step. every breath. every moment where your hand almost, almost grazes hers.
it isn’t nerves. it’s something deeper. slower. almost reverent.
you pass a flower stall packing up for the night, white daisies drooping softly in buckets of water. then a small bench beneath a streetlamp, its metal still warm from the day’s sun. you wonder if she’ll stop. she doesn’t.
you keep walking until the road begins to slope, just slightly, toward the han river.
and then, just ahead, you see them.
a couple, maybe a few years younger than you. the girl is wearing a loose jumper and a skirt that brushes her ankles. her partner is standing behind her, arms wrapped lazily around her waist, chin resting on her shoulder. they’re laughing at something on a phone screen. not loud. not obnoxious. just soft.
you feel jihyo still beside you.
not a full stop. just a slowing. like her body is caught in thought.
you stop too, instinctively.
the couple doesn’t notice. they’re in their own world. and maybe that’s what makes it sting a little—the casualness of it all. the ease. the comfort of belonging.
jihyo speaks, finally.
“do you ever think about it?”
you turn to her. “what?”
she gestures gently toward the couple. “that. being like that with someone.”
you swallow.
you don’t answer right away. you look again at the girl leaning back into her partner’s chest, the way their bodies fit like they’d done it a thousand times before.
“sometimes,” you say quietly.
she nods. her eyes stay forward, but something flickers across her face—something like pain, softened by longing.
then she says, in a voice so low you nearly miss it—
“are you mine?”
the question lands differently than anything else she’s ever said to you.
not professional.
not polite.
not even romantic.
raw.
bare.
your breath catches.
you don’t answer.
she goes on, barely above a whisper.
“because i already know i’m yours.”
you can’t breathe.
“i don’t know when it happened,” she says. “it wasn’t a sudden thing. it was slow. annoying, even. it was the way you looked up from that first file with your hair in your eyes and didn’t look at me like everyone else does.”
your heart pulls painfully in your chest.
“and then it was the way you say my name when you’re unsure. the way you say it when you’re tired. the way you said it in the restroom today like i hadn’t just undone something inside you.”
you close your eyes.
the city moves around you. cars pass. wind hums through the trees. somewhere far off, someone laughs.
but here, there’s just her.
just jihyo and her breath and the shape of you in her mouth.
“i didn’t mean to feel this,” she says. “but i do. every time you walk into a room. every time you wear that necklace. every time you ask me if i’m okay when i don’t even know how to say that i’m not.”
you open your eyes again.
she’s looking at you now.
not past you. not through you.
at you.
“and if you’re not mine,” she says, “i’ll keep walking. i won’t ask again. but if there’s even a part of you that’s already mine—say something. please.”
your voice doesn’t work. it’s somewhere in your throat, stuck behind everything you’ve wanted to say since that first day. since the moment her eyes caught yours across the boardroom and didn’t let go.
so you step forward.
closer than before.
your chest nearly touches hers.
you nod. just once. small. quiet. the kind of nod that means yes without needing the word.
her breath stutters.
her shoulders relax.
her eyes, glassy, widen slightly.
her pupils dilate.
the corner of her lips raise slightly.
“you are?” she whispers.
you nod again.
she laughs then—a soft, wet sound like something cracked wide open.
and then, gently, with the same tone she uses when she’s scared and sure at the same time—
“will you be my girlfriend?”
you reach up, hand trembling, and touch her cheek. her skin is warm beneath your fingers.
you whisper, “yes.”
and then she kisses you.
slow. delicate. no urgency. no performance.
just lips pressed to lips like prayer. like relief. like finally.
when she pulls back, it’s only far enough to rest her forehead against yours.
you both breathe. shallow. shaky.
and for the first time in weeks—maybe longer—she smiles like she’s allowed to.
and you—
you smile back. because you are.
because she’s yours. and you are hers.
finally.
fully.
quietly.
⸻
you didn’t sleep well the night before—not because you’re worried, not exactly, but because something inside you feels too full. it’s the knowledge of her. the way her voice still clings to your skin from that phone call the night before. the memory of her lips behind your ear. the warmth of her hand curling around your wrist when she whispered mine.
you keep the lights low as you get ready. your fingers linger too long over which blouse to wear, which scent to dab at the inside of your wrist. you choose the one she once leaned into without thinking. you don’t wear lipstick. she likes when you look soft in the mornings. like you just woke up. like you’d let her kiss you before anyone else gets to see you.
the train is quieter than usual. a woman in the corner is eating a banana and scrolling through the news. someone’s playing music from their phone too loudly. it’s summer but the windows don’t open. the heat is syrup-thick and humming already. you shift your bag on your shoulder and keep your head low.
you try not to think about seeing her again.
but you do.
you do.
you enter the building with your mouth dry. the receptionist smiles. you nod. you press the lift button and exhale so slowly it barely counts. your reflection in the mirrored walls looks like someone trying not to fall apart.
then the lift doors open on the twelfth floor—and you see her.
her back’s to you at first. she’s leaning against the far wall near the printer, talking to a department lead.
and then she turns.
and she sees you.
the air leaves her face in one slow breath.
you don’t stop walking—but your heart does something sharp in your chest.
her eyes softens. changes. you know the look she gives you now. the one that isn’t for anyone else. the one that says i’ve been waiting all morning just to see your face.
she says something to the man beside her—still serious—but her eyes don’t leave yours.
you want to kiss her.
you don’t. you nod. small. like a habit. like a secret.
she blinks once. presses her tongue to the inside of her cheek like she’s holding something back.
then she starts walking.
you pretend you don’t notice at first. you check your phone. turn down the corridor like it’s just another tuesday.
but you hear her footsteps fall into rhythm behind you.
and it’s slow.
intentional.
the hallway stretches too long. every fluorescent light flickers slightly. the carpet beneath your heels is soundless. her footsteps are quieter than yours but you can feel them.
you know she’s looking.
you know the way she looks.
you don’t stop.
she follows.
you round the corner toward the kitchenette, the door to the small stairwell creaking as you press it open. you step inside—cooler here, quiet. no one around.
you’re not even three steps in before her voice reaches you.
“so you’re going to pretend you didn’t see me?”
you pause.
her hand touches your back. light. reverent.
you turn.
“you were busy,” you say, almost smiling.
she tilts her head. “i wasn’t.”
“you were talking with that guy, all serious.”
“i was trying to focus because i knew you were walking past,” she starts. “and if i didn’t force myself to focus, i would’ve walked right over to you.”
you don’t say anything.
she takes a step closer.
“you look unfair,” she murmurs. “how am i supposed to get anything done today?”
you let her eyes trace you—slow, like the sun moving over your skin. her fingers don’t reach for you. not yet. but you see the effort in her restraint. the way her hand curls into a loose fist at her side. the way her throat tightens when she swallows.
“you’re staring,” you whisper.
she nods. “i can’t help it.”
you glance toward the door behind her.
“someone could come in.”
she shakes her head. “no one uses these stairs.”
you raise a brow.
“i checked before i followed you in.”
you try to look annoyed. it doesn’t work. your lips twitch. she sees it.
“you followed me?”
“i saw you and i couldn’t not.”
you lean back against the wall. the brick is cool behind your shoulder blades.
“you’re my boss,” you say.
“and you’re my girlfriend.”
you exhale.
she steps forward. just enough that you can feel the warmth of her body—not touching, but close.
“i missed you this morning,” she says. “i kept waiting to hear your laugh over someone’s spreadsheet. or see you roll your eyes when lee asks about reimbursements again.”
you look up at her. “it’s been one hour.”
“sixty-seven minutes,” she corrects.
you laugh. “you’re ridiculous.”
she smiles. “i’m yours.”
you press your tongue to your cheek, suddenly shy. your body wants to lean into her. your heart wants to crack open on the floor.
she reaches for your hand instead. holds it lightly. presses her thumb to your palm.
“do you want to stay in here for a bit?” she asks.
you shake your head. “we’ll get caught.”
she nods slowly. “okay.”
she steps back.
“can i see you at lunch?”
“that’s four hours from now.”
“i’ll survive if you look at me a few times across the room.”
you smile again. “okay.”
she hesitates.
then steps forward and presses the softest kiss to your knuckles.
“see you soon,” she murmurs, and slips out before you can say anything else.
you stand alone in the stairwell, heart stumbling, mouth aching for more.
she doesn’t touch you again for the rest of the day.
but every time she walks past your desk, she’s already looking.
on wednesday, it’s the heat that does it. the power flickers mid-afternoon, the office lights stuttering once, twice, then cutting entirely. a low groan rises across the floor. monitors blink to black. someone sighs something about the air conditioning.
you’re already standing near the kitchenette, fingers wet from a rinsed glass, when she appears in the doorway. no footsteps. just her. blouse slightly unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves pushed to her elbows. she doesn’t say anything—just walks past you toward the small battery-powered fan set on the counter.
you both stand in front of it in silence. the fan isn’t strong. it stutters every few seconds. but it’s enough to make the sweat on the back of your neck cool for a breath.
she tilts her face toward the breeze. her profile is a painting.
you look away.
“this is kind of nice,” she says quietly.
“the blackout?”
“the quiet.”
you don’t answer. the silence stretches.
then she speaks again, even softer. “i’ve been thinking about your neck all day.”
your breath catches. you keep your eyes on the fan.
“the way your hair’s tied up,” she continues. “i almost—”
you glance at her.
she stops. swallows. her throat moves.
then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, her hand rises. her fingers reach toward the side of your head. slow. reverent. she brushes a single strand of hair back behind your ear and lets her fingertips drift down the side of your throat.
it’s so soft you almost miss it.
she steps back before anyone comes in.
you don’t speak.
you don’t need to.
later that week, you catch her staring again. not once. not twice. five separate times.
you’re sitting in a late-afternoon company wide meeting—some guest speaker present yapping on about how to boost employee morale, which, intern, boosts productivity—three rows of desks facing the projection screen. someone from operations is speaking. you don’t know what they’re saying. you haven’t been listening.
because you can feel her, see her sitting at the front with the guest speaker.
not close enough to touch, but close enough to ache.
you shift slightly in your chair and the corner of your eye catches hers.
she’s not looking at the speaker.
she’s looking at your mouth.
you turn back toward the screen and press your lips together. her gaze feels like silk and fire.
five minutes pass. ten.
you glance down at your notes. pretend to scribble something.
you bite your lip, slow.
you see her breathe.
and your throat dries up.
the next day, it’s your turn to ruin her.
you’re in the staff kitchen early—before most people. she walks in mid-sentence, talking to someone behind her, and pauses when she sees you leaning against the counter eating a yoghurt.
she freezes.
the man she’s talking to doesn’t notice. he says something about client figures. she nods absently. says, “mhmm,” eyes still locked to your mouth.
you don’t make it easier.
you dip the spoon.
her lips part.
you take the bite.
her hand grips the edge of the counter as she walks past.
you don’t smile. but your pulse does.
she brings you a drink the next monday. doesn’t say anything. just places it on your desk around midday—when pretty much everybody is on lunch—and walks away.
you stare at the condensation sliding down the cup for a full minute before touching it. it’s still cold.
your phone buzzes ten seconds later. a message from her.
don’t say thank you. just drink it.
you type,
are you trying to keep me hydrated or in love with you
then delete it.
you don’t respond. but you drink the whole thing.
on tuesday, she walks past you in the corridor and stops you.
“your blouse,” she says, quietly. “the tag’s out.”
you blink.
“turn,” she says.
you do.
her fingers graze the back of your neck, then the centre of your spine. she tucks the tag in slowly. like it’s taking effort. like she wants to drag it out.
you feel her fingertips longer than they’re there.
you don’t turn back around until she’s gone.
it’s a thursday when she touches you in front of someone else. not in a way anyone would notice. but enough that you feel it for the rest of the day.
you’re both standing in the lift with a few other staff, heading down to the lobby. she’s talking to the her assistant, voice low and friendly, face perfectly composed.
but her hand is at her side.
and her pinky finger brushes against yours.
once.
then again.
you don’t move.
you just keep your eyes on the lift door and feel her finger tap yours, soft, rhythmic, like a heartbeat.
she doesn’t look at you when she steps out first.
but her hand trails yours as she goes.
two days later, you run into her at the convenience store near the office.
it’s past 9pm. the lights are humming. the air is still sticky from the heat. you’re grabbing cold noodles and a drink. you’re tired. your hair is tied messily. you didn’t expect to see anyone.
but there she is—aisle three.
she stares at you like she’s stunned.
you both smile at the same time.
you end up walking home together. you don’t hold hands. but your arms brush every few steps.
she doesn’t say anything about how you look. but she keeps looking.
she asks you nothing about work. but she asks if you’re eating enough. if you’re sleeping.
she doesn’t kiss you goodbye.
but she watches you until you’re inside.
it’s a tuesday evening when she finds you dozing in the back office. you’ve been there for hours, working overtime, working through client reports, the summer heat making everything feel slower, stickier. you hadn’t meant to fall asleep—you were just resting your eyes.
but when you open them, she’s already kneeling beside you.
her hand is not quite touching your knee.
“you okay?” she asks softly.
you blink. “what time is it?”
“way past eight.”
you stretch, groggy. the fabric of your shirt pulls slightly at the shoulder. she watches it.
“you didn’t have to stay,” you murmur.
“i wanted to check on you.”
your eyes find hers.
“your voice,” you say, “woke me up.”
her lips twitch. “good.”
she reaches out and brushes something—nothing—from your cheek. her fingertip linger too long.
you don’t move.
the office is dim. the only light comes from the frosted glass. her shadow stretches beside you.
you whisper, “stay with me a minute.”
she does.
on wednesday, she sends you a message during a long board meeting. you’re seated three chairs apart, acting like strangers. the room is cold with artificial air and tension. numbers blur on the screen.
your phone buzzes once.
you’re making the air warmer
you look up. her eyes are already on you.
you don’t smile. but your whole body feels it.
friday. rooftop. golden hour.
it’s accidental.
you step out for air, holding a file you don’t actually care about, and there she is—leaning against the ledge, hair loose, phone forgotten in her hand.
she turns as you approach. doesn’t speak.
you don’t either.
you stand beside her, the sun soaking both your shoulders. the city glows below. somewhere, far off, music plays from an open window.
she doesn’t touch you.
but she stands so close you can feel the heat of her hip through your skirt.
you glance at her once.
her mouth is parted. her lashes thick. her breathing slow.
“this feels unfair,” she whispers.
you murmur, “what does?”
