Working Over Time Gives Grey Hair
Working late was never part of Jisung’s plan - especially not under Lee Minho, the cold, unreadable CEO who never spares him more than a glance. But between midnight drives, sharp words, and stolen looks, Jisung begins to realize there’s something dangerous simmering under Minho’s polished exterior. And when a glossy magazine shoot throws gasoline on the fire, the lines between professionalism, obsession, and desire blur until neither of them can pretend it’s just work anymore.
-- or : Jisung wants to get fucked really bad by his boss who's twice his age
The office was empty and dark - even though the moon was already high in Seoul’s night sky. Two sounds remained in the dark place : the soft hum of the single lamp lighting up a desk, and the constant sound of someone typing on a mechanical keyboard.
Jisung sighed before looking at the time on his monitor - 8.43PM - he should have left almost four hours ago. But he was still here, working overtime, high on caffeine. Because he was still there too. The tired intern glanced toward the glass-walled corner office. He’s sitting there, jacket off, white shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, tie loosened just enough to show his throat. Lee Minho, the company CEO, always working overtime like his life depends on it.
Emails weirdly kept coming, as if Jisung wasn’t the only one stuck in office by his own will to look like the best option for the ‘employee of the month’. He was still an intern, an intern that would never get his face on the wall. He didn’t know why he kept working so hard. It was no use, the boss probably didn’t even know his name.
His coffee ran cold in the cup. His fingers got slower on the keyboard. His eyelids started to feel heavy. But this was until a familiar voice cut through his growing sleepiness.
“Are you waiting for me to walk out again?” The voice wasn’t deep or low, it was cold and sharp. So sharp that Jisung jumped awake, letting out a high yelp that he couldn’t keep in even if he had wanted to.
He turned around and blinked. “I- I don’t… I wanted to finish this-” Jisung vaguely gestured towards his monitor without giving it a glance.
“The screen is black.” Minho simply said. His tone wasn’t holding any warmth, or even any heat. It was just cold and weirdly blank.
Jisung finally dared to look at the monitor - pitch black. He tried to mumble an excuse but nothing clear came out of his heart shaped lips. Minho turned around, slowly. Just staring at a pile of documents, that was laying on another desk of the open space, with that unreadable expression of his, all tired eyes and sharp cheekbones. “You make this harder than it needs to be.” The older man whispered.
After a silence, the young intern looked up. “What do you mean, sir?”
Minho let out a laugh, but it lacked humor. “You don’t belong here,” he says flatly. “You’re too soft. Too eager. You think people are kind.”
“I just wanted to help.”Jisung simply answered back, as if stating the obvious.
Minho turned back to look at him. He was now frowning. His cold gaze seemed to emphasize his sharp cheek bones and the few silver streaks in his hair. “Help me?” He echoed. Jisung swallowed, he felt like taking his words back for a second, but he didn’t. “You think I need saving? Do I look like a helpless kitten?”
The intern looked down, trying to find an answer that wouldn’t get him fired on the spot. He sighed loudly, knowing what he was about to say was extremely risky considering the situation he was in. “No. But maybe you need… someone to wait for you to come home.”
Minho froze, as if someone had slapped him straight in the face. His jaw clenched. Jisung knew - he just knew - that he had terribly messed up. “Pack your things.” Those three words had the small intern shivering. So this was it? After so much work to get this internship? It was all over.
He turned around to his desk, leaning down to grab a box in which he could put his things. “Are you firing me?” He still asked, a wind of hope rising within him.
Minho stayed silent for a second, before sighing loudly and walking towards the door. “No.” He simply answered. But before Jisung even got the time to raise an eyebrow, he added. “I’m driving you home.”
This answer seemed so unreal to Jisung that he didn’t even remember walking out of the building, or even entering the dark sedan. The inside of the car was clean, dark, cold and expensive. Just the way Jisung expected Minho’s car to look. The city shimmered outside the car windows - a blur of neon and rain-soaked pavement. The younger man sat stiffly in the passenger seat, clutching his bag like it was the only thing grounding him. The silence between them crackled with unspoken things.
Minho’s hands gripped the steering wheel, veins flexing under his pale skin. His tie was still loosened, shirt collar slightly rumpled from a long day. He hadn’t spoken since they left the building. Not a word.
Jisung gave him a quick glance. He wanted to say something, but looking at his boss while saying anything seemed way too much for him. He looked at the lights through the car’s window. “You didn’t have to drive me home.” He managed to mumble between his teeth.
“I know.” Minho added. Not giving a single glance to the younger man next to him. A beat of silence. The traffic lights flashed red - the car stopped.
Jisung eventually managed to gather some courage. “Then why did you?” He asks.
Minho exhaled through his nose. He seemed irritated, as if he had been asked the dumbest question he had ever heard. “Because you’re an idiot.” He sighed again, as if stating the obvious.
“Excuse me?” The younger man answered, raising his eyebrows - clearly offended.
Minho didn’t roll his eyes, but it felt like it. He finally looked at Jisung. “It’s nearly 9 PM. You stayed behind working on something no one asked you for. You didn’t eat. You clearly don’t know how to take care of yourself.”
Jisung frowned, now even more upset. “I do.”
A new silence. Then Minho let out an humorless laugh. “That’s the thing : you think you do. But this world eats people like you alive.” There it was again - that cold, patronizing tone. Like Jisung was a delicate thing he regretted finding endearing.
But instead of biting back, the boy just stared out the window. “Maybe I don’t want to be hard like you.”
Minho’s throat turned dry. He stayed silent. The light turned green.
They reached Jisung’s apartment complex a few minutes later. Minho pulled up to the curb but didn’t unlock the doors. His eyes stayed on the road ahead. The intern had his hand on the handle that wouldn’t allow him to open the door. He looked back at Minho, confused.
“Why are you here?” The older boss eventually asked.
Jisung raised an eyebrow. He was even more confused. “You wanted to drive me…and…”He gave a quick glance towards his apartment complex through the window. “This is where I live.” He added, stating the obvious.
Minho sighed. “No.” His tone was sharper. “Why are you in my department? Why are you at my office every damn night, looking at me like I’m supposed to give you something I don’t have?”
The boy’s throat went dry. He didn’t answer. He didn’t even know the answer. Minho finally turned his head, looking straight into Jisung’s eyes. You don’t know what you are asking for, kiddo.”
“Then tell me,” He whispered, not trusting his own voice. “Tell me what I'm asking for.”
Minho didn’t like it. He closed his eyes. Exhaled from his perfect straight nose. He was annoyed. “Leave.”
“Mr. Lee-”
“Now.” His tone was sharp. There was no discussing the order he had just given. The doors clicked open. Jisung was pissed too. He left the car without thanking his boss, or even looking back. But he felt it - in the silence, in the stare, in the way his name lingered like smoke. The great Lee Minho was cracking. And Jisung was the sHan.
On the next day, Jisung showed up fifteen minutes early to work. Was it guilt? or nerves? He himself didn’t fully know. But he was there no matter what.
He’d barely slept. Still, he was in his seat by 8:45, double-checked his drafts, and reheated the coffee he knew Minho liked. No milk. One sugar. It was pathetic, he realized - trying to earn points with a man who hadn’t smiled at him once in three weeks.
At 9 sharp, Minho neutered the open space. Perfect suit. Fresh tie. Not a single trace of the man who’d driven jisung home the night before.
Jisung stood from his desk, holding out the mug. “Good morning, Mr. Lee.”
Minho barely glanced at him. “Don’t make a habit of staying late. It’s inefficient.”
The young intern hesitated. “I thought it would help.”
“Thinking and knowing are different,” Minho said coolly, brushing past him. “Stick to what you know.” The rejection was ice cold. It shouldn’t have stung, but it did. Jisung sat back down again, cheeks burning. He didn’t get it. He was doing everything right. And still- every time Minho looked at him, it felt like being pinned under a microscope. Judged. Dissected. Why did he even care? Why did he feel like he’d disappointed someone important? Yes, Minho was his boss. But still. His approval and recognition shouldn’t mean so much to an intern like Jisung.