“you. being near me. like this.”
you want to kiss her.
but you don’t.
she steps away first.
sunday afternoon. the heat is unbearable. even with the windows open, the flat feels thick. you’ve tied your hair up. you’re sipping iced tea on the couch, legs curled beneath you, when your phone lights up.
it’s her.
jihyo [14:22]: are you home?
you [14:22]: yeah, how come?
jihyo [14:22]: i’m outside.
you rush to the door. she’s standing there with two bottles of peach iced tea, both sweating from the walk. she’s in loose linen trousers and a tank top, hair clipped up messily, lips a little dry.
“hi,” she says, breathless.
you let her in.
she sets the drinks down and turns to you, suddenly shy.
“i just wanted to see you,” she admits. “i didn’t know what to do with myself all day.”
you don’t say anything. you just take her hand and lead her to the couch.
you sit side by side. the fan whirs. the tv plays something you’re not watching. her fingers graze your thigh, your wrist, your cheek. she’s slow, like she doesn’t want to ruin the silence.
then she leans in and kisses your temple.
then your shoulder.
then your jaw.
then stops.
“you feel like sunday,” she murmurs. “like the part of the day that makes you ache before it ends.”
you turn.
kiss her once, soft.
she breathes out. her forehead presses to yours.
you close your eyes.
the fan keeps spinning.
she doesn’t leave until the sky goes black.
and it’s only because she has to.
⸻
it begins with footsteps in the heat. low heels against sun-warmed pavement, a rhythm just behind yours, even but quiet, measured like breath—soft enough not to draw attention, certain enough to draw everything else.
you don’t know she’s there.
not at first.
not when you turn the corner outside the office and the morning presses its weight against your skin, nor when you shift your bag higher on your shoulder and blink the sleep from within your eyes.
your head aches from the night before—excel sheets and wine and one too many thoughts about the way her hand felt on your lower back—how it lingered—when she passed behind you in the breakroom.
you don’t see the black town car that dropped her off. don’t notice the driver pulling away with a respectful nod as she stepped out, dressed like something sharp and ruinous in the warm light, her blouse tucked in clean, her eyes already on you.
you walk like you always do. not slow, not fast. your steps measured, focused, unaware.
but she sees everything.
she sees the curve of your waist above your belt, the slight shift in your shoulders as you pull out your badge. she sees the way your skirt moves when the wind brushes your side. she sees the back of your neck, soft and damp with heat.
jihyo stares.
not greedily.
not like a man might.
she stares like it’s the only way she knows how to breathe.
every step she takes behind you is quiet, deliberate, full of a hunger she has spent weeks learning to starve. she follows you into the lobby without a word, lets the glass door swing open behind your shoulder, watches you scan your keycard, watches the way you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear with fingers she swore she wouldn’t touch this week.
you step toward the lifts.
she exhales.
not loud. just enough. just barely.
you don’t turn.
you reach out, press the button for the upper floors, and wait.
and then—
she’s there.
beside you.
shoulder against yours.
not brushing. pressed. firm. intentional.
the contact hits like heatstroke.
her perfume—sharp and clean and impossible—folds around your throat like silk. your breath stutters before you can stop it. her body radiates warmth. you know this. you’ve felt it before, on those nights when she kissed your collarbone and called it devotion. but this—this is different. this is public. this is risk.
still, you don’t move.
neither does she.
the lift dings.
the doors open.
you both step in.
and it’s quiet.
so quiet.
just the two of you and the soft hum of artificial air, the faint tick of the floor indicator lighting up.
you move to the side. she follows. doesn’t look at the panel. doesn’t press anything.
you feel her eyes.
you know she’s looking.
you know the way she does when she thinks no one sees her—that unblinking, worshipful, desperate way that makes your stomach twist.
you turn your head slightly. just enough. her gaze is already there.
her mouth is parted.
and something breaks.
she steps forward—one step, two.
reaches out.
presses the stop button.
the lift halts with a soft thud.
you barely breathe before her hands are on you.
she pushes you back—gently but with purpose—until your spine meets the wall of the lift, cold against the fabric of your blouse, and then her hands are on either side of you, not touching yet, but close, close enough to cage in the heat. her eyes don’t move from yours.
you say nothing. your breath is shallow. your pulse is impossibly loud in your ears.
her fingers twitch once at her side, like she’s still giving herself a chance to stop. but her eyes drop—first to your mouth, then to your neck, then down, down, to where your blouse is unbuttoned at the top from the weight of the summer.
she leans in, slow, reverent. like a prayer.
“i’ve wanted to do this all week,” she whispers, her lips grazing the shell of your ear. “you walked ahead of me like that... like you knew.”
you shake your head. but your body says otherwise.
she smiles against your skin. and then her mouth touches your jaw, your cheek, your temple.
“my girl,” she breathes.
her hands rise. one of them finds your waist, the other your face. she tilts your chin toward her like she’s holding something delicate. like she knows it could all shatter.
her lips touch yours like they’re testing something forbidden.
but the second you part your mouth, it changes.
she inhales sharply. pulls you in.
the kiss turns hungry.
then desperate.
then something entirely else.
her hands slide up your sides and around your back, gripping you like she can’t believe you’re real. your arms wrap around her neck without thought. the tension between you isn’t tension anymore—it’s release.
you moan softly against her mouth. she swallows it whole.
her tongue drags slow against yours, every movement saying i missed you, i need you, i can’t breathe unless i have you like this.
you don’t answer with words. you just arch into her.
she breaks the kiss only when she has to breathe, but her lips don’t go far.
they move to your cheek again. your jaw.
then—
your throat.
she kisses it once.
again.
and again.
then bites gently at the curve where your shoulder meets your neck.
you gasp.
her grip tightens.
she wants to mark you.
you can feel it in the way her mouth hesitates over your pulse. “not there. people will see.”
she stills. pulls back just enough to look at you.
the question in her eyes is soft. silent. asking.
you nod.
slow.
sure.
yes.
she exhales like she’s been holding that breath for days. then—slowly, reverently—she brings her hands to the buttons of your blouse.
her fingers shake, but not from hesitation.
but from want. from awe. from the unbearable pressure of needing you and not being able to show it for so long.
you watch her. chest rising and falling like a wave crashing again and again, your heartbeat so loud it blurs the sound of the halted lift around you.
one button.
two.
her eyes never leave yours, not until the third slips loose and the front of your bra is fully visible.
she pauses.
her hands rest against your ribs, thumbs brushing just beneath the line of lace.
you breathe her name.
and that’s all it takes.
she drops her head.
kisses the space above your heart like it’s sacred.
again. again. again.
soft. open-mouthed. adoring.
your lipstick—the one smeared over her mouth—smears against your skin, warm, smudged nude blooming down the centre of your chest.
she doesn’t stop to look.
she doesn’t care.
her mouth moves slowly.
deliberately.
marking you in a way that doesn’t belong to men or rumours or performance reviews.
this is hers.
and she makes sure every kiss says it.
you tilt your head back against the wall, your mouth parting, a small, quiet sound escapes you.
it makes her press harder. kiss deeper. her tongue flicking over the edge of your bra, then lower, the heat of her breath burning into your skin.
you whisper her name.
she murmurs, “mine.”
you nod again. more breath than movement.
“say it,” she whispers, voice wrecked.
“yours,” you say.
and it comes out like a promise.
like something irreversible.
she groans, soft and buried, her mouth still trailing over your skin.
her hands tighten at your sides. one lifts to your shoulder, steadying you. the other presses to your lower back.
she kisses every inch of skin she can reach. above your bra. across your sternum. the curve of your collarbone. she’s marking you without a trace of cruelty—only hunger. only worship. only need.
you don’t want her to stop.
you can’t remember what it feels like when she’s not touching you.
and then—her mouth still against your chest, her breath warm and dizzying—she lifts her eyes.
you follow her gaze.
you both turn—just slightly—toward the mirrored interior of the lift.
your lipstick is everywhere.
on her mouth. your throat. your chest.
her own lips are swollen. stained. flushed.
and in the glass, jihyo sees herself.
what she’s become in front of you.
what she’s let herself do.
what she’ll never be able to take back.
and she doesn’t look away.
your hand lifts to her jaw. your thumb traces the curve of her cheek, smeared red catching on your skin. she leans into the touch instinctively, like your hand is gravity and she was always meant to fall.
“we should…” you begin, but the words don’t finish. they fall flat between your mouths, heavy with everything that can’t be said out loud—not here, not now, not while your blouse hangs open and her breath still tastes like want.
“i know,” she whispers. but she doesn’t move.
her hand stays on your waist. her forehead leans against yours. and for a moment—just a moment—there is nothing else. no floors above. no emails waiting. no risk. only heat. only her. only the way your chest brushes hers when you breathe.
“how am i supposed to pretend after this?” she asks, almost broken.
you don’t answer. you just close your eyes and kiss her again.
softer this time. slower. like goodbye. but it isn’t.
she buttons your shirt with trembling fingers. she fixes your lipstick without looking in the mirror and you wipe the traces of yourself off jihyo’s mouth.
when the lift finally begins to move again, neither of you speak.
you exit first. she stays behind.
the door closes. her reflection disappears.
but the heat doesn’t leave you.
it clings to your skin, to the space just above your bra, to the ghost of her hands still pressing into your back.
and even hours later, when the building is full and your desk is loud with numbers, your mouth still tastes like her name.
⸻
hey, shreya here! sorry for lowkey being MIA and not updating in like 2 weeks, but here's the update. please understand that life is busy for me rn and i will try to update more regularly in future. but in the meantime, enjoy jihyo being your hot boss, please like/reblog as these really help. thank you, stay happy, healthy & safe my loves! shreya xx
calling you out once wasn’t enough, so apparently i have to call you out again.
but hey, what’s better than 1 feature in my hall of shame? 2 apparently.
if this behaviour is continued, from anyone, all my fics will be removed and i will switch my blogs so my first account will be where i post so when i actually block these people for not respecting my wishes, they actually will not be able to view and interact with my fics.
a reminder that my blog is not for anyone who interacts with gg x m reader fics, m readers in general, ageless, & blank blogs.
from now on, i will be publicly shaming anyone who i catch interacting with my blog that does not have a clear gender & age indicator in their bio, having a blank blog or interacting with x male reader posts. these posts will be listed in my hall of shame. these posts, hopefully, will be posted regularly if i have the time on my hands.
please not that under the cut, there are just some of the few blogs that have interacted with mine lately that do not meet the requirements i would like of those interacting with my blog and reading my fics, and more will be coming soon.
thank you so much to everyone who has respected my wishes, and i hope all of you stay happy, healthy & safe! chat soon my loves, shreya xx
now playing: drinks or coffee - rosé, seoul city - jennie, it's you - zayn, mind of mindd - zayn.
synopsis - on your first day, you make the mistake of stepping into ceo park jihyo’s office. the sharp encounter leaves you avoiding her for months, keeping to the edges of every corridor. but distance only sharpens her awareness of you, until she realises she’s looking for you without meaning to.
pairing - park jihyo x afab!reader
note - ageless, genderless & male accounts will be blocked if interacting with mine. fic has a rather poor and inaccurate portrayal of the working environment and the outfits fem reader wears would not be allowed in said working environment (you and jihyo think you're hot asf) please note that part of the fic includes some content that may make some uncomfortable or trigger you, so please do read the notes for each part. please note, as an attempt to apologise for the long wait, i have posted 3 chapters today, this is the third one, please click below for the series master list to make sure you have read the prior chapters. anyway, thank you & stay happy, healthy & safe my loves! xx
click for series masterlist.
it’s quiet.
the office is empty, hours tipping past when anyone reasonable should still be here. outside, the city hums under streetlights, the windows fogged faint with the breath of evening.
your jacket’s slung over your chair. your eyes are tired. your shoulders slope with the weight of the day.
and jihyo still can’t look at you without wanting.
she leans against your desk—but it feels smaller now. private. like it belongs to just the two of you.
“it’s late,” she says softly.
you glance up, one brow lifting, that familiar teasing edge curling the corner of your mouth. “so go home.”
“you.”
you shrug.
you both stay.
minutes stretch.
the hum of the air conditioning fills the space. her eyes drag over the slope of your spine, the faint creases in your blouse, the shape of your wrists resting on the desk.
you shift in your seat. stretch. roll your neck until it clicks. “you staring or helping?”
she moves closer.
you swivel in your chair as she reaches you, legs parting slightly beneath the desk, casual, confident in a way that makes her chest ache.
her hands find yours and she pulls you up.
they then find your waist, light, testing. you don’t move away.
you tilt your chin up instead, eyes sharp, curious.
“this helping?” you murmur.
her fingers tighten just enough to answer.
you lean in, knees brushing hers, and she can’t hold back any longer.
she kisses you.
soft at first. slow. testing the water you both already drowned in weeks ago.
you kiss her back like you’ve been waiting for her to catch up.
it builds.
your fingers twist in her shirt, drag her closer.
her hands slide along your sides, settle at your hips, pull you flush against the desk.
your mouth parts for hers, breath catching between teeth and tongue.
it’s not careful anymore.
it’s not restrained.
your hand curls around the back of her neck, acrylics grazing skin, and she groans softly into your mouth.
she slowly pushes you against your desk.
her thigh slots between yours.
your hips shift.
her pulse stumbles.
she wants to lose herself in you. wants to forget the clock, the city, the walls still standing around both of you.
but she pulls back.
just enough.
her forehead rests against yours, breath uneven, eyes closed.
you exhale a shaky laugh. “what?”
her voice is rough. raw.
“i want to take you out again.”
your brows lift, teasing. “this isn’t out?”
“properly.”
you smile, small, warm, infuriating. “you already have.”
“one more,” she breathes. “before we—” her eyes open, meet yours, dark, heavy, honest—“before this.”
you stare at her for a long moment.
then you nod.
soft. sure. the corner of your mouth curling like maybe you understand exactly why she’s pulling away.
her hands linger at your waist.
yours trail down her arms.
and for the first time tonight, neither of you need to rush.
⸻
the restroom is quiet.
the echo of running water hums low in the tiled space, fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead. you’re standing at the sink, fingers adjusting the tuck of your blouse into your skirt, fixing your appearance with steady eyes.
the door clicks behind you.
you hear her.
jihyo’s stride is slow. sure.
in the mirror, you see her.
her blazer’s off, sleeves rolled, the faintest flush still along her throat from the day’s meetings.
she doesn’t speak as she approaches.
her hands find your hips gently, fingers curling in at your waist, body pressed along your back in one smooth, familiar motion.
you don’t flinch.
her mouth is near your ear, warm breath curling against your skin as her nose nudges lightly at your neck.
“seven o’clock,” she says quietly.
she uses her nose to move your hair before placing a soft kiss on the skin of your neck.
your eyes meet hers in the mirror.
“meet at your place,” she adds, voice lower now, threaded with quiet intent.
you arch a brow. “bossy.”
her smile curls against your cheek. “you like it.”
her fingers shift along your waist, lingering at the curve of your hips, thumb tracing small, absent circles.
“wear something like that black dress,” she murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “the one you wore the first time i completely lost my mind over you.”
your pulse stumbles.
she leans in just enough for the tip of her nose to trail along your jaw. “unless you want me distracted all night,” she adds, “you should pick something else.”
your mouth tugs faintly, small, amused.
“but i like you distracted,” you say, voice soft, teasing.
her eyes darken in the mirror. “i know.”
you let the silence stretch, her hands still heavy at your hips, her chest pressed to your back.
then you reach for your lipstick, uncapping it slowly, applying it with steady, practiced ease.
jihyo’s eyes narrow, but she watches every second.
when you finish, you lean back into her, eyes still fixed to hers in the mirror.
“seven,” you echo.
she nods once, pulse visible along her throat.
you leave her standing there.
you can feel her stare long after the door swings shut behind you.
⸻
the knock at your door comes exactly at seven.
you open it to find jihyo composed but softened—blazer missing, bare skin glistening under fabric, dark trousers fitting sharper than they should. her hair’s tied loosely at the nape of her neck, makeup minimal, eyes focused entirely on you.
her gaze drags down your frame, slow, appreciative, teeth pressing faintly into her lower lip as she takes in the sight of you in a maroon dress.
“good choice,” she says, voice low, hand curling gently around your wrist as you step back to let her in as you finish getting ready.
and the restaurant is quiet. tucked away on a narrow street you’ve never noticed before. low lights. quiet music. too many candles.
jihyo keeps her hand on your lower back the whole time you walk from the car to the table.
conversation flows easy. laughter softer now. the sharp edges between you dulled, replaced by something warmer. settled.
she watches you over her wine glass like you’re the only thing in the room.
your foot brushes hers beneath the table. intentional.
her smile curves, dark, knowing.
neither of you rush.
by the time she walks you to your door, the air between you is heavy again, and crackles—heavy, thick with everything neither of you are saying. every step closer stripped more restraint from both of you, the want trailing close behind as it begins to press in every step.
you stop at your door, fingers curling around the key in your lock, pulse low and steady like you’ve practised this. you look at her—up close now, shadows under her eyes, lips parted faintly, every inch of her down bad and barely hiding it.
“you coming in?” your voice is quiet. edged. dangerous in the way you know she can’t refuse.
her eyes drag to your mouth, slow and deliberate, like she’s debating losing control entirely right there on your doorstep.
“eventually,” she says, voice rough, low.
and the promise of her earning it—earning the permission, the right, to be able to walk into your home after waiting right at your door until you decide she gets to walk through—curls straight through you.
⸻
the meeting should be simple.
finance review. department updates. end-of-quarter numbers.
jihyo’s done a thousand of these. in her sleep. on autopilot.
but not today.
because you walk in looking like that—blazer fitted to your waist, skirt skimming the line of your thighs, heels sharp, blouse tucked in so neatly it borders on cruel.
you know exactly what you’re doing.
your eyes catch hers as you take your seat across the table. calm. unreadable. dangerous.
jihyo swallows hard.
her assistant starts the meeting. slides flash on the screen. voices blur.
all she can see is the way your legs cross, how your skirt tightens just enough to make her pulse trip. the faint line of your collarbone where your blouse dips. the delicate glint of your necklace resting against your throat.
your voice starts.
she’s supposed to be listening.
supposed to be focused.
but your words—clean, confident, sharp—slip through the cracks of her restraint like warm honey.
you stand to present, fingertips brushing the edge of the table, blazer shifting with your movement.
her stomach tightens.
the room hums with quiet focus. charts, numbers, graphs.
all she sees is the curve of your waist, the soft glint of skin at your thighs when you turn slightly to point at the screen.
you lean over the table as you explain a breakdown of projections.
her jaw clenches.
your eyes meet hers, briefly, steady, knowing.
she forgets what slide they’re on.
her assistant fills in the blanks. the team keeps talking. she doesn’t hear them.
her gaze drags back to your mouth as you speak, the faintest curve of a smirk curling there like you know you’re wrecking her and you’re enjoying it.
she can’t look away.
your presentation ends.
murmured praise. heads nodding.
her chest burns.
you sit, composed, legs crossing again, skirt riding just enough to make her dizzy.
the meeting ends. chairs scrape back. papers shuffle.
you pass her on your way out, pausing at her chair.
your hand trails lightly along her shoulder.
but your fingers graze the nape of her neck—a whisper of touch, featherlight.
“eyes up next time, miss park,” you murmur under your breath.
her pulse shatters.
you’re gone before she can breathe again.
⸻
the bar is warm with noise, low lights casting everything in soft gold. music hums under the swell of conversation, glasses clink faintly over polished tables.
jihyo barely hears any of it.
the investors finally signed this afternoon. weeks of meetings, numbers, pressure—all of it closed neatly with a handshake and ink on paper. the tension in the building evaporated the second the contracts hit the table.
she should be relaxed.
instead, she’s watching you.
you’re tucked between sana and nayeon, drink in hand, head tilted as you listen to some story nayeon’s telling. your smile curls easy at the edges, quiet and real, your eyes warm with the afterglow of the win.
jihyo’s heart stumbles.
you laugh.
she nearly chokes on her drink.
it’s soft—just loud enough to carry across the table—but it cuts straight through her, sharp and clean.
you lean your elbow on the table, fingers brushing your temple, eyes crinkling faintly as sana jumps in to add something, both of you giggling.
jihyo’s barely heard the story.
her gaze tracks the line of your jaw, the slope of your neck where your blouse dips just enough, the soft flush rising along your cheeks as the alcohol settles in.
you sip your drink. your lipstick leaves a faint mark on the rim. your nails tap lightly against the glass as you set it down.
someone clinks their glass, proposing a toast to the department, to the win.
you lift yours, eyes shining.
jihyo lifts hers, eyes only on you.
the night stretches.
the team softens. drinks flow. laughter hums low under the clatter of ice in glasses.
you talk easily to everyone—the department leads, the assistants, even one of the newer interns—your smile patient, your laugh light, your posture relaxed.
you glow in the low light, confident, soft, untouchable.
and then the drinks tip you just past careful.
your eyes glaze faintly at the edges, your smile slipping wider, your fingers looping gently around sana’s arm as she leans in to tease you.
jihyo can’t look away.
your laugh is looser now, warm, head tipping back against the booth.
your hand curls around your drink, lazy, absentminded, thumb tracing circles along the condensation.
jihyo wants to touch you. wants to press her hand to the small of your back, feel the warmth of your skin under her palm, steady you as you tilt your head toward her with that soft, glassy-eyed smile.
you glance at her.
your eyes meet.
the air shifts, heavy, quiet.
your smile curves. small. knowing. drunk enough to be bold, sober enough to mean it.
jihyo’s pulse trips over itself.
you lean your chin on your hand, elbow on the table, watching her across the room with eyes that say you know exactly how gone she is for you.
she drinks the rest of her wine.
she doesn’t look away once.
⸻
you barely manage to unlock your apartment door.
the key wobbles once, misses the lock entirely, and you laugh under your breath—soft, unfocused, breath warm with the buzz of the drinks still lingering in your system. the door finally clicks open and you stumble inside, heels forgotten somewhere in the hallway, your bag sliding down your arm to hit the floor with a dull thud.
jihyo follows at a careful distance, her coat draped over her arm, eyes sharp despite the late hour. no one from the office noticed—no one ever does. to the team, she’s still the composed ceo, untouchable, unflinching, and you’re still her employee. nothing but neat lines between you, all clean professionalism on the surface. nobody looking close enough to notice how she never stops watching you. how you always feel her eyes first.
but now—now you’re toeing off your heels in the middle of your living room, swaying faintly as you shrug your blazer off your shoulders and let it hit the floor with a careless thud. forgotten, keys tossed haphazardly onto the kitchen island.
jihyo closes the door behind you with a quiet click, her eyes tracking your every movement. her jaw clenches faintly as you fumble with the buttons of your sleeveless blouse, pulling it off with minimal grace, fabric crumpling on the carpet behind you as you stumble toward your bedroom.
her ears burn.
she stoops, picking up your blazer first, folding it neatly over the back of your couch. your blouse follows. the skirt comes next—a soft, careless drop to the floor that leaves you laughing quietly, bare legs catching the low glow of the streetlight filtering through the windows.
jihyo doesn’t let her gaze drop.
but she can’t look away.
your laugh is quiet, tipsy, breathless. you disappear into your bedroom for a moment, drawers opening and closing, wardrobe creaking faintly as you tug on a pair of pyjama shorts and an oversized t-shirt that falls past your hips. your hair’s a mess—strands sticking to your cheek, the faintest flush lingering across your skin from the drinks, your eyes heavy but stubborn.
jihyo exhales through her nose, her pulse an uneven thrum beneath her ribs. she collects the rest of your clothes, folding them with steady hands, setting them aside in a neat pile before trailing after you.
the sound of running water follows.
you’re leaned over the bathroom sink now, splashing cold water onto your face, dripping onto the floor, your fingers clumsy as you reach for your toothbrush. your reflection catches her in the mirror, her frame silhouetted in the doorway, coat now tossed over the arm of your sofa, eyes dark, unreadable.
“you’re not leaving,” you say, voice low, words soft and slurred around the edges but firm with quiet insistence.
jihyo’s brow arches, her arms folding across her chest as she leans against the doorframe. “you’re drunk.”
“doesn’t matter,” you mumble, fumbling for a spare toothbrush in the drawer under the sink, shoving it toward her with the same stubborn tilt to your mouth that’s been undoing her for months. “you’re staying.”
she huffs a quiet breath, fond, eyes tracing your face, your flushed cheeks, the glint of water on your collarbone. “you really want me to stay that badly?”
“yes.” your voice leaves no room for argument. your gaze is hazy but unwavering. “please.”
her chest tightens.
she takes the toothbrush from you, her fingers brushing yours, the touch sending a sharp ache curling low in her stomach. she turns to the sink, brushing her teeth beside you in silence, the two of you framed together in the mirror. your eyes flick to her every few seconds, your expression softening, your stubbornness turning fond.
when you’re done, you stumble back toward your bedroom, tugging at the hem of your t-shirt as you go. the apartment is a mess now—clothes trailing behind you, your heels abandoned by the door.
“pyjamas,” you mutter, digging through a drawer, pulling out a pair of matching pyjamas. you toss them toward her. “can’t sleep in work clothes.”
jihyo hesitates for a breath, her cheeks flushed, but your pointed look leaves no room for protest. she changes quickly, the fabric soft and worn, your scent clinging faintly to it.
you climb onto the bed, blankets twisted, your limbs sprawling carelessly across the mattress as you bury your face in the pillow.
jihyo folds your discarded clothes neatly on the chair by the window before turning back.
you lift the blanket, eyes heavy, your voice quiet but sure. “get in.”
her heart stumbles.
she moves carefully, sliding beneath the covers, lying stiff at first, cautious despite the drunken haze softening the edges of the room.
but then you reach for her, curling your arm around her waist, tucking your head in her neck, breath warm against her throat.
her pulse trips over itself.
you’re so close.
your fingers curl loosely in the fabric of her shirt, your breathing slowing as sleep pulls at you, the faintest smile curving your lips as you mumble, barely audible, “stay.”
“i’m here,” she whispers back, her voice low, rough, her arm wrapping around your back, her palm splayed flat between your shoulder blades.
you fall asleep like that—safe, wrapped around her, your heartbeat steady beneath her fingertips.
jihyo lies awake long after, staring at the ceiling, your warmth pressed against her side, the quiet rise and fall of your chest anchoring her.
the room is dark, still.
she lets herself breathe.
⸻
you wake slow.
the first thing you register is warmth—steady, real, pressed along every inch of your side. the second is the faint, rhythmic rise and fall beneath your cheek, the soft thud of a heartbeat beneath layers of fabric and skin.
you breathe in.
the air smells faintly of your shampoo.
and something else.
her.
you don’t open your eyes yet.
your body is heavy, muscles slack with sleep, the faint ache of a hangover creeping quietly at the edges of your temples. but the warmth beneath you, the familiar thrum of jihyo’s pulse, the gentle press of her hand resting at your lower back—those things cut through the fog first.
her hand is steady. light. the weight of her palm against your spine grounding in a way that makes your chest ache.
you shift slightly, your nose brushing against her collarbone, your breath warming her exposed skin, your cheek pressing closer to the worn fabric of your silk shirt—the one she’s wearing. the one you handed her last night when you could barely stand straight.
her breathing catches.
you hear it—soft, shallow, only for a second—but it’s there.
she’s awake.
her thumb traces the faintest circle against your back, slow and unhurried, like she’s afraid to move, afraid to break the fragile peace settling between you in the quiet.
you stay there for another long moment, your head heavy, eyes still closed, your brain slowly slotting the pieces together.
last night.
the bar. the drinks. her hand at your waist. the warmth of her breath at your ear. the way she didn’t leave, the way she stayed.
your cheeks warm faintly against her chest.
you shift again, your hand curling loosely at her waist, fingers brushing the edge of the shirt.
“you’re still here,” you mumble, voice low and rough with sleep, heavy-lidded and warm.
her chest rises beneath you as she exhales, her hand steady at your back. “you made me stay.”
you smile against her shirt, your lashes brushing her skin. “good.”
there’s a pause.
long. soft. filled with the hum of the city beyond the window and the steady ache blooming quietly in your temples.
her hand moves again, slow, tracing along the curve of your spine, her palm warm, fingers careful, lingering.
“headache?” her voice is low, rough with sleep, like she hasn’t spoken yet this morning.
“a bit,” you admit, your words muffled against her.
her hand drifts higher, fingertips brushing along the back of your neck, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. her touch is featherlight, tentative.
you finally open your eyes.
the room is soft with pale morning light. your curtains drawn half-shut, the faint hum of early traffic floating through the cracked window.
you tilt your chin, your eyes dragging up to meet hers.
she’s watching you already.
her gaze is quiet. steady. the sharp edges softened by sleep, by something deeper settling beneath her ribs. the shadows under her eyes are faint, her lips parted, her expression unreadable.
you study her for a moment longer, your pulse quickening faintly under your skin.