It was almost lunchtime when Jisung found himself alone in the small break room, fumbling with the coffee machine. The paper cup slipped from his hand, sending hot liquid splashing across the counter and onto his wrist.
“Shit-” he hissed, yanking his arm back.
“You’re incapable of basic tasks, I see.” Jisung turned. Of course. Mr. Lee stood in the doorway, arms crossed, voice smooth and venomous.
“I didn’t- I wasn’t trying to-” Jisung flushed, reaching for paper towels.
Minho stepped in, grabbed a cloth, and took his wrist without asking. Jisung froze. His fingers were rough. Cool against the burn. “Next time, try not scalding yourself for caffeine,” Minho muttered, dabbing gently at the skin.
Jisung couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. He was staring again - at the grey in Minho’s temples, the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the way his throat bobbed when he swallowed. It didn’t make sense. Minho was cold. Rigid. Probably allergic to feelings. He was twice his age. So why did his heart hammer like this every time he was close?
Minho dropped his hand abruptly. “You’re too careless.”
Jisung’s voice came out smaller than he intended. “Why do you always talk to me like that?”
Minho paused. His eyes locked on Jisung’s - not angry. Not annoyed. Something else. “I’m trying,” he said slowly, “not to talk to you at all.” Then he turned and walked out, leaving Jisung standing there with a burning wrist and a brain full of static.
The young intern looked down as his boss left. All he did was squatting to the ground and sighing loudly. So what was he going to do now? His boss basically hated him. And the worst part was that he had legit reasons for it. Jisung felt completely incompetent. He wanted to disappear. But he knew well that he couldn’t let go of this job - he had to pay rent. All he could do now was to do as told and wait for the “great” Mr. Lee to fire him. So he sighed louder. Got up and went back to his desk without taking a new coffee.
As he turned back on his monitor, a new email was waiting for him. It was an invitation for the company gala. It was one of those events interns weren’t expected to attend. But the last line of the email was clear enough : “Mr. Lee asked that you be present. Business formal.”
So three days later, on Saturday evening, there he was standing in a room full of colleagues he had never even seen. A room filled with a recognizable smell of money - that people kept arguing didn’t exist. Jisung didn’t know what was worse - the too-tight collar of his dress shirt, or the knowledge that he’d have to spend an entire evening standing within five feet of Mr. Lee without combusting. He had thought about calling in sick, or simply not coming. But the thought of Mr. Lee being the one who wanted him made him stay. And now, here he was - in a borrowed blazer, hair gelled back awkwardly, standing by a row of champagne flutes he was too nervous to touch.
He hadn’t spotted Minho yet. And somehow, the anticipation was worse than the man himself. Until he arrived. Jisung felt it before he saw it - the hush that passed through the crowd, the shift in atmosphere. Then Minho emerged from the elevator, black suit sharp as a knife, hair slicked back, not a smile in sight. He looked like power. Like danger. Like he hadn’t slept since Tuesday and somehow made it sexy. And Jisung? He felt pathetic. Like a boy playing dress-up. Like something soft and out of place in a room full of wolves.
Minho made his way through the room slowly, nodding at people, glass of whiskey in hand. He didn’t look at Jisung. Not at first. But when he did - a glance across the room, brief and cutting - Jisung’s entire spine straightened. The look said: “I see you. I know you’re watching me. Stop.” And Jisung couldn’t.
Later, while pretending to read a display of award-winning ad campaigns, he heard the voice behind him.
“You clean up. Barely.”
Jisung turned. Minho stood close. Too close. No tie. First button undone. “I could say the same, Mr. Lee,” Jisung murmured, trying to sound casual, trying not to melt.
Minho’s mouth twitched - not a smile. Something sharper. “Careful. You’re not paid to flirt.”
Jisung flushed. “I wasn’t- I’m not.”
Minho’s gaze dropped to his mouth, then back up. “That’s the problem. You don’t even know when you are.”
The younger man’s breath caught. “Why did you ask me to come tonight?”
Minho’s voice was low. “Because you need to learn how to exist in rooms like this. Quietly. Without drawing attention.”
“You’re the only one paying attention,” Jisung whispered abc, stating the obvious.
Minho stayed silent. But his jaw clenched - once, tightly - and then he turned and walked away without another word. Jisung stood there, heart pounding, entire body humming with confusion and heat. What the hell was happening to him? Why did the coldest man he knew make him feel like this - like he was being seen, not as a joke, not as a child, but as something almost wanted? Almost.
The night ended, and the weekend flew away like a blur. So much that Jisung felt like a blink was the only thing separating him from the gala when he arrived at work on Monday morning.
He had barely settled down when an email came in.
FROM: Lee Minho
SUBJECT: Conference Room 2B
TIME: Now.
He hadn’t even logged in yet. Minho hadn’t said a word to him when he walked in, just passed by his desk like nothing happened. Like he hadn’t looked at his lips like he wanted to shut them up with his mouth. Jisung swallowed hard and walked to the conference room, heart pounding, hands cold.
Minho was already inside, standing by the whiteboard, one hand on his hip, sleeves rolled up. He didn’t look at Jisung when he entered. “Close the door.”
Click. Jisung took a seat.
Minho didn’t waste time. “What exactly were you trying to do on Saturday?”
Jisung blinked. “I- I was just attending. You told me to be there.”
“I didn’t tell you to follow me around the floor like a lost puppy.”
His jaw clenched. “I wasn’t-”
“And I didn’t ask for the looks. Or the comments. Or the suit you clearly didn’t know how to wear.” That one stung. Hard.
The intern stood. “Why did you even want me there if you were just going to humiliate me after?”
Minho turned to face him now - slowly. Controlled. Dangerous. “Because I thought you could handle it.”
He took a shaky breath. “Handle what? You?”
Minho’s gaze sharpened. “Watch your tone.”
“No.” His voice cracked, but he didn’t back down. “You look at me like I’m the problem, like I’m a distraction- but I never did anything to you.” Minho stepped forward. But Jisung didn’t stop. “You didn’t have to.”
They were close again. Always too close. “You walk in here all wide-eyed and eager, asking questions no one else is stupid enough to ask. Smiling like this place doesn’t rot people. Like I’m not already rotten.” Minho spat like venom.
Jisung stared up at him, breath shallow. “You hate me because I’m soft,” he said quietly, more like a statement than a question. Minho’s lips parted. Just slightly. He didn’t answer. “But you keep looking at me like you want to ruin it,” the young man added in a whisper.
Silence.
“Meeting’s over.” Just like that. Jisung flinched. “You can go.”
“Mr. Lee-”
“Go, Jisung.”
Jisung’s breath caught in his throat. Minho’s gaze was cold and sharp. The young man knew he should leave. But he still gave his boss the time to take back his words. When he realized that Minho wouldn’t, he turned around and left the room. Without bowing. The man was upset, clearly. But he held back his tears until getting into the men’s restroom. When he got back home, to his small apartment - with a rent way too high for the low amount of space there was inside - all he did was lay on his bed. Telling himself that his boss was just another boomer who thought feelings were an illness.
But that night, long after the office emptied and Seoul glittered outside his penthouse window, Lee Minho poured another drink, stared at the inbox he didn’t want to open, and wondered how the hell a 22-year-old intern with no self-preservation managed to become the only thing he couldn’t compartmentalize.
It was almost midnight when Jisung got the call.
“Mr. Lee needs someone to send the revised briefs tonight,” the executive assistant muttered, flustered. “He’s… not in great shape. He went out with the exec team. He didn’t want anyone to see him like this, so-”
“Why me?” Jisung asked, already pulling on a sweater.
“Because you’re the one he asked for… actually.”
Jisung arrived at the penthouse twenty minutes later, buzzed in without a word. He stepped into the sleek, glass-walled space to find Minho - hair a mess, tie loose, shirt unbuttoned to the third notch - sitting on the couch with a tumbler in one hand and nothing but the soft glow of city lights painting his silhouette. There were two empty glasses on the coffee table. A half-full bottle of something expensive.
“Mr. Lee,” Jisung said, uncertain if he should even be here. “You… alright?”
Minho didn’t move. “You came.”
“Someone had to.”
“Wrong.” His voice was low. Rough. “No one had to.”
The young man stepped closer. “You’re drunk.”
Minho let out a humorless laugh. “Took you this long to figure it out?”
“I’ll get you some water.” He added, ignoring Minho’s remark.
“Why do you care?” His voice snapped, sharp and sudden. “You want to play nurse now? Take care of the sad old man?”
Jisung turned around, eyes flashing. “Maybe I do care. Maybe that’s not such a horrible thing, Mr. Lee.”
Minho stood slowly, swaying slightly, but his eyes were steel. “You’re so damn naive. You think kindness means something. You think it fixes people.”
“I never said that.”
“You look at me like I’m some tragic thing you can understand. Like I’m just another paper to edit. A broken person who needs saving.” The drunken boss resumed.
Jisung’s voice rose, finally cracking. “No! I look at you like someone who’s hurting and too damn proud to admit it!”
Minho stepped closer. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“Because you won’t let anyone know you!” Silence. Just heavy breathing. The buzz of electricity in the air. Jisung’s hands were shaking now, but he didn’t back down. “You treat me like I’m stupid, like I’m soft, like I don’t know what I’m doing- but you’re the one who can’t handle being seen.” Minho flinched. Barely. But it was there. Jisung lowered his voice. “Why did you let me in tonight?” Minho didn’t answer. “Why do you keep looking at me like that, if you don’t want anything from me?”
Finally, Minho spoke - voice raw: “Because I do.” Jisung blinked, stunned. Minho stared down at the floor, shoulders tight. “And I can’t afford to.”
Jisung stepped forward. Carefully. Slowly. He took the tumbler from Minho’s hand and set it aside. “Sit,” he said softly. Minho didn’t argue this time. He sank onto the couch, rubbing at his eyes like they stung. The younger man went to the kitchen. Found a glass. Filled it with cold water. Brought it back. Minho took it without a word. For a long time, neither of them spoke.
And then, barely audible: “You should hate me,” Minho muttered.
Jisung sat beside him. Not close, but not far. His voice was quiet, steady. “I don’t.” They didn’t move. Stayed there in silence until Minho had sobered up. And when Jisung got sure that the older man was safe, he simply left without a second look.
Minho didn’t show up to the office that morning. His assistant muttered something about “working remotely” and walked off before Jisung could ask a single question. So Jisung sat at his desk, buzzing with leftover adrenaline, picking apart every word from last night. Because that man - that cold, overworked, impossibly guarded man - had said “Because I do.” And then told him to forget it. Jisung didn’t want to forget it.
Around lunch, he found himself sitting in the break room with Jae, one of the senior copywriters. Late 30s, dry humor, eyes that had seen things. He’d been with the company since forever, and he was the only one who didn’t seem intimidated by Mr. Lee.
Jisung stirred his instant ramen. “Can I ask you something?”
Jae glanced over, with an eyebrow raised. “If it’s about the vending machine coffee, no, it won’t kill you. Probably.”
The young man gave a weak smile, shaking his hand. “It’s about Mr. Lee.”
That got his attention. “Dangerous territory, intern.”
“I just… I’ve been working under him for a while now, and I guess I don’t get him. He’s-” Jisung paused, eyes drifting to his hands. “He’s impossible to talk to. But sometimes he looks at me like he wants to say something and just… doesn’t.”
Jae leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”
“Was he always like this?”
Jae was quiet for a moment. Then: “Minho used to be different.”
Jisung blinked. “Wait, what?” He almost dropped his chopsticks.
“I mean, not friendly. He’s never been friendly. But there was… warmth. In his own weird, awkward way.” Jisung was frozen now, ramen forgotten. “Then the Seoul account collapsed,” Jae continued, voice low. “About five years ago. Half the team was cut. Some of them were close to him. His mentor? Gone. And Minho got promoted instead.” A silence, then he continued, his heart obviously heavy. “He shut down after that. Stopped talking unless it was about work. Started working twelve-hour days like he owed someone penance.”
Jisung’s chest twisted. “He doesn’t let anyone in,” Jae said. “Not anymore.”
The intern hesitated. “Why are you telling me this?”
Jae smirked. “Because I see the way he looks at you.”
Jisung flushed. “I- I don’t think-”
“Kid.” Jae’s voice was firm now. “I’m not saying he wants to feel anything. I’m saying he does. And that scares the hell out of him.” He paused. Then added. “You’re not like the rest of us. You still have hope. Light. That makes you dangerous to someone like him.”
Jisung swallowed thickly. “What do I do?”
Jae shrugged, standing. “That’s your call. But if you’re waiting for him to admit it first? You’ll be waiting a long time.” He left Jisung alone with his cold noodles and a hundred new questions.
In the quiet of the office, Jisung opened a blank document. He didn’t write a report. He wrote a letter. He’d never send it. But maybe… he just needed to say the things Minho couldn’t.
By Tuesday morning, the hum of the office felt wrong – tense, like everyone was waiting for a storm. Lee Minho walked in at exactly 9:00. Perfect suit, perfect hair, perfect mask. He didn’t so much as glance at Jisung’s desk. Not a single trace of the man who’d sat slouched on his couch with a glass of whiskey and let Jisung take it from his hand. Jisung kept his eyes on his screen, jaw tight. Fine. If he wanted to pretend nothing happened, so could I.
It was nearly noon when it happened. Minho stopped by Jisung’s desk - not to talk, but to drop a file. No words. Just the quiet thud of the folder landing beside his keyboard. Jisung reached for it at the same moment Minho did. Their fingers brushed. It wasn’t much - not even a full second. But Minho’s hand stilled against his. Jisung’s breath caught. And Minho looked at him. Not the quick, dismissive glance he usually gave. This was heavier. Darker. Like he was remembering exactly what it felt like to have Jisung’s voice in his ear telling him to drink water, to sit down, to let someone take care of him.
Then - it was gone. Minho withdrew his hand, straightening. “You’ll have this finished by end of day.” Cold. Professional. But his voice wasn’t as sharp as it usually was.
Later, Jisung carried the finished file to Minho’s office. He could’ve left it with his assistant, but instead, he knocked.
“Come in,” Minho said without looking up.
Jisung set the file on his desk. “It’s done.”
“Good.”
Jisung hesitated. “Mr. Lee…” That made him look up. The younger man held his gaze. “Are you going to keep pretending?”
Minho’s jaw tightened. “Pretending what?”
“That you don’t-” He stopped himself, pulse hammering. “That nothing happened.”
Minho leaned back in his chair, eyes unreadable. “Nothing did happen.”
“Yes, it did.” Silence. The air between them was thick enough to choke on.
Finally, Minho stood, coming around the desk. His steps were slow, deliberate. He stopped just in front of Jisung. “You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he said quietly.
“Yes,” Jisung said, heart racing. “I do.”
Minho’s eyes flicked to his mouth, then back up. His voice dropped to a near-whisper. “Then you’re not nearly as smart as I thought.” And just like that, he stepped past Jisung, leaving the office entirely. The young intern just looked down. Minho kept pulling him away, but still he wasn’t going to give up - not so easily. He exhaled through his nose - a habit he had picked up from his boss - and left the room.
It was Friday night, and Jisung was sprawled across Chan’s couch with a blanket over his legs and a bubble tea in hand, trying not to think about the way Mr. Lee’s eyes had lingered on him that morning. Trying, and failing.