“what time is it?” you ask, your voice still scratchy with sleep.
“early,” she replies, her thumb brushing along your back. “you should rest.”
you hum low in your throat, your eyes slipping shut again, your cheek pressing closer to her. “you always this bossy in the morning?”
her laugh is quiet. barely there. but it curls warm through your chest, grounding and soft.
“only with you,” she murmurs.
your heart stutters.
you stay like that for a while longer—silent, steady, the press of her beneath you anchoring you to the bed, to the room, to this moment that feels suspended outside of the rest of your life.
eventually, your muscles protest. your head aches properly now. your mouth dry.
you shift, peeling yourself off her with reluctance, your body heavy as you sit up, hair a mess, silk wrinkled and slipping off one shoulder.
jihyo watches you, her gaze following your every movement, her hand resting lightly at your thigh, her thumb tracing an absent shape there.
“don’t go far,” she says softly.
you smile, lopsided, fingers brushing your tangled hair from your eyes. “just the kitchen. unless you plan on carrying me.”
her brows arch faintly. “don’t tempt me.”
you shake your head, pushing the blanket aside, standing on wobbly legs as you pad toward the kitchen. your flat is quiet, the pale morning light catching on the glassware, the forgotten pile of clothes on the sofa, the faint imprint of two bodies on the bed.
jihyo appears at the doorway, arms loose at her sides, her expression still soft, still wrecked, still entirely undone by you.
you pass her a mug of tea a few minutes later, your fingers brushing hers, lingering too long.
neither of you say a word.
but it settles between you—the weight of it. the want. the quiet shift in the air that neither of you are trying to hide anymore.
and you let it stay there.
undeniable.
steady.
real.
⸻
the tea goes cold on the counter.
you don’t notice.
jihyo’s standing between your legs, your back pressed against the counter, your oversized t-shirt hanging loose around your frame until it hits the quartz, her hands resting lightly at your hips.
the morning is quiet.
the apartment still smells faintly of tea and sleep. the pale light leaking through the window catches in her hair, her eyes soft, heavy-lidded as she watches you.
your hand curls lightly at the side of her neck, your thumb brushing just under her jaw.
neither of you have moved for a while.
you lean in.
her breath stumbles.
your mouth finds hers—slow, unhurried, soft. not careful, not sharp like the first time, not desperate like the second. just warm. steady. lazy in a way that makes your stomach twist.
her hands tighten at your hips, her thumbs pressing gently into the curve of your waist.
you sigh into her mouth, your other hand sliding up to cradle her jaw, your fingers tracing lightly along her cheekbone.
she kisses you back like she’s been holding her breath all morning.
your bodies barely move.
the only sound is the quiet, soft hum that escapes you when her teeth catch faintly on your bottom lip, her thumb rubbing slow circles at your waist.
your head tilts, deepening the kiss, your fingers threading into her hair, the strands warm and messy between your hands.
her other hand slides under your t-shirt, her palm flattening against your lower back, her thumb brushing absent shapes along your skin.
the kiss stays slow.
messy.
soft.
your noses bump. your mouths part just enough for breath. then you’re leaning back in, her jaw tilting to meet you, her pulse visible in her throat.
she groans quietly into your mouth when your teeth scrape lightly along her lip, her hand tightening at your waist like she’s anchoring herself.
you smile faintly against her, breath warm, your chest brushing hers.
“we’re gonna be late,” you mumble, your voice low, your forehead pressed to hers.
“i don’t care,” she whispers, her lips brushing yours again, her eyes still closed.
you kiss her again.
long.
slow.
then you pull back, the smallest, crooked smile curling your mouth as you step away, your hands lingering at her jaw a moment longer.
“get ready,” you murmur.
she watches you walk away.
her tea goes untouched.
⸻
the streets are quieter this late.
gangnam’s glass towers still glitter under the streetlights, the main roads humming with traffic, but the side street you turn onto is quieter—narrow, lined with little shops that have long since pulled their shutters down. neon signs flicker faintly overhead, washing the pavement in soft pinks and blues.
the restaurant sits at the end of the street, tucked beside a convenience store, its sign faded with age, the name peeling slightly along the edges. the windows glow soft and yellow, condensation clouding the glass.
it smells like fried garlic and broth before you even step inside.
jihyo holds the door open, the bell chiming softly as you slip past her into the warmth.
the place is small—four tables by the window, a long counter along the back wall, the kitchen hidden behind a faded plastic curtain. two middle-aged men sit near the window, nursing bowls of rice and steaming makgeolli. an older woman behind the counter glances up briefly, her eyes flicking over you both with faint curiosity, before returning to wiping down a tray.
you pick the table by the window, sliding into the seat, your blazer shrugged off, your hair falling loose around your shoulders. your cheeks are still faintly pink from the cold.
jihyo sits opposite, her blazer folded neatly on the seat beside her, her sleeves pushed to her elbows.
she watches you scan the menu—the way your brows pinch faintly, your bottom lip caught between your teeth.
“you overthinking food?” she teases quietly, her voice low, smooth, softer than you’ve heard it all day.
your mouth quirks. “i’m hungry, i’m cautious.”
you finally settle on something. she adds fried dumplings, her voice low as she orders, the familiar lilt of her accent curling at the edges.
the drinks arrive first—a small green bottle of soju sweating lightly against the metal tray, two tiny glasses clinking faintly as the worker sets them down.
you pour for her first, your eyes catching hers over the glass rim.
“rules are rules,” you murmur, faint amusement curling your words.
she pours for you after, her fingers brushing lightly along yours as she passes the glass across the table.
your heart stutters. so does hers.
the food arrives quickly.
the broth bubbles gently in its black stone pot, steam curling in the air, the rich, spicy scent of fermented chilli and pork filling the space between you. the rice is soft and perfect. the dumplings crisp and golden at the edges.
you eat.
easy, slow.
conversation drifts naturally—small things, familiar. the department. nayeon’s latest gossip. sana’s endless voice notes. your mutual hatred for the office coffee machine.
jihyo listens.
fully.
you laugh, your eyes shining faintly, your hand gesturing as you tell some story about your first week on the job—the chaos, the nerves, the way you thought you’d misfiled your first report.
she remembers.
she remembers watching you that day. remembers how your hands had shaken just faintly when you passed the papers to your department lead. how your smile had been polite, professional, but your eyes had given you away.
she hadn’t stopped watching you since.
your foot brushes lightly against hers beneath the table.
you don’t pull away.
neither does she.
the dumplings disappear. you steal a piece of her kimchi without asking. she pretends to be annoyed, but her chest tightens at the sound of your laugh.
the restaurant hums around you—quiet, steady.
the two old men leave. the ajumma starts wiping down the empty tables.
outside, the street glistens faintly under the streetlights, the pavements wet from some earlier drizzle.
you finish the last of your rice, your chopsticks clinking softly against the bowl.
jihyo leans back slightly, her eyes on you, her expression unreadable but soft at the edges.
“feel better?” she asks quietly.
you nod, your gaze steady on hers. “yeah.”
she pays at the counter. you don’t argue.
the air outside bites faintly at your skin as you step back onto the street. your coat hangs loose around your frame, your hands buried in the pockets, your hair curling faintly at the ends from the humidity.
you walk side by side.
your hand brushes hers once.
again.
she catches it gently this time, her palm curling around yours.
you glance at her, your expression soft, a small smile tugging at your mouth.
she’s wrecked.
completely.
but for once, she doesn’t fight it.
she just walks beside you, her hand in yours, her heart steady, and lets herself fall.
⸻
hiya! shreya here, if you are enjoying this fic/my work, please don't hesitate to like and reblog because they are much appreciated, thank you! stay happy, healthy & safe my loves! talk soon xx
this is a collection of people who choose to ignore the requirements i have to interact with my posts and reading my fics.
please note: i have ALWAYS specified that to interact with my post your blog must not be blank, but have your age, you must NOT interact with any x m reader fics, your gender should be clearly specified.
for any actual males reading my fics, get a life these fem idols would not touch you with a stick xx.
anyway, here is a clear call out of anyone that i feel has disrespected the requirements i have for interacting with my blog:
now playing: how does it feel to be forgotten? - selena gomez, i know it won't work - gracie abrams, right where you left me - taylor swift, you said you were sorry - selena gomez, i wish i hated you - ariana grande, let it happen - gracie abrams, her - the american dawn, say you love me - kai.
synopsis - on your first day, you make the mistake of stepping into ceo park jihyo’s office. the sharp encounter leaves you avoiding her for months, keeping to the edges of every corridor. but distance only sharpens her awareness of you, until she realises she’s looking for you without meaning to.
pairing - park jihyo x afab!reader
note - ageless, genderless & male accounts will be blocked if interacting with mine. fic has a rather poor and inaccurate portrayal of the working environment and the outfits fem reader wears would not be allowed in said working environment (you and jihyo think you're hot asf) please note that part of the fic includes some content that may make some uncomfortable or trigger you, so please do read the notes for each part. please note, as an attempt to apologise for the long wait, i have posted 3 chapters today, this is the third one, please click below for the series master list to make sure you have read the prior chapters. anyway, thank you & stay happy, healthy & safe my loves! xx
click for series masterlist.
jihyo’s patience runs thin the moment she steps onto the finance floor.
you’re there, seated at your desk, head tilted slightly as you read through a document. the faintest furrow creases your brow. your legs cross under the desk, skirt sliding higher across your thigh. your foot taps against the floor, unconscious, focused. your lips purse together as you scan the page.
jihyo’s steps falter. her assistant says something beside her. she doesn’t hear it. all she sees is you. concentrated. professional. completely unaware of the storm building inside her ribcage.
she forces herself to keep walking but her pulse doesn’t slow for the rest of the day.
and then the next meeting blurs around her. the boardroom feels colder than usual. the presentation flickers across the screen in front of her. voices drone on. she can’t hear them.
through the glass wall, beyond the polished table, she sees you. your chair leans back slightly, head tilted toward sana as you talk. your smile is small. private. controlled. but when sana says something that makes you laugh, really laugh, your head dips forward, eyes crinkling at the edges, lips parting around quiet amusement.
jihyo’s throat dries. she loses her place mid-sentence. her assistant glances toward her. she clears her throat, looks away, fumbles her words back into order. but the sound of your laughter sticks to the inside of her mouth like static whilst sitting there warm, making her heart skip a beat.
another time, the lift doors open.
you’re already inside.
your arms are folded across your chest, shoulder pressed against the mirrored wall. your eyes track the glowing numbers overhead, expression unreadable.
jihyo steps in. the doors slide shut.
the space feels suffocating instantly.
the soft scent of your perfume clings to the air—faint, familiar, maddening.
you don’t speak. don’t glance at her.
her fingers twitch at her sides. her gaze burns into the metal doors. the numbers climb too slow. your shoulder shifts slightly as the lift hums upward.
when it dings open, you step out first. your heels echo down the corridor. she follows, a step behind, pulse unsteady.
you never once look back.
and from her office window, she watches you leave for the day.
your blazer swings lightly with your stride. your chin tilts up against the cold. you disappear into the flood of pedestrians outside, your figure swallowed by the city.
jihyo stands there, frozen.
her hand presses flat to the glass. her reflection stares back, composed, cold, exhausted.
she doesn’t turn away until the street is empty.
the break room hums with quiet conversation.
jihyo doesn’t mean to linger in the hall but she does.
your name drifts through the door—someone complimenting you. a polite, professional note of praise. your voice answers—modest, grateful.
jihyo can’t see you. doesn’t need to.
the quiet smile she knows you’ll be wearing twists her stomach tight.
her jaw clenches. she pivots, leaves.
the ache settles deep, bitter.
the lobby’s busy. cars line the street outside. employees stream through the glass doors.
you cross the floor, heels sharp against the marble, coat draped over your arm. your expression is unreadable—eyes sharp, mouth set, focused.
jihyo stands near the revolving doors, waiting for her car.
your eyes meet.
it’s brief.
cold. unreadable.
the twist of her chest is sharp, sudden.
she looks away first.
and again does the rain fall hard against the car windows in the midst of summer.
you cross the street in front of her.
no umbrella. coat pulled tight. hair damp at the edges. your expression is tight with irritation, head ducked low against the wind.
jihyo watches from the backseat of her car, fingers curled into fists, knuckles white.
her driver says nothing.
she almost tells him to stop. almost opens the door. almost walks out. almost grabs you. almost pulls you in. almost takes you home. again.
she doesn’t.
you disappear down the street, soaked, untouchable.
her pulse hammers through her ribs like punishment.
after hours, the building is quiet. most offices dark.
she steps off the lift onto your floor.
you’re there, slipping your phone into your bag, hair curled and loose over your shoulders. your eyes are tired, your mouth set.
you walk past her without a word. without a glance.
she leans back against the wall as the lift doors slide shut, pulse dragging like wet concrete through her veins.
and the matching set you’re wearing should not undo her.
but god, they do.
especially the tight skirt.
then the late afternoon sun filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows, catching on the textured fabric, the soft lines hugging your hips, your waist.
you cross the finance floor, composed, unreadable, perfect.
you drop a folder.
it hits the carpet with a quiet slap of paper.
you bend to pick it up.
your skirt tightens across your hips. the blazer lifts just enough to bare a strip of your lower back, the delicate curve of your spine and ridiculously sheer tights.
jihyo’s mid-step when it happens.
her heart stutters. her mouth dries.
you stand. adjust the folder. walk away, heels clicking soft against the floor.
her pulse doesn’t settle for hours.
by the time her office empties, the city darkens, and her reflection stares back at her from the glass walls, jihyo knows the truth.
she’s gone for you.
fully.
hopelessly.
irrevocably.
you don’t even see it.
and god—she doesn’t want to stop.
⸻
jihyo knows the day will be bad the moment her assistant knocks with that tentative, apologetic rhythm—two quick taps, pause, one softer. the kind that means something is happening in finance she hasn’t planned for.
she stands, straightens her cuffs, follows the corridor past panes of glass and muted conversation. the closer she gets, the sharper the hush inside her chest.
you’re there, of course. seated on the edge of your desk, skirt riding just enough to show a shadow of thigh. sana’s beside you, laughing. that alone is dangerous—your laughter always is—but today it’s worse.
because a stranger is smiling at you like she already knows the taste of your name.
miyeon.
jihyo recognises her from the quick search the other week, the one she deleted and then performed again. dark hair, easy grin, soft eyes that belong on magazine covers. she’s holding a bakery box tied with twine, gesturing animatedly while sana beams.
jihyo’s heartbeat misses once.
she forces herself to stop six steps away, profile half obscured by a potted plant. close enough to hear. far enough to pretend she isn’t listening.