Chan was in the kitchen, digging through takeout menus. “So,” he called over his shoulder, “are we talking about why you’ve been weird for the last two weeks, or are we just going to let you keep staring at walls like a tragic indie film protagonist?”
Jisung groaned. “It’s nothing.”
“That’s a lie.” Chan padded into the living room, dropping a menu on the coffee table. “Spill.”
Jisung hesitated, fiddling with his straw. “…It’s about my boss.”
Chan’s eyes lit up instantly. “The scary one?”
“He’s not-” The younger man stopped. “…Yeah. Him.”
“Lee Minho, right? The one with the murder-eyes and the suits that look like they could pay my rent?”
Jisung’s ears went hot. “I don’t- It’s not like that.”
Chan grinned like a cat with cream. “Oh my god, you like him.”
“No! I just-” Jisung sat up, flustered. “I don’t know what it is, okay? He’s… old.”
Chan’s eyebrows shot up. “Define old.”
“…Thirty-nine.”
Chan let out a low whistle. “Wow. That’s not old, that’s prime DILF territory.”
Jisung nearly choked on his drink. “Don’t call him that!”
“What, Daddy I’d Like to-”
“Channie!”
Chan laughed so hard he had to wipe his eyes. “Jisung, I’ve known you for almost ten years, and I knew you had a thing for older guys, but a cold, terrifying CEO? That’s a whole new level.”
“It’s not-” Jisung pulled the blanket over his head. “…I just can’t stop thinking about him. And it’s stupid. He’s my boss. He doesn’t even like me.”
Chan smirked. “Oh, he likes you. Trust me, I’ve seen enough workplace K-dramas to know that ‘emotionally unavailable with a side of smolder’ means he’s down bad and trying to hide it.”
Jisung peeked out from under the blanket. “You think?”
“I think,” Chan said, leaning back with a smug grin, “you’ve officially unlocked your daddy issues DLC.” Jisung groaned again, but this time he didn’t deny it. That night, jisung stayed over at Chan’s place - who kept teasing him. And what was supposed to be a sweet evening to change his mind, turned into an overthinking-about-his-boss party.
And soon enough, it was Monday again. The afternoon was dragging. Jisung had been triple-checking a spreadsheet Minho had asked for, only to find that one of the numbers in the quarterly report didn’t match. He could fix it - but it meant telling Minho the original figure he’d given Jisung was wrong. Which, as far as survival instincts went, was on par with poking a sleeping tiger.
He knocked once on the glass office door. “Come in,” Minho said without looking up, his pen scratching across paper.
Jisung stepped inside, clutching the file. “Mr. Lee… there’s an issue with the report.”
Minho glanced up, brows knitting. “What issue?”
“It’s… um, this section.” Jisung stepped closer, pointing at the page. “The revenue number here doesn’t match the one in the database.”
Minho’s pen stilled. “Because this one is correct. I cross-checked it myself.”
Jisung hesitated. “…I know, but I checked the system twice, and-”
“And you think I made a mistake?” His voice was quiet. Too quiet.
“I just- I’m not saying you-”
“Then what are you saying?” Minho’s tone sharpened. He leaned back in his chair, studying Jisung like he was something under a microscope. “Because right now it sounds like you’re implying I don’t know my own numbers.”
Jisung’s chest tightened. “I’m trying to help.”
“I didn’t ask for help,” Minho said flatly. “I asked for accuracy.”
The words hit harder than they should have. Jisung felt his heat rise in his chest - the frustration of working under someone who seemed determined to misunderstand him. “With respect, Mr. Lee, if there’s an inconsistency, isn’t it my job to point it out before this goes to the board?”
Minho’s gaze locked onto his. For a moment, Jisung thought he saw something flicker there - irritation, yes, but also something darker. “You’re here to learn,” Minho said slowly, “not to second-guess me.”
“I’m not-” Jisung’s voice cracked, and he forced it steady. “Maybe if you didn’t treat every question like an attack, you’d get fewer arguments.”
The silence that followed was suffocating. Minho set his pen down with deliberate precision. “Close the door on your way out.” Jisung left, his pulse thundering in his ears - and yet, under the sting of humiliation, there was that same maddening pull toward him. He didn’t know if he wanted to shove Minho or kiss him. Maybe both.
The next morning, Jisung made a point of avoiding Minho’s office. He stayed glued to his desk, eyes locked on his monitor, answering emails with robotic efficiency. He told himself it wasn’t pouting. It was… maintaining professionalism. But every time Minho’s door opened, Jisung’s head snapped up before he could stop it. The man didn’t so much as glance at him.
By noon, Jisung gave in to caffeine cravings and slipped into the break room. He was halfway through making instant coffee when the door opened. Minho.
Jisung tensed, staring at the cup in his hands like it was a life preserver. “Mr. Lee,” he said stiffly.
Minho didn’t answer right away. He walked past Jisung, set his own mug on the counter, and reached for the coffee pot. “You’re early,” he said finally.
“For what?”
“The report meeting. You’re usually rushing in last minute.”
Jisung’s brows knit. “Maybe I’m trying to be more prepared.”
“Or maybe you’re avoiding me,” Minho replied without looking at him. His tone was calm, but the weight behind it was obvious.
The young man ‘s ulse skipped. “Maybe you make that easy sometimes.”
That got Minho’s attention. He turned, leaning against the counter, mug in hand. “You have something to say, intern?”
Jisung’s mouth went dry. “If I did, you’d probably call it second-guessing you.”
For a moment, Minho just stared at him, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was fighting off a smirk. “Careful, Jisung. You’re not as untouchable as you think.” Jisung swallowed, stepping around him to leave - only for Minho to speak again, low enough that it almost didn’t reach his ears. “…But I don’t mind a little pushback. Keeps me awake.” Jisung didn’t turn around. He just kept walking, heart pounding, wondering if he was imagining the heat in Minho’s voice.
A few months later, the weather had gotten colder, autumn was all over the streets of Seoul. The rain was pouring everyday, no matter what happened on that day. As for JIsung and Minho? Nothing had changed between them. Minho was still cold, maybe even colder than the weather. Meanwhile Jisung was clearly sulking - like the mature grown man he was.
At lunch, one day in October, he was absentmindedly scrolling on his phone. When the WKOREA headline stopped him cold. “Lee Minho: The Reluctant Face of Corporate Triumph.” The thumbnail alone was enough to knock the breath out of him. Minho, in a charcoal suit, white shirt open just enough at the collar, eyes sharp and unreadable under studio lights. The kind of photo that didn’t just look expensive - it smelled like money and intimidation. Jisung tapped it. The full spread loaded. Page after page of Minho - leaning against a black leather chair, wrist resting on his knee, hair swept back with deliberate carelessness. No fake smile, just that cool, weighty stare Jisung knew all too well from across the office. Jisung’s stomach twisted. It wasn’t fair that a man who spent his days barking at staff and chain-drinking black coffee could also look like that.
But of course, this magazine headline wasn’t the only thing here to celebrate the incredible numbers the company had done this year. They - obviously - had to throw a gala. And all the company’s employees were invited : including Jisung. The gala was the kind of event Jisung had only ever seen in dramas - crystal chandeliers, champagne flutes, and everyone dressed like their net worth was a legal weapon. He hadn’t even been sure he’d make the guest list until his supervisor insisted all interns attend “for the networking opportunity.”
Minho wasn’t hard to spot. He stood near the stage, surrounded by board members and journalists, in a black three-piece suit that fit like sin. Even here, in a room full of power players, he commanded attention without raising his voice. Jisung kept his distance, nursing a glass of champagne and telling himself he wasn’t staring. He failed. At one point, Minho turned his head - and their eyes met across the crowd. Just for a second. The faintest flicker of recognition passed over his face before he returned to his conversation, as if Jisung had been nothing more than a passing shadow.