“—thought i’d drop these off before the rush,” miyeon says, voice low and bright. “and maybe steal you for coffee later, if you’re free?” her gaze flicks to you, not to sana.
your smile is polite. guarded. jihyo notices the way your fingers tug the hem of your blouse, nerves you don’t show anyone else. miyeon notices too—she leans closer, offers you the box like an apology.
jihyo’s stomach twists.
“that’s kind,” you say. “i’m not sure about my schedule yet, but thank you.”
“schedules can be rearranged,” sana teases.
jihyo’s jaw tightens.
miyeon laughs, nudges your arm. you duck your head, cheeks warming. jihyo memorises the exact tilt of your smile. she’s never seen miyeon give you pastries before. she’s never given you pastries herself.
the box changes hands. your fingertips brush miyeon’s. jihyo feels the graze in her own skin.
she steps back into shadow before she’s seen. her pulse is a drum. she hates the burn crawling up her throat. jealousy was a word she used for other people—messy, undignified—but here it is, clawing through her control and composure, raw and alive.
miyeon says something softer. you laugh again, smaller this time, and jihyo feels the sound slide between her ribs.
she leaves before she does something stupid.
back in her office she locks the door, sets her hands on the desk, breathes until her pulse slows. she shouldn’t care. she has no claim. last night proved that—your silence, your distance, the way you didn’t even flinch when she left that text like a breadcrumb she prayed you’d follow.
but she does care.
she cares enough that when her assistant asks if she’ll attend the finance outing tomorrow night—karaoke bar, casual drinks—she doesn’t hesitate.
“yes,” she says, voice level. “pencil me in.”
she arrives late on purpose. the rooftop bar hums with neon lights and off-key singing from the floor below. nayeon waves, drunk, mouth stained with a cherry slush. mina and tzuyu are at the counter corralling drink orders.
jihyo scans the tables. finds you almost instantly—seat against the railing, city lights painting your hair copper. laughter curls from your lips, carried on night air. you’re texting someone. jihyo wants it to be her. fears it’s not.
she doesn’t see miyeon yet.
but she feels the possibility of her everywhere.
jihyo orders water with ice. stands slightly apart, pretending she’s concerned with the view. in truth she’s cataloguing every micro-expression on your face: the upward flick of your eyes to read a message, the shy curve at the corner of your mouth, the way you tuck hair behind your ear when you’re thinking.
sana comes out of nowhere, hands full with shots.
she pushes one across to you.
you shake your head, laughter crooked.
sana shrugs, downs hers, then slumps against your arm, whispering something that makes you tilt your phone away.
jihyo catches the flicker of hesitation in your gaze.
her lungs tighten.
ten minutes later, miyeon appears—bag in hand, grin already bright. jihyo hears her before she sees her, that warm “hey, sunshine” she drops at your side.
your shoulders straighten.
your cheeks flush.
you smile. genuinely.
jihyo turns away, stares at her own reflection in the black glass of the night sky. she hears glasses clink, hears you say “thanks” soft and earnest, hears sana giggle something about best pastry chef in the city.
she feels ridiculous. childish. petty.
but she can’t stop listening.
when miyeon asks if you’re free this weekend, jihyo’s pulse stutters.
your reply is a non-answer—“maybe, i’m not sure”—but it’s enough to make jihyo’s nails press crescents into her palm.
she forces herself to sip the melting ice water.
forces herself not to look.
forces herself to breathe.
and then, amid the swirl of laughter and karaoke echo, she hears your name again—someone asks sana if you’ve made up your mind about that date.
jihyo’s world narrows.
she leaves before the answer lands.
the city air is cooler outside. she walks too fast. heels strike pavement like punctuation. she knows she’s running from nothing but the sound of your voice across a rooftop.
it doesn’t help.
nothing does.
because all she can see is your smile—softer than anything she’s earned. all she can feel is the distance she built brick by brick, now filled by someone who offers you pastries and easy laughter.
jihyo glances at her watch. midnight.
she pulls her phone out, types your name, then stops.
no messages.
not tonight.
instead she scrolls—search history still open to miyeon’s page. warm smile. gentle eyes. a caption about small joys. jihyo exhales, hates herself, scrolls again, then locks the screen.
she’s driven home with the night buzzing around her, jealousy singing low and ugly in her bones.
she sleeps two hours.
then the morning arrives, cold and waiting, and she knows the silence can’t hold.
⸻
you don’t knock.
the door is open already—wide, like someone forgot to close it behind them—and for a second you hesitate. for a second you almost back away, almost turn down the hallway with your mouth full of unfinished thoughts.
but then you step in.
the air is cooler inside. quiet in that pin-drop, sharp-edged way that makes the silence feel personal—and it makes the sound of the door shutting way too loud but not loud enough to block out the beating of your heart in your ears. the city hums through the windows. a storm’s trying to gather on the skyline again.
jihyo doesn’t look up immediately.
she’s at her desk, fingers hovering above the trackpad, not moving. a spreadsheet half-lit on the screen. a coffee cup beside her, untouched. her jacket’s off. shirt sleeves rolled up, forearms tensed like she’s been trying not to grip the edge of the desk too hard.
when she finally raises her head, her eyes don’t widen in surprise. they soften, slowly, like she’d been bracing for something and then realised it was you.
the door shuts.
you walk closer.
not gently.
you don’t speak right away. the quiet stretches.
she’s the one who breaks it.
“you’re early.”
“so are you.”
a faint tilt of her lips—dry, humourless. “you asked for the meeting.”
“i asked to clarify figures for next quarter. loudly. professionally. not whatever this is.”
you say it evenly. no accusation. just weight. truth.
she nods once, barely—but you saw the way she swallowed.
you cross the room slowly. the blinds are half drawn. the light slices through in sharp, golden angles. your reflection glints faintly in the glass.
you stop two steps from her desk.
you’re not sure what you expect to say until it’s already coming out of your mouth.
“why did you show up last night?”
her eyes shift.
you watch it happen—the flicker of composure, the press of restraint.
“it was a company event,” she says.
“don’t do that.”
silence.
you lean in slightly, voice low.
“you stood across the rooftop like a shadow and didn’t say a word to anyone. you watched me like you were trying to memorise me. and then you left the second someone mentioned my name with miyeon’s.”
her hands curl slightly.
“you don’t get to be jealous,” you say, softer. “you made your choice.”
jihyo’s breath shudders. she looks down.
“i didn’t mean to.”
“but you did.”
you circle the desk. she doesn’t stop you. doesn’t look up as you move until you’re behind her, the chair creaking when she turns to face you.
you lean against the edge of the desk, arms folded.
“so what is this?” you ask. “what do you want now?”
her eyes lift slowly. they land on your face like a confession.
“i want you.”
you inhale once, sharply.
but she’s not finished.
“i want you,” she says again, voice rough, low, breaking in places. “in every version of the word. in every language. i want you when i’m composed. i want you when i’m a mess. i want you even when i try not to.”
you blink.
she stands.
slowly. like she’s afraid you’ll vanish if she moves too fast.
“you walked into my office on your first day and i felt something break. i didn’t know what it was. i told myself it was fascination. curiosity. nothing serious. but then it got worse.”
she steps closer.
“every day i watched you move through this building like you belonged to it. like it hadn’t turned cold. and i started making excuses to pass your desk. to ask questions i already had the answers to. and when you smiled at me, i forgot how to breathe.”
her voice is shaking.
you don’t move.
“and then i touched you,” she whispers. “that night. when we stayed late. when your fingers brushed mine and it felt like the world narrowed to the shape of you.”
she swallows.
“i kissed you and it didn’t feel like a mistake. it felt inevitable.”
you still don’t speak.
she steps in again.
“but i pulled away. because i was afraid. because i’ve built this company on boundaries and control and every rule i’ve made says i can’t want you like this.”
her hand lifts—slow, trembling—stops just before your jaw.
“but i do,” she says. “i want you so much it hurts. and i can’t pretend anymore.”
you exhale like you’ve been holding your breath for a year.
“you made me feel like a secret,” you say.
“you weren’t.”
“then what was i?”
“everything,” she says, too quickly. “you were—are—everything.”
you watch her. long enough that her hand falls back to her side.
then, quietly,
“you made me feel like wanting me was shameful.”
“it wasn’t,” she says. “it isn’t. i was ashamed of myself. for being weak. for needing. but you—”
she cuts off.
and when her voice comes again, it comes a lot softer, more genuine.
“y/n, you were never a mistake.”
you take a step closer.
the air cracks.
“then show me,” you say and her eyes darken. “show me i wasn’t.”
and that’s all it takes.
her hands are on you in an instant—one at your waist, the other sliding up your spine to cradle the back of your neck. her mouth finds yours like it’s starving.
you kiss her back with every second she stole from you. every moment you ached. every inch of silence she left you with.
it’s not gentle.
it’s not clean.
it’s desperate and hungry and aching.
her chair rolls back as she stumbles into it, pulling you with her. you follow, straddle her hips, press into her like she’s the only thing holding you steady.
her hands grip your thighs. yours cradle her jaw.
she breaks the kiss only to breathe your name.
you whisper hers into her mouth.
her blazer slips off the chair. your fingers knot in her shirt. her lips trace the line of your jaw, your throat. she kisses the place beneath your ear like it means something.
you press your forehead to hers.
you stay like that—breathing each other in. steadying.
her fingers soften their grip. trail gently over your thighs like apology, like prayer.
you speak first.
“you’re not allowed to disappear again.”
her voice is hoarse.
“i won’t.”
“i mean it.”
“so do i.”
you pull back just enough to see her clearly.
“this doesn’t fix everything.”
“i know.”
“but it’s a start.”
she nods.
her arms wrap around you. she tucks her face into the crook of your neck like it’s the only place where she can breathe.
you close your eyes.
and for the first time in weeks, you feel something close to peace.
⸻
and it’s different now.
you feel it the second you step onto the floor—the weight that sat heavy between you and jihyo for months is still there, but it’s changed. it hums instead of pressing. it simmers instead of suffocating.
she leaves an iced coffee on your desk before you arrive.
she’s done it before. quiet, secret, desperate.
this morning, the difference is small but certain—the sticky note on the lid reads your name. just your name. small, neat handwriting curved around the edge of the cup.
you don’t smile. not properly. but your fingers wrap around it and you keep it.
jihyo passes you in the hall a few hours later. she’s not subtle about the way her eyes skim down your figure, linger at your hips, your tits, your mouth, your eyes.
she’s never been good at hiding it, not with you.
you meet her gaze.
steady.
there’s no sharpness now. no cold, controlled mask.
you look at her like you want her too.
her pulse stumbles.
in the next meeting with potential investors, her foot finds yours beneath the table.
you don’t pull away.
you nudge back, just slightly, your heel brushing her ankle, a quiet, deliberate reply.
she forgets what slide they’re on.
her assistant carries the presentation without her.
the day keeps folding like that.
you pass her office. your eyes meet. you keep walking—but there’s a faint curve at the corner of your mouth now, like you know exactly what you’re doing to her.
she rounds the long way to the lift just to see you at your desk, head tilted as you type, bottom lip caught gently between your teeth in thought.
she leaves another note beside your laptop—reminder for the project deadline—but her handwriting is softer this time. you don’t say anything, but when she passes later, it’s still on your desk, unfolded, kept.
by the time the building quiets for the evening, she’s leaning at your desk, your chair turned toward her, your knees brushing between the small space.
your voice is low, words warm, the edges of your smile easy now.
now playing: siren - taeyeon, different - woodz, casual - chappel roan, somebody else - the 1975, void - the neighbourhood
synopsis - on your first day, you make the mistake of stepping into ceo park jihyo’s office. the sharp encounter leaves you avoiding her for months, keeping to the edges of every corridor. but distance only sharpens her awareness of you, until she realises she’s looking for you without meaning to.
pairing - park jihyo x afab!reader
note - ageless, genderless & male accounts will be blocked if interacting with mine. fic has a rather poor and inaccurate portrayal of the working environment and the outfits fem reader wears would not be allowed in said working environment (you and jihyo think you're hot asf) please note that part of the fic includes some content that may make some uncomfortable or trigger you, so please do read the notes for each part. please note, as an attempt to apologise for the long wait, i have posted 3 chapters today, this is the second one, please click below for the series master list to make sure you have read the prior chapter. anyway, thank you & stay happy, healthy & safe my loves! xx
click for series masterlist.
by friday, jihyo hasn’t slept more than three hours a night all week.
it started with a discrepancy. a small one. buried in procurement delays and delivery lags. she clocked it monday and flagged it with her assistant—then promptly got pulled into three days of strategy meetings and client calls that went nowhere. every time she tried to refocus on the margin, someone interrupted. something broke. some other department cried wolf louder.
and yet, through it all, the number on the internal dashboard kept dipping. slowly. quietly. like a leak she couldn’t patch.
by tuesday evening, she was eating dinner standing at her window. by wednesday, she wasn’t eating at all.
she watched you from across the room during the wednesday debrief. the way you held your notes with one hand and kept your other curled into your skirt, grounding yourself. your voice calm. eyes tired. everything about you said, we’re handling it.
she believed you.
but belief isn’t a strategy. and by thursday, her confidence had started to crumble—and she knows her confidence would’ve crumbled long before if you were not involved.
too many moving pieces. not enough time. and under it all, a cold, crawling sense of something worse—that this wasn’t just about finance. it was about you. about her. about the line she’s been trying not to cross since the first time you laughed in the hallway and didn’t look away fast enough.
she starts friday already wound too tight. her assistant stutters through two meetings. legal won’t stop emailing her about something irrelevant. she keeps pulling up your name in the dashboard, watching the update time stamps, watching your department stretch itself thin.
but she doesn’t say anything.
until she finally calls you up.
you knock once. step in. your presence fills the room too easily. too gently.
she doesn’t tell you to sit.
she doesn’t want to be soft today.