Later, as Jisung wandered near the side hall, he overheard two older employees talking quietly. “Did you see the WKOREA shoot? He hated doing it. Said it was a waste of time.”
“Well, it worked. We’re everywhere now.”
“Still… he’s different tonight. More guarded.”
Jisung didn’t need them to explain. He could see it - the stiffness under the polished veneer, the way Minho’s gaze skimmed over people without ever fully landing. And yet, when Minho eventually stepped into the hall to take a break, loosening his tie just slightly, Jisung’s breath caught all over again.
“Enjoying yourself?” Minho asked, voice low but steady.
Jisung tried to be casual. “It’s… fancy. You clean up well, Mr. Lee.”
For the first time all night, Minho’s mouth curved - not quite a smile, but something close. “Careful. You’ll ruin your reputation as the one person in the office who isn’t impressed by me.”
Jisung’s pulse jumped. “Who said I wasn’t impressed?”
Minho didn’t answer. He just looked at him for a moment too long before a PR rep appeared to whisk him away for more photos. Jisung watched him go, trying to ignore the strange, restless ache blooming in his chest.
The convenience store was quiet, just the hum of refrigerators and the faint jingle of the clerk’s phone in the background. Jisung hadn’t meant to wander in after leaving the gala. He’d told himself he was just heading home, that the champagne fuzz in his head would fade if he walked it off. But then he’d spotted it on the magazine rack by the counter - the WKOREA issue.
Minho’s issue. The cover was even more arresting in person. Not just because the glossy paper caught the light, but because the photo wasn’t just posed power - there was something else in his eyes, something darker and quieter, the same look Jisung had caught in passing at the gala. Before he could overthink it, Jisung bought a copy. The clerk slid it into a paper bag without comment, but Jisung still felt vaguely ridiculous - like a high schooler hiding a crush poster.
Outside, the night air was crisp, streets slick with the kind of summer rain that hadn’t quite committed to falling. Jisung stepped under the dim glow of a streetlamp, paper bag clutched against his chest.
That’s when he saw him. Minho, a few meters away, leaning against a black car with his jacket draped over one arm. His tie was gone, shirt collar undone, and his hair - perfectly styled hours ago - now fell loose over his forehead. He looked… different. Softer, somehow. Not the CEO from the stage or the glossy pages. Just a man who’d worked too hard for too many years.
“Intern,” Minho said when their eyes met, voice low and tired.
Jisung’s throat went dry. “Mr. Lee. You- uh. Leaving now?”
“Mm.” Minho’s gaze flicked to the paper bag in Jisung’s hands. “What’s that?”
Jisung tightened his grip instinctively. “Just… something I picked up.”
One corner of Minho’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were hiding something.”
Jisung’s heart hammered. He wasn’t sure if it was the champagne or the way Minho’s voice softened at the edges when they weren’t in the office. “Maybe I am.”
For a long second, neither moved. The distant hum of the city filled the space between them. Then Minho’s driver stepped out from the car, breaking the spell. “Mr. Lee, we should go.”
Minho’s eyes lingered on Jisung a moment longer before he nodded and slid into the backseat. No goodbye - just that unreadable look that somehow felt more intimate than words. Jisung stood there long after the car pulled away, rain starting to speckle the brown paper in his hands. He didn’t open the magazine. Not yet.
Jisung shut the door to his apartment with his foot, the WKOREA issue clutched like contraband under his arm.
The gala still buzzed faintly in his head - the chandeliers, the champagne, the surreal sight of Minho laughing politely for the cameras. But here, under his own dim desk lamp, that night’s grandeur felt far away. It was just him. And the magazine.
He sat on his bed, tore the plastic wrap too fast, and flipped it open. There he was. Page after page - Minho in perfectly cut suits, Minho in charcoal and shadow, Minho’s eyes catching the camera in a way that made Jisung’s breath hitch. It was like the photographer had managed to strip away the boardroom armor, leaving the man underneath exposed but somehow more dangerous.
Jisung traced one image without meaning to - Minho leaning against a desk, tie loosened, gaze lowered just enough to feel… intimate. Too intimate. The room felt warmer. He told himself it was just curiosity. Just a strange fascination with seeing “Mr. Lee” outside of the company’s glass walls. But his hands lingered too long on the glossy paper, his gaze catching on the curve of Minho’s mouth, the sharp line of his jaw.
One particular photo stopped him cold - an unpublished-feeling shot, almost candid, tucked at the end of the spread. Minho, half-smiling at something off-camera, hair slightly mussed, his hand in his pocket like he didn’t know he was being watched.
Jisung’s pulse roared in his ears. And then… well, the night stretched on. The magazine lay open on his bed, his fingertips smudging the ink ever so slightly. Every time he thought he could close it, he’d find himself flipping back to that page. Again. And again. So much that after a while, his poor sweatpants started feeling tight. He tried to ignore it at first. But as he kept flipping page after page. Minho’s eyes, the expensive watch on his wrist, his lips, the tie hanging low around his neck, his veiny hands, his shiny dark shoes, the silver streaks in his hair. The way he looked was just completely hypnotizing for Jisung. He couldn’t take his eyes off his boss’s pictures.
In one of the pictures, Minho was there, staring deep into the lens, his lips parted. His gaze was so intense. Jisung’s bottom lip twitched. He tried looking away from Minho’s eyes. His gaze drifted off towards the white roots of his hair. Then to the veins on his hands. He followed them on his arm, thanking the skies that his sleeves were rolled up. When his eyes reached the sleeve he let out a breath - almost a moan - he didn’t know he was holding. Fuck. He threw his head back for a second, looking up at the ceiling. With his eyes away from the magazine he could feel his own body better.
And that was when he realized - Jisung was damn hard for his boss. So he looked down at his own crotch. Frowned at the obvious bulge. His right hand slowly reached but he stopped mid-way. “I can’t jerk off to my boss damn.” He gave a quick glance to the magazine - his hand still mid-air. His eyes met Minho’s on the glossy paper. His shaft twitched. A moan.
He couldn’t do this. But he really wanted to. His hand rested on his bulge, over his pants. He thought about it. Really thought about it. He sighed loudly and whispered : “Mr. Lee will never find out anyway.” As he pulled down pants and boxers.
He looked at his member like it was the guilty one in this story. He quickly spitted on his hands and picked back up the magazine in the other. He slowly reached for his hard shaft, letting out a soft whimper at the touch. He stared back into Minho’s eyes as he grabbed it and slowly started to move his hand up and down. At first his whines and whimpers were soft and quiet, shy - almost ashamed. But as the minutes went by, and as his moves got faster, he started getting louder. His cheeks and ears were red as he kept staring at Minho in the pictures. His hand was soon covered in pre-cum. So much that he started moaning even louder. Whining random words. “Fuck…” He kept flipping the pages, quickly coming back to the picture that got him definitely hard. He stared at Minho’s eyes as he felt himself getting closer to the edge. His hand was now moving in a blur. The more he looked at the minho, the more he could hear his voice in the back of his head. His disapproving words, his cold tone, every - almost mean - things he had said to Jisung were going through the young man’s head. The meaner the words, the louder he moaned. He looked at the picture, one last time. And it came so fast he wasn’t even able to hold it back or edge himself in any way. “Mr. Lee-” He moaned as he squirted all over his hand. He was out of breath as the hot liquid rolled down his fingers to reach his thighs, and then his clean sheets.
He let go off his softening shaft and grabbed a tissue on the bedside table to wipe his hand. He felt bad - guilty. But damn it felt good. He even considered going for another round but quickly shook it away. In one smooth motion, he closed the dangerous magazine, shoved it under his bed and went to take a shower. What was fucking wrong with him now?
On the next morning, at work, Jisung had never been so aware of his own face. Every blink felt suspicious. Every breath sounded guilty. The WKOREA magazine was buried under his bed with piles of clothes he was too lazy to clean away, but its images were burned into his brain like the afterimage of staring at the sun.
He kept his head down as he walked into the office, clinging to his coffee cup like it was a shield. If he didn’t look at Minho, if he just focused on the emails, maybe his brain would stop replaying every shameful detail of last night.
“Morning,” came that low, cold voice from somewhere behind him.
Jisung froze. He hadn’t even heard the office door open. Slowly, he turned. There he was. Lee Minho. In a navy suit so sharp it could draw blood, his hair neatly styled, his gaze direct. “Good morning, Mr. Lee,” Jisung mumbled, eyes darting back to his desk before they could betray him.
But Minho didn’t leave. He leaned one hand on the edge of Jisung’s desk, just close enough that the scent of his cologne curled into the air between them. “You look tired.”
Jisung’s pulse jumped. “Didn’t… sleep well,” he said, keeping his tone as neutral as possible.
“Mm,” The older man hummed, as if weighing the answer. “Working too late again?”
Jisung almost choked on his coffee. “No, sir. Just… couldn’t sleep.”
Minho’s eyes stayed on him a second longer than necessary - sharp, searching, as though he could peel back Jisung’s thoughts layer by layer if he wanted. Then he straightened. “Don’t let it affect your work,” he said, voice cool, and walked away.
Jisung sat there for a full minute, willing the heat in his cheeks to fade. No one knew. No one could know. But when he risked a glance toward Minho’s office, he found the man already at his desk… and smirking, ever so slightly, at his computer screen.
At lunch, the cafeteria was quieter than usual, most of the office still buzzing about the gala. Jisung sat with his tray, carefully picking at his food, trying not to let his mind drift to glossy pages and unholy thoughts.
He’d almost made it through lunch in peace - until a shadow fell across his table. “Mind if I sit?”
Jisung looked up. Minho, perfectly composed, his tray in one hand. It wasn’t really a question. “N-no, sir,” Jisung said quickly, shoving his phone aside to make space.
Minho sat across from him, stirring his coffee lazily before taking a sip. His gaze, though, stayed on Jisung like a weight. “So,” Minho began, his tone light in the way that wasn’t light at all, “I hear WKOREA’s latest issue is… popular.”
Jisung’s fork froze halfway to his mouth as he held back a cough. “O-oh? Yeah, I guess so…”
Minho tilted his head. “You guess so?”
Jisung swallowed hard. “I mean, I haven’t- I didn’t really-” He caught himself, realizing he was about to trip over his own words. “I mean, I saw some pictures online. Looked… nice.”
A slow, knowing smile tugged at Minho’s mouth. “Nice.” He repeated it like he was tasting the word. “That’s one way to put it.” Jisung dropped his gaze to his tray, wishing the floor would swallow him whole. His ears burned. “You should pick up a copy,” Minho said after a beat, casual but sharp enough to cut. “Good for… company morale.”
The worst part was the way Minho said it without breaking eye contact, like he was looking straight into whatever filthy little corner of Jisung’s mind had been occupied all night. “Y-yes, sir,” Jisung muttered.
By the time Minho stood and left, Jisung could barely breathe. He didn’t know if Minho was suspicious, or if he was just playing with him. Either way, Jisung was doomed.
His secret soon felt too heavy to handle on his own. Plus he deeply needed good advice. Because he had looked up on Google “I think i have a crush on my twice-my-age boss, what should I do?” and the answers didn’t please him : “fuck him”, “quit”, “get a bf”, “defo fuck him”, “well if i was you, i would let him hit”. He snapped his laptop shut. Took his phone and texted Chan : “I need help, let’s meet. The usual bar, 9PM.”
The bar was warm, dim, and loud enough that Jisung thought it was safe. He nursed his drink while Jisung, sprawled across the booth opposite him, grinned like a cat who already knew all the answers.
“So…” Chan leaned forward, chin propped in his palm. “Tell me again why you look like you’ve been caught committing a felony?”
Jisung groaned, hiding his face in his hands. “Because I have, Channie. Mentally. Spiritually.”
“That’s vague. Be specific.”
He peeked over his fingers. “You know that WKOREA shoot? The one with… him?”
Chan’s grin widened. “Mr. Lee? Your terrifyingly hot boss?”
Jisung’s shoulders hunched. “Don’t call him that.”
“Why? Because it’s true?” Chan teased. “What’d you do, frame the pictures on your wall?”
Jisung hissed, “Worse.” He looked around, then raised his hand and swung it up and down.
Chan blinked, then realization lit his face. “No. No way. You did not-”
“Shut up!” Jisung smacked his arm across the table. His elbows rested on the ard wood as he buried his burning face in his hands, whining in shame. “I didn’t mean to, it just- happened! I was flipping through it before bed, and he looked-” He cut himself off, glancing around before lowering his voice. “…really, really good.”
Chan laughed so hard he nearly spilled his drink. “Oh my god, you have a dilf problem. This is worse than I thought.”
Jisung groaned again, sinking lower in his seat. “It’s not a problem, it’s- ugh, I don’t even like him like that. He’s cold, and bossy, and-”
“Hot,” Chan interrupted. “You forgot hot.”
Jisung’s face was on fire. “Shut up.”
Chan was still chuckling when he suddenly glanced over Jisung’s shoulder and stopped. His eyes widened. “Uh… speaking of…” Jisung turned slowly, dread pooling in his stomach.
At the bar, not twenty feet away, the Lee Minho stood with a glass of whiskey in hand, speaking to someone from another department - but his head was tilted just enough in their direction. His eyes met Jisung’s for the briefest moment, unreadable in the low light, before he turned back to his conversation. Jisung’s pulse roared in his ears.
“Think he heard?” Chan whispered, practically giddy. Jisung couldn’t answer. He just downed the rest of his drink, already knowing the answer.
The young intern shook on his way to work the next morning. His legs were weak, and this time it wasn't because of the fun time he had. But because he was nervous, scared - anxious. If Mr. Lee ever finds out, it’s the end. On his way, in the subway, he even started scrolling on LinkedIn - hoping to find another job easily and fast if Minho ever fired him.
The office was quiet when Jisung arrived - too quiet. Usually, he could hear the distant click of Minho’s keyboard, the faint sound of someone on a call, the soft hum of printers. But this morning, the air felt heavier. He set his bag down, trying to act casual. Maybe he didn’t hear anything. Maybe I’m overthinking it.
“Mr. Han,” Minho’s voice came from his office, deep and steady.
Jisung startled, immediately shoving the magazine he’d been reading on the train into his drawer. “Y-Yes, Mr. Lee?”
“Come in.”
The door was half-open, so Jisung stepped inside, clutching his notebook like a shield. Minho was standing by the window, sleeves rolled up, sunlight catching the lines of his face. He looked annoyingly good for someone who’d been out drinking the night before.
“I need you to review the Q3 report before lunch,” Minho said without looking at him. “And make sure the numbers are precise. I don’t want any… unnecessary mistakes.”
Jisung nodded, scribbling it down. “Yes, sir.”
“And,” Minho finally turned, leaning one hand on his desk, “when you’re done, I’d appreciate it if you could stop by the design department. They’re working on the print layouts for the gala coverage. I’m told the photographs are… quite striking.”
The words landed like a dart. Jisung’s pen froze mid-note. There was no reason - no reason at all - for Minho to say that to him specifically. Not unless- Jisung forced a tight smile. “Of course. I’ll, um… make sure to check them.” Minho’s gaze lingered just a fraction too long before he turned back to his paperwork, effectively dismissing him. By the time Jisung shut the office door, his heart was hammering. He definitely knew. But the young man tried to shake it off and quickly bowed. He almost ran back to his desk, doing as told before heading to his second mission.