“what’s the actual figure?”
your answer is clean. precise. you don’t flinch. you’re good at this—she’s always known that. even when she first hired you, she knew. it’s not the numbers she’s doubting. it’s the fear underneath, the one she can’t say out loud.
because if this cracks, if the company wavers, it’s her face on the front line.
and somewhere inside her, ugly and cold and small, there’s a flicker of resentment at how you’re always so composed. how you don’t break.
how you haven’t come to her again—not like that night. not like the quiet look you gave her when she walked past your desk a few days ago.
“we’re exposed,” she says.
“temporarily.”
“that’s not good enough.”
you tense. just slightly.
“we’re not failing. we’re adjusting.”
“i want it fixed.”
her voice is harder than she means. she hears it too late.
“you think we’re not trying?”
“maybe someone in your position should’ve flagged it sooner.”
you look at her then, really look. your posture straightens. you don’t raise your voice.
“i have. three times.”
her hands curl into fists.
“then maybe you weren’t loud enough.”
silence stretches. you tilt your head slightly. she watches the way you breathe through it, like you’re choosing not to shatter.
“jihyo—”
it hits too close. it sounds too tender. too knowing.
so she says it. without thinking.
“miss park.”
and the moment it leaves her lips, she knows.
she’s crossed it.
she watches your mouth go still. watches the light behind your eyes dim just slightly.
not anger. not even hurt.
disappointment.
you blink once. twice. again. then nod, like you’ve just learned something about her you didn’t want to.
she tries to fix it.
“i didn’t mean—”
“don’t,” you say.
you’ve already taken a step back.
“i’ll send the updated breakdown,” you say without turning.
you pause.
she doesn’t move.
“we’re still inside forecast tolerance. if that changes, i’ll flag it. loudly.”
next thing she knows is that your hand is on the door handle.
and then—turning just enough you make eye contact, voice too soft to be cold—you say,
“i thought it was just jihyo.”
then you leave.
the silence that follows is unbearable.
she doesn’t sit. she doesn’t move. she just stares at the door like it might let her take it back.
miss park.
it echoes in her skull.
she presses her knuckles to her mouth.
because that’s not what she meant.
and she knows—deep in the pit of her chest, under everything she’s tried to hold back—she’s already losing you.
but could she really lose you if she never really had you?
⸻
you don’t expect to see her.
not after the way she dismissed you. not after she left you standing in her office with her words still ringing in your ears like a slap you didn’t see coming. not after a full week of silence where you held the department together while feeling like you were being slowly pulled apart.
you’ve just come from drinks with sana. you weren’t planning to. she caught you on what was supposed to be your grocery trip and looped her arm through yours like it was natural. insisted. told you you looked like you hadn’t had a full breath in five days.
and she was right.
you haven’t.
you had two drinks. you barely tasted either. you smiled and nodded and let her talk, let her distract you, let the noise of the bar dull the ache sitting beneath your ribs. you kept checking the door, like you were expecting someone, even though you weren’t.
it’s late now. the streets are slick with stormwater, puddles black and shining under yellow streetlights. the back of your blouse sticks to your skin. you’re tired, but it’s the kind of tired that runs deeper than your muscles. it’s a tired that lives under your skin.
you turn the corner toward your building.
and stop.
because there, curled into the bench just inside the lobby glass doors, is jihyo.
your first thought is that you’re imagining her. that maybe you’ve conjured her up, the same way you’ve conjured her voice in your head every night this week. but then you take one more step and the light hits her hair—soaked and sticking to her face—and you know it’s real.
she doesn’t see you at first. she’s looking down at her lap, hands folded like she’s praying or trying not to come undone. there’s a wet patch beneath her from where the rain’s soaked through. her shoes are ruined. her shirt’s translucent where the fabric clings to her arms. she’s shaking. you don’t know if it’s the cold or something else.
you swipe your keycard at the door and push through. your heels echo once against the tile. she looks up.
and her glassy eyes go wide.
but you don’t soften.
you don’t move toward her.
you just cross the lobby slowly, set your keys down at the desk, and say—quiet, even, precise—
“miss park.”
you watch her flinch with something you refuse to name.
her mouth opens like she’s been winded.
her hands twitch in her lap.
her voice, when it comes, is raw.
“please don’t call me that.”
you arch an eyebrow. “why not? you told me too.”
“i didn’t mean it.”
“but you said it.”
you don’t yell. you don’t raise your voice. you don’t need to.
she stands, slowly, unsteady like her legs might not fully obey her. the light catches the droplets still clinging to her lashes.
“i came to apologise,” she says.
“you could’ve got your assistant to email.”
her breath catches. “i didn’t want to.”
“you could’ve emailed.”
“i wanted to see you.”
you pause. eyes sharp.
“why?”
her lips part. her throat works around the answer. she doesn’t give it.
you nod, like that tells you everything you need to know.
“you looked me in the eye and made me call you ‘miss park’ like i was a stranger. like you hadn’t wanted me so bad your control and composure were wavering. like you hadn’t looked at me like i was something you wanted to keep.”
she’s shaking harder now.
you step forward. not out of compassion. just so she hears you clearly.
“you made me feel small,” you say. “you made me feel like i mistook your control for care.”
“that’s not true,” she says quickly, desperately. “i see you—i’ve always—i just—”
“you what? panicked? lost control? slipped back into the safety of a title and hierarchy because it’s easier than admitting you care about someone you’re not supposed to?”
she doesn’t deny it.
she looks down at the floor. you watch her jaw tighten like she’s trying not to cry.
“i haven’t slept,” she whispers.
you blink—the admission stings more than you expect it to.
“i haven’t eaten properly in days. i’ve ruined half my wardrobe. i’ve rewritten the apology in my head a hundred times and none of them sounded right. and i still came here because i thought—maybe—if you saw me like this, you’d know i wasn’t pretending.”
you exhale. long. heavy.
“why now?”
she looks at you like she doesn’t understand the question.
“why now?” you repeat. “after days of nothing. after you watched me drown at work and didn’t so much as check in. why tonight? why here?”
she doesn’t answer.
you shake your head.
“i’ll tell you why, miss park,” you state, jaw flexing. “you only come when it hurts you.”
that lands.
she recoils like you slapped her.
“i didn’t know what else to do,” she says, voice small. “i don’t know how to fix it.”
“you don’t get to fix it,” you say, suddenly tired again. “not just by showing up looking pathetic—small, soaked and sad.”
you turn. step toward the lift.
she follows.
“please,” she says. “don’t shut me out.”
you press the call button.
“call me jihyo,” she says. quietly. urgently. like she’s already breaking.
you look at her.
her eyes are wet.
“i don’t want to be miss park to you.”
you inhale slowly. measured. like it’s the only thing keeping your mouth closed.
“you don’t get to ask that,” you say.
the lift dings open. you step inside.
she doesn’t follow this time.
not until, just before the doors begin to close, you meet her eyes and say—quiet, exhausted—
“are you coming or not?”
she steps in.
the ride up is silent.
she doesn’t touch you. doesn’t even look at you. you think maybe she’s afraid she’ll break the thread if she pulls too hard.
you open the door to your flat. toss your keys on the counter. pull off your shoes. she does the same, slow and reverent, like she’s afraid this is a dream she’ll wake from.
you don’t offer her a drink. you don’t say sit. you just stand there.
and eventually, she speaks.
“i wanted to be better at this.”
you don’t answer.
“i wanted to keep you safe,” she says. “and i thought the best way to do that was to keep you at a distance.”
you laugh. once. sharp.
“you don’t keep someone safe by pushing them away.”
“i know.”
“you don’t protect someone by hurting them first.”
“i know,” she says again, this time like it costs her something.
you turn, slowly. arms folded.
“i don’t want to be a secret,” you say.
“you’re not.”
“i don’t want to be an accident.”
“you never were.”
you stare at her for a long moment.
and then: “why did you come?”
she blinks. “because i needed to see you.”
“because you needed to feel better?”
“because i missed you,” she says, and her voice cracks clean through the centre.
you don’t respond right away. the silence after is long enough to make her shift on her feet. her hands are still damp from the rain. her hair sticks to her cheek. you watch her struggle to find somewhere to look that isn’t your face.
“you missed me,” you echo. not a question. not a kindness. just a shape of the moment pressed between you.
she nods.
you cross your arms tighter.
“you don’t get to say that like it means anything.”
“it does.”
“not when you left me hanging by nothing but air for a week.”
“i know. i hated it.”
“you caused it.”
“i know,” she says again, more breath than sound. “i don’t expect you to forgive me.”
you don’t move.
“then what do you want?”
she hesitates. looks at you like the answer might shatter in her mouth.
“i want to be where you are,” she says. “even if you won’t talk to me. even if you won’t touch me. even if you never want to look at me the same way again. i just—i don’t want you to be hurting while i pretend everything’s fine.”
you stare at her.
“you’ve already been pretending.”
she flinches.
“i know. but not well. i thought i could—keep everything clean and separate. but i couldn’t. i didn’t. you got in—under my skin, into my ribs. and when it started to matter more than i knew what to do with, i folded. i used what power i had left to make you feel smaller so i wouldn’t have to admit that you terrified me.”
you breathe in slowly. let the words sink through your bones. her honesty doesn’t fix anything. it doesn’t erase what she said. but it slices her open in front of you. and she doesn’t hide.
“you hurt me,” you say.
“i know.”
“you made me question whether any of it was ever real.”
“it was. every second of it.”
“then why didn’t you say something sooner?”
“because i was scared you’d look at me the way you’re looking at me now.”
“and how exactly am i looking at you?”
“like you don’t know if you ever want to let me in again.”
you let the silence stretch. “you’re right.”
she closes her eyes.
“i don’t,” you add. “i don’t know what i want from you. i don’t know if i want anything at all.”
“then i’ll wait,” she says, quiet and immediate. “i’ll wait as long as it takes.”
you turn away. walk toward the kitchen. not to escape. just to move. your hands are cold.
“you’re not staying because i forgive you,” you say over your shoulder. “you’re staying because i can’t sleep either.”
behind you, she exhales something like relief.
“thank you.”
“don’t thank me.”
you fill a glass of water. place it on the coffee table. you don’t offer it to her directly. you don’t say goodnight.
you just disappear down the hallway.
when she follows, it’s without a sound. her footsteps are light. hesitant. she doesn’t touch anything. doesn’t reach for you. she just changes into some pyjamas you let her borrow and she stays on the opposite side of the bed, hair still damp from the storm.
you lie facing the wall. she lies facing the ceiling.
neither of you speaks.
and still—you fall asleep faster than you have all week.
and you wake first.
light slants through the blinds. the air is warm. soft. your back aches from sleeping too still.
you hear her breathing behind you. slow. steady.
you don’t turn around.
you think about all the things you should say. all the ways you could let her down gently. all the ways you could twist the knife back in.
but none of it feels right. not yet.
you slide out of bed. pad quietly into the kitchen.
you don’t expect her to follow.
but five minutes later, there she is—hair a mess, clothes rumpled, eyes puffy but clear.
she doesn’t speak.
you pour two cups of tea.
you hand her one without looking.
she takes it like it might vanish.
you both sit on the sofa. one cushion apart.
the silence feels different now. not forgiving. but less sharp.
“thanks,” she says, finally.
you nod.
“i’ll head out soon. i just—i didn’t want to leave without saying something.”
you take a slow sip.
“you don’t have to rush.”
“i should.”
“then do.”
she glances at you. you’re not looking at her.
“you want space,” she says.
“i want a lot of things.”
she nods. “i’ll give you whatever you ask for.”
you finally look up.
“don’t promise things you can’t keep.”
she holds your gaze. her throat works around the words.
“i’m not going to push you,” she says. “but if you ever want to talk—about any of it, or none of it—i’m here.”
you finish your tea. stand.
“your shirt’s still damp.”
“it’ll dry on the walk.”
“take one of mine.”
she blinks.
you’re already in the bedroom. rummaging. you toss her a clean button-down. she catches it like a lifeline.
she disappears into the bathroom.
when she comes back out, the shirt hangs soft and loose on her frame. she looks gentler. like something inside her has been undone.
you open the front door.
she steps past you. pauses.
“i’m sorry,” she says again.
you meet her eyes.
“i know.”
she hesitates.
then leaves.
you don’t cry. not yet.
but your hands shake when you close the door.
⸻
she feels you the moment you step into the building.
doesn’t see you. doesn’t hear your voice. just knows, in some silent, irritating, entirely involuntary way—that you’re here.
the morning moves as it should. her assistant hands her the day’s first report. her inbox stacks up as expected. her coffee is too bitter. the numbers on her monitor make perfect sense.
but you’re somewhere in this building, and it throws the whole rhythm off.
her mind keeps drifting to that night—your voice rough with restraint, your shoulders held too tight. the way you’d opened your front door like it cost you something. the way you said “you don’t get to ask that.”
and then: the way your fingers brushed hers when you handed her the shirt. how she still hasn’t taken it off.
she gets through her morning briefing without a stumble, but her eyes keep flicking toward the corridor outside. she doesn’t mean to. doesn’t want to.
but she’s looking for you.
and when she does finally see you—through the pane of glass outside the finance department—you’re exactly where she feared you’d be.
standing beside sana.
laughing.
it’s the kind of laugh she hasn’t heard from you in weeks. bright. unguarded. it cuts straight through her chest.
you’re holding a spreadsheet in one hand, a pen tucked behind your ear, your hair a little messy from the weather. sana’s leaned in close. whatever she says next has your head tilting back, a smile spreading so wide across your face that it makes jihyo’s stomach twist.
then she hears it.
not clearly. not directly. just enough to freeze her in place.
“—miyeon asked about you, said she’d love to see you again—”
her name. a soft laugh—your laugh.
jihyo doesn’t catch your response.
she doesn’t need to.
her hands are cold.
she walks away before she lets herself listen to anything else.
back in her office, she closes the door too hard. her assistant knocks ten minutes later and she tells them not now. her coffee’s cold by the time she remembers it.
miyeon.
she remembers the name. the girl sana tried to set you up with. café owner. model. soft-spoken, apparently. polite.
jihyo never saw her. but she didn’t have to. the name alone felt like a warning bell the first time she heard it. now it feels like a countdown.
she doesn’t know what the two of you are now.
nothing, probably.
you’d let her stay the night.
you didn’t ask her to stay the morning.
you didn’t text.
you didn’t even look at her when she passed your desk earlier—just kept typing, eyes narrow on the screen, like she didn’t still live in the spaces behind your shoulders.
and she can’t blame you.
but god, she wants to.
she spends the rest of the day in that state—tethered, taut, tense.
you’re close but unreachable.
your voice drifts down the hall in bursts.
your laughter lingers in her memory like a wound she keeps pressing.
the meetings blur.
the spreadsheets do too.
the pen she returns to your desk is hers, not yours. she doesn’t realise until hours later.
she almost asks if you’ll return it.
but she doesn’t speak to you.
not yet.
she needs to earn the right.
but she watches.
always.
and the moment she hears miyeon’s name again—soft, off-hand, somewhere near the lift as the evening crowd begins to thin—she feels the ache sink deeper, colder.
and this time, she doesn’t look away.