The design department smelled faintly of ink and fresh paper. Jisung stepped inside, notebook in hand, pretending he wasn’t aware of the folder waiting for him on the center table.
“Mr. Han!” One of the designers beamed. “Perfect timing. We’re finalizing the gala spread - Mr. Lee wanted you to approve the text formatting before it goes to print.”
Jisung managed a polite smile and sat down. The folder was heavier than it needed to be. The first page was harmless - a shot of the ballroom, tables glittering with glassware. The second was a wide frame of the company team, lined up in crisp suits. And then - him. Minho, black velvet tuxedo tailored within an inch of perfection, hair swept back just enough to reveal the sharp line of his jaw. One hand in his pocket, one on the railing behind him, his gaze angled away from the camera as though even the lens wasn’t worth his full attention.
Jisung’s fingers itched to turn the page faster - to get it over with - but they moved slower instead, betraying him. Each photo was worse. A candid laugh, a low-light close-up, the faintest smirk like he knew exactly how dangerous he looked. He swallowed. Just approve the fonts. Just approve the fonts.
“Do you think the captions work here?” the designer asked, leaning over.
Jisung cleared his throat. “Yes - um - spacing looks fine. Very… clean.”
From the corner of his eye, he saw movement through the glass wall. Minho. He was standing outside, talking to someone from accounting, but his eyes - his eyes were on him. Calm, unreadable… except for the slight lift of one brow.
Jisung quickly closed the folder. “Looks perfect. I’ll send the confirmation to Mr. Lee.”
As he left the department, folder clutched to his chest, he didn’t dare look back at the glass wall. But he could feel Minho’s gaze following him down the hall.
Jisung had almost made it out for lunch when the voice stopped him. “Mr. Han. My office. Now.” The tone wasn’t loud - it didn’t have to be. Minho was leaning against his doorway, arms crossed, tie loosened just enough to look impatient instead of casual.
Jisung stepped inside, trying to keep his voice even. “Was there something urgent, Mr. Lee?”
Minho closed the door. “I reviewed the design department’s notes. They said you approved the gala spread.”
“Right. Fonts, captions, everything’s fine.”
A pause. Minho’s gaze stayed on him - steady, assessing, just long enough for Jisung to start fidgeting. “Funny,” Minho said finally, walking around to stand behind his desk, “because when I passed by, it didn’t look like you were evaluating the text. It looked like you were… distracted.”
Jisung blinked. “I- I wasn’t-”
“That photo shoot,” Minho went on, ignoring the interruption, “was for publicity, not for staff entertainment.”
Heat rushed to Jisung’s face. “I wasn’t- I didn’t-”
“Didn’t what?” Minho’s voice sharpened just slightly. “Didn’t spend five minutes staring at a page you’d already approved? Didn’t nearly drop the folder when you saw me watching you?”
The young intern’s jaw clenched. “You’re overthinking it, Mr. Lee.”
Minho leaned forward on his desk, palms braced. “Am I?” The silence stretched, heavy and electric. Jisung hated that his pulse was so loud in his ears. “If you want to look at my pictures,” Minho said at last, each word deliberate, “do it on your own time. Not on company hours.”
Jisung’s mouth went dry. “Fine. Noted.” He turned to leave, but Minho’s voice stopped him again.
“And, Mr. Han…” Jisung froze. Minho’s gaze flicked over him – slow, almost bored. “Next time, try not to be so obvious. You’re terrible at hiding it.” A silence. Minho walked back to his desk. Jisung thought it was over but Minho was still not dismissing him.
Minho finally looked up from the papers on his desk. “Tell me,” he said, “is it a habit of yours to discuss… private activities in public bars?”
Jisung’s heart stopped. “What?”
Minho leaned back in his chair, watching him like a cat watches a cornered mouse. “Don’t play dumb. I was there. I heard every word you said to your friend about that magazine spread.”
Heat slammed into Jisung’s face. “You- you were-”
“Yes.” Minho’s tone was deceptively calm. “So. You bought the issue, took it home, and… entertained yourself. Over photographs of your boss.”
“That’s- That’s not-” Jisung stammered, but his voice cracked, and it made him sound guiltier.
“It’s exactly what you said,” Minho interrupted, his voice finally hardening. “In detail.”
Jisung’s shame curdled into irritation. “Why were you eavesdropping in the first place?!”
Minho’s jaw tightened. “I wasn’t. You were loud. Reckless. And apparently, you can’t keep certain impulses to yourself.”
“Impulses?!” Jisung’s voice shot up. “It was a one-time-”
“Not the point.” Minho’s voice dropped lower, cutting through the air like a blade. “You work here. You answer to me. And now, thanks to your little confession, I have the mental image of an intern jerking off to my face every time I sign off on a report.”
Jisung’s ears burned. “Then maybe stop doing photo shoots like you’re auditioning for a drama about hot CEOs!”
That made Minho blink - not much, but enough. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” The young man crossed his arms, trying to mask the fact that he was shaking. “It’s not my fault you looked… you looked-”
“Careful,” Minho warned, his voice deepening. Jisung bit his tongue. The room was too quiet now, every second stretching taut. Minho leaned forward slowly, his elbows on the desk. “I’ll give you one piece of advice, Mr. Han. Learn to control yourself. Because if you can’t, you won’t last long here.”
Jisung shot up from his chair, muttering, “Maybe I don’t want to last long here.”
“Good,” Minho said coolly. “That would save us both a headache.” Jisung stormed out, heart pounding so hard it hurt - not sure if he wanted to punch the man or kiss him, which was a conflicting feeling that had been here for way too long already.
The moment Jisung got back to his apartment that night, he fell face-first onto his bed. His chest felt tight, his stomach knotted. He kept replaying the argument in his head - Minho’s voice, cold and low; the way he said “jerking off to my face” like it was the most disgusting thing he’d ever heard; the way he’d told Jisung he “wouldn’t last long here.”
By morning, Jisung’s alarm went off at 6:30, and for the first time since he’d started at the company, he didn’t get up. He called in sick. One day became two. Two became three.
On the fourth day, Chan showed up at his door with takeout and a scowl. “You look like shit,” he said.
“Thanks,” Jisung mumbled, curled up in a hoodie that wasn’t even clean.
Chan sat down beside him. “You can’t hide forever. What’s the worst that’s gonna happen? He fires you? Big deal, you’ll find something else.”
Jisung’s throat tightened. “You don’t get it. I worked so hard just to get this internship. I can’t… I can’t screw this up. If he fires me, it’s over. No recommendations, no future, and the rent-” His voice cracked, and before he could stop it, his eyes stung.
Chan softened. “Hey, hey… Little one, breathe.”
But Jisung couldn’t. All week, the shame had been a heavy weight pressing on his chest, and now it spilled over. He buried his face in his hands, the sobs coming too fast to stop. “I was so stupid,” he choked out. “Why did I say anything? Why did I-”
“Because you’re human,” Chan cut in, rubbing his back. “And honestly? He’s a 39-year-old man who looks like that. You think you’re the only one? Half the company’s probably done the same thing.”
That almost made Jisung laugh, but it died before it reached his throat. “He hates me now. I could tell. Every word… it was like he wanted me gone.”
Chan frowned. “Or maybe he’s just being Mr. Ice Cube Boss as usual.”
Still, Jisung stayed in that apartment for another three days, the blinds shut, barely eating. He avoided even checking his work email, too afraid to see a termination notice. By the seventh day, he was a hollow shell of himself - pale, quiet, and still dreading the moment he’d have to face Minho again.
The lobby felt colder than usual when Jisung finally stepped in. Maybe it was just him - seven days away had made the place feel foreign. His chest tightened the moment he scanned his badge and heard the soft beep. He’d dressed carefully that morning, trying to look professional enough to hide the fact that he’d been in a week-long slump - pressed shirt, neat hair, dark slacks. But his eyes still felt heavy, and his skin was pale enough to make him look sick.