⸻
jihyo doesn’t remember pouring the second bottle of wine into her glass.
she only realises it’s there when her fingers brush the rim and find it already half empty. the bottle sits beside her on the coffee table—open, sweating slightly against the glass surface. the television is on but muted. her apartment is dark, save for the screen and her phone.
her blazer’s discarded. the top buttons of her shirt are undone. her legs are curled beneath her on the sofa, one heel still half on, the other discarded somewhere by the door.
she stares at the glow of her phone screen.
blank message box.
your name just above it.
she types.
deletes.
types again.
nothing sounds right.
“did you get home okay” feels too casual. “i missed you today” sounds too much like a confession. “i thought about you all afternoon” is too honest.
she backspaces everything.
she’s not drunk. not really.
just tired.
too tired to fight herself when the thought appears.
she opens instagram.
goes to sana’s page.
scrolls.
finds a comment from you under one of her posts, complimenting her.
two likes.
she clicks on it.
sana.
miyeon.
jihyo hesitates.
then taps.
the profile loads.
her bio is short—in it, the username for her café tagged.
a pinned highlight captioned with “👩❤️💋👩” filled with grainy videos of her and some friends.
jihyo scrolls, slow.
a picture in an oversized jumper, holding a tray of pastries.
a post from the café—chalkboard handwriting, flower pots in the window.
a dump of her on set and the bts of a photoshoot.
a recent few in a white knit sweater, seated on one side of a table, smile lazy, captioned: someone said i looked soft. they weren’t wrong.
your username shows up as the top comment. mmmh, i’m never wrong 🤷♀️
jihyo exhales through her nose. it’s not quite a scoff. not quite jealousy. just something that tastes like acid at the back of her throat.
she locks her phone.
then unlocks it again.
searches the name.
stares at it.
closes the app.
opens messages.
and finally types—slowly, carefully:
i don’t know if i have the right to say this, but i hope you got home well.
she doesn’t send another.
she just stares at the screen until it goes black in her hand.
and you’re not sure why you can’t sleep.
your apartment’s quiet. the window’s cracked open. the air smells like earth and distant rain. your phone is face-down on the table, but you already know what it said.
you read it twice. maybe three times.
you didn’t reply.
you don’t know what reply you could even respond with.
you’re not sure what a reply would even mean.
you’re not angry. not in this moment.
just unmoored.
so you pull on a light jumper over your pyjama top, slip into your shoes, and head downstairs.
the streets are quieter than usual. a little damp. warm with the promise of summer. you walk aimlessly—past the café you like, past the corner shop that always stays open too late, past the quiet bus stop where you once saw jihyo waiting with her head tilted back like she was finally free.
you round another corner.
and stop.
she’s standing beneath a streetlamp. not moving. not on her phone. not walking. just… still.
her coat’s draped over one arm. her hair’s tied back loosely. her face is tilted upward slightly, like she’s thinking or watching or remembering.
you stay where you are.
she doesn’t see you.
you don’t call out.
something about the way she looks—so composed, yet so lonely—roots you in place.
you wonder what she’s thinking.
you wonder if she’s thinking of you.
she rubs a hand through her hair, then turns and walks slowly down the block.
now playing: good news - bakar, eyes closed - jisoo & zayn, but maybe - maddox, all the things she said - t.a.t.u, hard 4 me 2 love you - sinéad harnett, your power - billie eilish
synopsis - on your first day, you make the mistake of stepping into ceo park jihyo’s office. the sharp encounter leaves you avoiding her for months, keeping to the edges of every corridor. but distance only sharpens her awareness of you, until she realises she’s looking for you without meaning to.
pairing - park jihyo x afab!reader
note - ageless, genderless & male accounts will be blocked if interacting with mine. fic has a rather poor and inaccurate portrayal of the working environment and the outfits fem reader wears would not be allowed in said working environment (you and jihyo think you're hot asf) please note that part of the fic includes some content that may make some uncomfortable or trigger you, so please do read the notes for each part. sorry it took me so long to update, feeling highly unmotivated but here's another chapter as an attempt to makeup for the wait and the next part shall be up in a short while to apologise for the long wait. anyway, thank you & stay happy, healthy & safe my loves! xx
click for series masterlist.
jihyo arrives ten minutes early, naturally.
you see her through the window—dark trousers, pale blouse, her usual composure wrapped tightly around her like a second skin. she pauses near the low garden gate, eyes sweeping the building with cautious curiosity. it’s small, tucked away behind rows of hedges and playground fencing, with murals peeling in bright colours on the outside walls and the faint sound of laughter drifting through the open windows.
you meet her at the door, hair tied up, soft fabric t-shirt clinging to your back from the heat, jeans worn at the knees. there’s glitter on your hands. she doesn’t miss it.
“this is not what i expected,” she says, after a beat.
“good.” you smile. “i told you not to wear white.”
her gaze drops to her blouse. “this is off-white.”
“you’ll regret it.”
she doesn’t smile, but her mouth twitches—barely. you nudge the door open with your hip and nod her inside.
the moment she steps over the threshold, the atmosphere shifts. gone is the quiet corporate order she lives in. the centre is alive with sound. running feet. high-pitched voices. music playing softly from an old speaker. it’s warm and chaotic and utterly unfiltered. jihyo’s shoulders tense in the doorway, not dramatically—just a quiet stiffening, like she’s bracing herself.
you glance back at her. “you alright?”
she nods once. “just adjusting.”
you lead her into the main room—tables covered in paper and crayons, beanbags scattered across a faded rug, a snack corner already buzzing with movement. a few kids glance up, mid-game or mid-bite. one of them—a boy no older than six—beelines for you with a marker in hand and throws herself into your legs like he’s done it a hundred times.
“i drew you,” she says proudly.
you crouch. “oh yeah?”
he opens a wrinkled sheet of paper and presents a drawing with two stick figures—one with long hair, one with something resembling some shorts. both are smiling, standing under a lopsided sun.
you smile, genuine and soft, and the girl beams.
jihyo watches it all from a few steps back, silent.
another child tugs your sleeve. “is she your girlfriend?”
you choke on your breath. jihyo blinks.
“no,” you say, laughing. “she’s a friend.”
“she looks rich.”
you glance at jihyo. “she is.”
the kid frowns, unimpressed. “she’s not wearing glitter.”
you flash a grin. “exactly.”
you introduce her around, and she’s polite. careful. she nods at every name, shakes tiny hands with clinical precision. but she doesn’t sit. doesn’t move past the edge of the room. her body language says observer, not participant.
you don’t push her.
you just get to work.
in the space of ten minutes, you’ve settled one argument over blue crayons, tied two shoelaces, cut apples into quarters, and mediated a snack-trade dispute with all the grace of a world leader.
jihyo lingers by the art table, watching you move. she doesn’t say anything. she just watches.
at one point, a girl with paint smudged across both cheeks shuffles up to her and asks if she’s a princess. jihyo blinks, caught off guard.
“a… what?”
“your hair’s shiny. you look expensive.”
you try very hard not to laugh.
jihyo blinks again, and then—for the first time since she arrived—she laughs.
soft. surprised. a little helpless.
and something in her changes.
she stays closer to you after that.
she gets dragged into helping with a puzzle. then a sticker chart. then a relay game that she does not want to be part of, but someone puts a paper crown on her head and shouts “queen jihyo!” and she visibly gives up.
by the time you reach the afternoon, she’s got marker on one hand, a friendship bracelet on the other, and a little girl in her lap explaining the entire plot of an imaginary fairy kingdom at full volume.
and she’s smiling.
not her usual tight-lipped smile. not the kind she gives at meetings or in passing. this one’s different.
real. quiet. a little unsure.
you sit down beside her as things wind down. she turns her head, still holding a crumpled drawing in one hand.
“you didn’t tell me you were like this.”
“like what?”
she doesn’t answer right away.
she just looks at you.
like she’s still figuring it out.
you stand first when it’s time to leave. she follows. her goodbye is polite but softer this time. the same little girl tugs at her shirt before she leaves and offers her a half-melted lollipop. jihyo doesn’t take it, but she crouches low to say thank you, and her voice has a softness you’ve never heard before.
outside, the air is cooler. the heat has eased just slightly, the late afternoon sun casting everything in gold. she walks beside you, quiet.
she doesn’t speak until you’re nearly at the car.
“you’re incredible with them.”
you shrug. “they’re easy to love.”
“you’re not performing.”
you glance at her. “should i be?”
“no,” she says. “i think… that’s what’s undoing me.”
she stops then.
right there on the pavement, near the edge of a flower bed someone forgot to water.
“i don’t think i’ve ever watched someone be so fully themselves before.”
your heart lifts in your chest—high, warm, surprised.
“and it’s ruining you?” you tease, trying to breathe through the heat behind your ribs.
she looks at you.
really looks.
and her voice is very, very quiet when she says, “completely.”
you don’t answer.
you just smile.
and in the long silence that follows, she doesn’t reach for your hand.
but you feel her wanting to.
and maybe that’s enough—for now.
⸻
you’re in the middle of a report when you feel it.
not a voice—not a call—not even the quiet shift of footsteps.
just the brush of her hand across your back.
a whisper of contact—low, near your waist, fingers dragging lightly against the fabric of your shirt like an afterthought. you don’t turn. you don’t have to. you know it’s her.
you breathe in. hold it. let it go.
jihyo says nothing.
she passes, poised and calm, an email open on her ipad, eyes fixed ahead. like the touch hadn’t meant anything. like it hadn’t reached straight into your spine and rewired your entire afternoon.
you try to focus again. it lasts twelve seconds.
it keeps happening.
subtle things. slight. small enough to deny if someone ever noticed—but no one does. no one sees the way her fingers graze yours when she hands you a document in a meeting. no one hears the extra beat of silence before she answers your questions. no one notices how often her gaze drops to your hands, your mouth, the place where your collar curves against your neck.
but you notice.
you notice everything.
when you pass each other in the corridor, her hand finds the small of your back again. not every time. just enough. just when it’s quiet. just when there’s no one else around to see how long she lets it linger.
she never says anything.
she just looks at you like she wants to. like she’s biting her tongue, holding back the exact sentence that would make the air between you burn.
you see her speaking with jeongyeon. business, plain. her voice low and even.
but then she turns slightly, scans the floor below, and finds you without hesitation.
her eyes catch yours.
and hold.
she doesn’t smile. doesn’t nod. just watches.
like she’s memorising.
you have to look away before you forget what your job is.
you bump into her by the elevators around three.
you’re distracted, reading something off your phone, when the doors slide open—and there she is. alone. immaculate. unreadable. her finger still hovering near the button.
you hesitate.
so does she.
but then she steps aside, wordless, offering you space.
you step in.
she follows.
the doors close.
you don’t move. neither does she.
but the air in the lift shifts—tightens. not claustrophobic. not awkward.
electric.
her hand is close. too close.
you can feel the warmth of her against your arm.
then—just as the floor counter hits ten—her knuckles brush yours.
light. deliberate.
your breath catches.
and still, she doesn’t look at you.
doesn’t say a word.
when the doors open, she leaves first.
you stay inside, let the doors close again, just so you don’t have to walk beside her with your heart beating like it’s trying to escape your chest.
you get back to your desk and find a post-it note stuck to your monitor.
no message. no handwriting. just a small square of soft yellow.
but there’s a wrapped sweet sitting on top of it—a kind you mentioned liking once, weeks ago, in passing.
you turn, glance toward her office.
the blinds are drawn, but you know she’s there.
you feel her there.
and for the first time in a long time, the space between want and touch feels very, very small.
⸻
you don’t mean to spend the whole afternoon with sana. it’s supposed to be a quick lunch—something easy, something you can both laugh through—but somehow hours pass, and you find yourselves still at the little outdoor table, sharing the last pieces of garlic bread and letting the city hum around you.
sana’s always been easy to be around. warm. disarming. she doesn’t push when you’re quiet, and she doesn’t expect anything when you laugh. she just lets you be.
today, that feels important.
“you look good,” she says, sipping her drink, gaze sliding over your outfit—a loose top, skirt, hair tied back. “different. relaxed.”
you raise an eyebrow. “is that your way of saying i looked stressed before?”
“you looked like someone trying to breathe with a pillow over their face.”
you snort. “thanks.”
she grins. “i mean it in the nicest way.”
you roll your eyes and take another sip of your drink. the sky’s a soft blue overhead, and the breeze is just enough to tug at the hem of your skirt. there’s something nice about this—just the two of you, no noise, no questions. for a little while, it almost feels like life outside the office doesn’t exist.
but sana doesn’t let it stay light forever.
she leans forward after a moment, elbow on the table, her tone a little softer when she speaks again.
“have you talked to miyeon lately?”
you pause, setting your glass down. “not since the coffee.”
“she seemed into you.”
“she was.”
“but?”
you shrug. “i wasn’t all there. didn’t feel fair.”
sana tilts her head. “you liked her, though.”
“she’s great,” you say honestly. “but sometimes great doesn’t mean right.”
she nods. doesn’t press.
there’s a lull—long enough for a waiter to bring the bill, long enough for you to tuck your hair behind your ear and glance away.
then—
“you’ve seemed different.”
you look back.
“not bad different,” she adds quickly. “just… not where you were before. not checked out, but definitely not checked in.”
you hesitate. then breathe in slowly. “i’m trying to figure some stuff out.”
“stuff?” she echoes.
you give her a look. she holds it.
“someone?” she tries.
you don’t confirm it.
but you don’t deny it, either.
sana studies you for a moment. her expression softens further.
“you don’t have to say it, y/n,” she says. “i just want to make sure you’re okay.”
you nod. “i’m okay.”
“you sure?”
you think about it. then smile, just a little. “i don’t know if i’ve ever felt less sure about anything. but weirdly, yeah. i think i’m okay.”
she reaches across the table and squeezes your hand once before letting go. “good.”
neither of you talks much after that. you pay the bill. wander a bit. window shop. laugh at something small she says about a badly styled mannequin. and when you hug goodbye, her arms are tight, her voice light.
“whoever it is,” she says as you’re pulling back, “they’re either going to destroy you—or be worth it.”
you nod.
because you know she’s right.
and you’re still not sure which one jihyo’s going to be.
but you think about her eyes. her hand on your back. the silence she leaves in her wake.
and you know you’re already in too deep to pretend it’s not happening.
so you can only hope it’s the latter.
⸻
she doesn’t check your messages.
she tells herself that often.
she doesn’t check them, she just sees them. the way your name lights up near the top of her feed when sana posts a story and you’re tagged.
your name again. your face. your smile.
it’s just the algorithm. it’s just incidental.
it’s not obsession if she doesn’t mean to look.
she shouldn’t care that you’re out today. that you’re not at home resting. that you’re not reading, or walking alone, or thinking about her.
she shouldn’t care—but she does.
she can’t stop picturing it. your dress. the one you wore to the last dinner. maybe the way your hair looked at the shelter—tied up, strands coming loose, your hands glitter-smudged, your laughter real. she’s never heard you laugh like that in the office.
but sana has.
and for some reason, that thought sits wrong in her chest.
not jealousy, exactly. not fear. just pressure. something tight and sore.
she’d barely slept the night after the shelter.
she’d sat at her kitchen table with a glass of wine and a thousand undone thoughts. all of them about you. about how careful you were with the kids. how soft. how easily you took up space without demanding it. she’d never been around someone like you before.
never met someone who made her feel more than she knew what to do with.
it’s easier when you’re at work. when you’re three desks away. when she can pretend every touch is unintentional. every look is coincidence. when she can press a wrapped sweet into your palm and call it a favour instead of a confession.
but out there—outside the structure of it all—you’re free. you smile easier. laugh louder. talk softer. and you do all of it without her.
she doesn’t blame you.
she just hates that she doesn’t know how to be the version of herself you’d want outside the office doors.
she’s so used to being in control.
but every time she sees you, something in her slips.
a breath too deep. a look too long. a hand that doesn’t stop touching even after it should.
it’s going to break her.
and the worst part is—she wants it to.
she wants to stop thinking.
she wants to feel.
but she’s not sure she knows how to do both at the same time.
and today—while you’re out laughing in the sun, and she’s pacing her apartment, wine untouched on the counter, silence too loud in her ears—it becomes impossibly, painfully clear:
you’re not hers.
not yet.
maybe not ever.
and that thought?
unbearable.
⸻
monday drags its heels.
the office feels heavier somehow—heat pressing through the windows, air thick with the kind of stillness that makes you speak in whispers without realising. fans hum faintly from corners. iced coffees collect condensation on every desk.
you’ve taken your blazer off. rolled your sleeves. your hair’s pinned, loose strands stuck to the nape of your neck.
and still—you can feel her looking at you.
jihyo hasn’t spoken to you all day. not properly. not outside the usual flow of things—document requests, a passing question, her voice low and formal during a short meeting that barely skimmed past her own focus.
but her eyes?
her eyes have said too much.
she passed you once near the copy room—her hand brushing your side as she reached around you, the contact lasting too long to be neutral. her fingers didn’t grip, didn’t settle—just skimmed, like a thought she shouldn’t have had but couldn’t let go of.
you froze.
she didn’t look at you.
just kept walking.
but you heard her exhale—low, steady, the kind of breath someone takes when they’ve been holding themselves too tightly for too long.
you don’t know what she’s waiting for.
you don’t know how much longer you can pretend not to feel her.
you catch her staring later, across the floor. her office door open, blinds tilted just enough. she’s half behind her screen—shoulders angled, hand at her chin. unreadable. and then she blinks, once, slow.
you look away first.
you try to work. you try to think about something else. you try to focus on the numbers in front of you, the lines on the screen, the weight of everything you haven’t said.
but when her footsteps pass behind you again, slow, deliberate, your breath leaves your body entirely.
her hand touches your chair.
not your back. not your arm.
just the curve of the chair as she leans in, pretends to read something over your shoulder, says your name low enough that no one else could hear.
you turn slightly.
she’s too close.
your eyes meet.
“let me know when you’re free,” she says—voice steady, but not neutral.
not even close.
you nod, throat dry.
she walks away.
and this time—this time—you let yourself stare.
because the way she walks?
knowing. careful. undone.
and it’s not almost anymore.
it’s everything.
⸻
you check your inbox three times before the message arrives. it’s short. clinical. from her assistant, not from her.
ceo park would like to meet. 4:30. her office.
no subject line. no explanation.
you don’t need one.
you look down at your watch, 4:24, and you weigh the decision of if you have enough time to go to the powder room and sort out your appearance.
you arrive a minute early. knock once.
her voice—low, unreadable—calls you in.
she’s standing beside the window, not at her desk. light filters in behind her, soft and gold, turning the edges of her white blouse almost sheer. the sleeves are rolled, her watch glints at her wrist, and her expression when she turns to face you is unreadable.
you close the door behind you.
it clicks. quiet. final.
she doesn’t tell you where to sit.
so you don’t.
you stand near the centre of the room, a little off balance. your hands are folded. your pulse is loud.
jihyo watches you—eyes dragging down, slow.
you don’t speak.
she doesn’t either.
the air thickens.
you shift your weight, about to ask what this is about—what this is really about—when she crosses the room toward you.
not quickly. not dramatically.
just deliberately.
every step soft. quiet. dangerous.
when she stops in front of you, she’s close enough to touch. and she does—her hand reaches up, barely brushing your wrist.
not demanding.
not even steady.
just there.
you swallow. “jihyo—”
her fingers curl gently around your forearm. “don’t.”
you go quiet.
her other hand lifts. brushes your hair back from your face, slow. fingertips trace the line of your cheek. it’s the first time she’s touched you like this—soft, sure, without the excuse of proximity or motion or passing.
“i’m not doing this because i should,” she says, voice low, close. “i’m doing this because i can’t not.”
you breathe in.
her hand drops to your waist. not tight. just anchoring.
your own hands hover, unsure.
she looks at you—eyes dark, mouth tense. and then she leans in.
not all the way.
just enough that you can feel her breath at your neck.
“i haven’t stopped thinking about you since that day,” she whispers. “i see you every day and it hurts.”
you finally reach out. your hand brushes the side of her neck, the edge of her collar. her skin is warm. her pulse, fast.
“then don’t stop,” you say, barely audible.
her mouth is on yours a second later.
it’s not rushed. not messy. not like the last time.
this is quieter. heavier. deeper.
her hands hold your hips, pull you closer. your arms circle her shoulders. her mouth moves slowly over yours, every kiss more like a sentence—like she’s trying to say all the things she couldn’t write. couldn’t voice. couldn’t bear to admit.
you don’t speak.
you just kiss her.
let her push her forehead to yours when she needs air. let her hold you like she’s afraid she’ll lose her grip if she lets go.
and when she finally whispers your name—like it’s the only thing she’s still sure of—you feel it down to your bones.
you pull back first.
she stays close, eyes still closed.
“you’re going to undo me,” she says quietly.
you smile.
“you’re already undone.”
her laugh is soft. broken.
but her hands never leave you.
⸻
the moment the door closes, she exhales.
quiet. sharp. like she’d been holding her breath the whole time you were in the room.
she doesn’t move for a while.
doesn’t sit. doesn’t pace. just stands in the centre of her office with your scent on her blouse and the heat of your touch still clinging to her skin.
her hands are shaking.
she notices it slowly—fingers flexing at her sides, tension rippling through her shoulders like a wave she can’t suppress. her heart’s still racing, hard and high in her throat. her lips burn in the shape of your mouth. and her name—her name—still echoes in her ears the way you said it.
she should feel steady right now.
she’s kissed people before. she’s crossed lines. she’s made controlled decisions about intimacy and boundaries and risk.
but this wasn’t that.
this wasn’t control.
this was you standing in front of her, eyes open, hands soft, voice low, saying don’t stop like it was the only thing in the world that mattered.
and jihyo had listened.
jihyo had wanted to listen.
now, all she can think about is the slope of your neck, the edge of your collarbone where her lips lingered for one heartbeat too long. the way your body fit against hers. the way your breath caught—like you’d been waiting. like she’d given you permission to fall, and you’d said yes.
she presses her fingers to her mouth.
not because she wants to erase it.
because she can’t quite believe it happened.
this was never supposed to happen.
not with you.
not like this.
but something in her cracked wide open the moment you reached back. not for show. not to tease. just to hold her. like you knew exactly how fragile she was underneath all that steel. and you held her anyway.
like it didn’t scare you at all.
her eyes sting.
she blinks. shakes it off.
there’s a knock on her door—her assistant, a reminder, a schedule she doesn’t care about. she waves her away without looking up.
the office outside moves on. meetings. phones. reports. your voice, somewhere faintly across the floor, speaking softly to someone else.
and still, jihyo doesn’t move.
because this is the part that terrifies her most:
she doesn’t regret it.
not a second of it.
she just wants to do it again.
and again.
and again.
until she stops needing to pretend it meant less than it did.
⸻
the week starts wrong.
it’s nothing specific at first—just a feeling. something brittle in the air, like tension waiting to unspool. the finance department is louder than usual, not with noise but motion—people moving faster, staying later, standing at printers with half-swallowed curses and eyes ringed with exhaustion.
you notice it monday morning when you log in and see three urgent flags in your inbox before you’ve even had coffee. you notice it again when nayeon, who usually spins everything into a joke, doesn’t even smile when she mutters something about vendor delays. by the afternoon, two invoices bounce back, a projected surplus dips into warning territory, and the third quarter forecast gets updated with a margin you don’t like the look of.
it’s manageable. for now. but only just.
you stay late with sana that evening, running figures again and again, eyes dry from the screen. neither of you say much—just exchange quiet glances across your monitors, the kind that say we’re in for it this week, aren’t we?
tuesday is worse.
everything that should have gone out yesterday is still stuck. automated processes stall. two calls go unanswered. someone from operations sends the wrong document to procurement and the knock-on effect puts another payment on hold.
you don’t yell. you never do. but your fingers dig into the arm of your chair more than once. you start keeping a notebook open beside your keyboard again, not because you need it but because writing it down makes the chaos look smaller. more containable.
you haven’t seen much of jihyo since the meeting last week. glimpses in the hallway. a nod in passing. a look held a second too long during the last all-hands, her mouth tight, her eyes unreadable.
but she’s watching. you can feel it.
by wednesday, you’re waking up with a headache already in place.
the team is cracking. nayeon’s quiet, snapping her gum between clenched teeth. tzuyu’s rechecking the same file line by line with a tension that borders on obsessive. the team lead pulls you aside before lunch, voice low.
“you need to keep them steady,” she says. “they trust you. if you look calm, they’ll stay calm.”
you nod. you pretend not to hear the even if you’re not that hangs unspoken in the space between you.
the forecast revision is worse than expected. the margin has narrowed further. and though no one says it out loud, you know what everyone’s thinking.
this could be bad. not catastrophic, but visible. not enough to sink anything—but enough to shake things.
thursday, you stay late again. the air conditioning hums overhead while the rest of the floor empties out. sana brings you a bottle of iced water without asking. you look at her and smile—tired, grateful. she doesn’t ask why your hands tremble when you take it. she just leans her head on your shoulder for a moment and says nothing.
jihyo walks past that night. you see her through the glass. she doesn’t stop. doesn’t look. just passes by with her phone at her ear, her steps sharp, heels echoing into silence.
but your heart jumps anyway.
friday arrives heavy.
you wake up tired. your body aches like you’ve run something too long without rest. it’s warm outside, sticky, too bright for the weight in your chest.
by mid-morning, the numbers are worse.
another vendor missed payment. two clients flagged adjustments. one internal budget was misfiled, skewing the monthly report. the margin line isn’t just thin now—it’s tight enough to snap.
you spend hours in the spreadsheet jungle, trying to hold everything together with duct tape and forced optimism. the team is visibly fraying. sana’s on edge. nayeon’s not speaking. the room feels like it’s running out of oxygen.
and then you get the message.
ceo park requests a meeting. 4:15. her office.
4:13 p.m.
you don’t sigh. you just stand. smooth your skirt. check your face in your phone screen on the way up.
the blinds are drawn. the office feels cool and still in a way that makes your stomach clench.
jihyo doesn’t look up as you enter.
“close the door.”
you do.
she’s by the window, arms crossed, posture rigid. her blouse is crisp, sleeves rolled, the curve of her jaw tight. she doesn’t ask you to sit.
you don’t.
“what’s the current forecast?” she asks, eyes still on the skyline.
you answer. clean. clear. your voice doesn’t shake. you’ve rehearsed the delivery in your head already—facts, adjustments, timelines. you’ve done your job.
she turns slowly.
her eyes are hard.
“we’re exposed,” she says.
“temporarily,” you reply. “everything’s mapped. we’re stabilising.”
“that’s not good enough.”
you bite back the sharpness rising in your throat.
“we’re not failing. we’re adjusting.”
“i don’t want it adjusted,” she snaps. “i want it fixed.”
“you think we’re not trying?”
“i think,” she says coldly, “that someone in your position should’ve flagged this sooner.”
you freeze. her words land hard. not because she’s wrong—but because you have. because you’ve been flagging. because you’ve been carrying this on your back for five days without breaking and now she’s—
“i have flagged it,” you say, quieter. “three times this week.”
“then maybe you weren’t loud enough.”
you stare at her.
your mouth opens. closes.
you shift slightly on your feet, shoulders squaring. your chest tightens. this isn’t about the margin. this isn’t even about the reports.
this is about you. her. this week.
and something she doesn’t know how to say.
you try anyway.
“jihyo—”
“miss park,” she says, without thinking.
your body stills.
you don’t breathe for a moment. your mouth closes again. her eyes flicker instantly—regret blooming across her face like a bruise.
“i didn’t mean—”
you look at her. really look.
she’s tired. angry. coiled tight. maybe scared.
and suddenly, you don’t want to give her anything. not even forgiveness.
“don’t,” you say softly.
she takes a step forward. “wait—”
“i’ll send the updated breakdown,” you say, already turning to the door.
you reach for the handle.
“we’re still inside forecast tolerance. if that changes, i’ll flag it,” you pause. “loudly.”
you open the door. pause once. you don’t look back.
your voice is steady.
“i thought it was just jihyo.”
and then you leave.
you don’t cry.
but the echo of your heels in the hallway covers the sharp intake of breath you can’t swallow back.