He made it to his desk without bumping into Minho. His colleagues gave polite nods, a couple of curious glances. He caught snippets of whispers - “Was he sick?” - but kept his head down. At 9:17, his monitor pinged.
From: Lee, Minho Subject: My office. Now.
Jisung swallowed hard. He considered pretending he hadn’t seen it - but his legs were already carrying him to that glass door at the far end of the floor. Minho didn’t look up when Jisung entered. He was standing near the window, sleeves rolled to his elbows, scrolling through something on his phone. The light caught the faint silver at his temples.
“Close the door,” Minho said.
Jisung obeyed, fingers trembling as he turned the handle. “Mr. Lee, I-”
“Sit.” The leather chair felt colder than it should have. Jisung kept his gaze fixed on a small crack in the desk, too afraid to meet Minho’s eyes. “You disappeared for a week,” Minho said, voice low but not sharp. “No warning, no email, no updates. Do you think that’s how this works?”
“I’m sorry,” Jisung murmured.
“Sorry doesn’t tell me whether you still want this job.”
Jisung’s throat burned. “I do.”
Minho finally looked at him - not with the outright disgust Jisung had feared, but something harder to read. His gaze lingered, slow, deliberate. “You don’t look like someone who’s ready to work.”
“I… I can work.”
Minho’s jaw tightened. He slipped his hands into his pockets and stepped closer, enough that Jisung could smell faint cologne under the crisp scent of his shirt. “Good. Because I’m not firing you.”
Jisung blinked, his mouth opening slightly. “You’re… not?”
“No. But you’re not going to vanish on me again. Understood?”
Jisung nodded quickly. “Yes, Mr. Lee.”
For a second, Minho’s eyes softened - almost imperceptibly - before he turned away, grabbing a folder from his desk. “Then get back to work.” Jisung stood, legs shaky, his heart pounding for reasons he couldn’t fully name.
By three o’clock, Jisung had almost convinced himself that the morning meeting with Minho was just… business. Not forgiveness. Not a sign of anything. Just a warning from a boss who didn’t have time for weakness.
But when he went to drop off a stack of reports in the executive wing, he stopped dead. Minho’s office door was ajar, and voices drifted out.
“…he’s too young for the pressure,” came a voice Jisung recognized - Mr. Park from Finance, one of the senior execs who always looked at Jisung like he was an unpaid intern instead of a contracted hire. “We can’t afford another mess-up in Q4. If you’re keeping him, it’s your risk.”
“I’m aware,” Minho replied, calm but edged.
“Then maybe you should think about replacing him before he costs you more than-”
“Stop.” Minho’s voice dropped lower, colder. “Jisung’s not going anywhere. Whatever happened last week isn’t your concern, and it won’t affect his work going forward.”
There was a pause. Mr. Park let out a dry laugh. “Defensive today, aren’t you?”
“I don’t like repeating myself,” Minho said. “And I don’t like people assuming they can dictate my team.”
Chairs shifted. Footsteps moved toward the door. Jisung jolted, slipping back around the corner before he could be seen. His pulse was hammering in his ears. Minho… defended him. Not politely, not reluctantly - but firmly, like he had no intention of letting anyone else touch the matter. Jisung’s face felt hot, and it wasn’t from embarrassment this time. Something heavier, stranger, curled in his chest. This man had heard the worst possible thing about him and still… The sound of Minho’s low voice echoed in his head: Jisung’s not going anywhere. He hurried back to his desk before anyone could see his expression.
Then everything came back to usual for a few weeks. Until this specific night when something finally moved. The office was almost silent at nine p.m. Only the faint hum of the vending machine and the low whirr of the air conditioner filled the air. Most of the building had gone home hours ago, but Jisung was still at his desk, struggling to finish an urgent client proposal.
When he finally hit send, he realized he wasn’t alone. Through the glass wall of Minho’s office, a faint light still glowed. Jisung hesitated - he could just pack up and leave. But his feet carried him anyway, soft steps over the carpet. He knocked gently.
“Come in,” Minho’s voice called, deep and unhurried. Minho was sitting behind his desk, jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows. His tie was loose, top button undone. His hair had fallen slightly out of place, like he’d been running a hand through it all evening. A tumbler of whiskey sat by his elbow.
“You’re still here?” Jisung asked quietly.
Minho’s eyes flicked up. “And you?”
“I… just finished.” Jisung hovered in the doorway, not sure if he was welcome.
Minho gestured toward the chair opposite his desk. “Sit.”
Jisung obeyed, feeling the tension in the air thicken. Minho poured a second glass of whiskey and slid it toward him. “I don’t usually drink,” Jisung said, fingers curling around the cool glass.
“It’s not an order,” Minho replied, taking a slow sip of his own. “Just… company.” The amber liquid in Jisung’s glass trembled slightly as he lifted it. They sat in silence for a while, the sound of ice shifting against glass the only thing between them. “You’ve been working hard,” Minho finally said, his gaze steady. “I notice these things.”
Jisung’s chest tightened. “You… do?”
Minho leaned back in his chair, studying him. “You think I don’t?” Jisung swallowed. He wanted to say something sharp, or to joke, but the sincerity in Minho’s tone made his throat dry. “You’ve grown since you started here,” Minho continued. “And not just in your work. You’re… different.”
Jisung’s heart pounded. He didn’t know if that was a compliment or a warning. “Different how?”
Minho’s mouth twitched, almost a smile - almost. “You’ll figure it out.” The words hung between them, heavy with meaning neither dared unpack. Jisung finished his drink in a nervous swallow. Minho’s gaze never left his face.
By the time they left the building, the city had settled into the quiet hum of late night. The streetlamps painted everything in gold, and the air had that sharp bite that made breath visible. Minho locked the office door behind them, his hand brushing the small of Jisung’s back for just a fraction of a second as they stepped into the hallway. It wasn’t intentional - or maybe it was. Jisung couldn’t tell.
Outside, Minho shrugged on his coat, but his movements were slower than usual. The whiskey had left a faint flush across his cheekbones, a warmth in his eyes that wasn’t there in daylight. Jisung noticed the way his boss was fumbling with the second sleeve. “Here,” he said quietly, stepping closer. He took the fabric and guided Minho’s arm through.
Minho looked down at him, his gaze unreadable in the dim light. “You always take it upon yourself to… look after me, don’t you?”
Jisung’s heart jumped. “I- I was just-”
Minho’s lips curved, not quite a smile. “Relax. I didn’t say I minded.”
The coat was on now, but Jisung’s hands lingered for a beat too long on the lapels, smoothing out imaginary creases. Minho didn’t move away. His cologne - deep, warm, and expensive - filled Jisung’s head. They stood there, close enough for Jisung to feel the heat radiating from him, the world around them fading into a blur of cool air and warm breath.
Finally, Minho broke the moment. “Go home, Jisung. It’s late.”
Jisung nodded, stepping back, but his pulse was still racing. As Minho turned toward his car, Jisung couldn’t shake the thought that maybe - just maybe - this older man was starting to see him differently too.
It was past midnight when Jisung finally shut his laptop. His apartment was quiet, save for the hum of the fridge and the faint sound of rain against the window. He’d been trying to forget that conversation - the way Minho’s voice had dipped, the heat in his eyes - but every time he blinked, it replayed.
He was halfway to the bedroom when the knock came. Three slow, deliberate taps. His heart jumped into his throat. No one knocked at this hour. Jisung hesitated, then opened the door just enough to see - and nearly stopped breathing. “Mr. Lee?”
Minho stood there, rain still glistening in his hair, his suit jacket open and tie loose. The kind of disheveled Jisung had never seen at the office, like the world outside had stripped him down to something rawer. “I know it’s late,” Minho said, voice low. “But there’s something we need to finish.”
Jisung’s mind scrambled for an explanation, but before he could ask, Minho stepped inside. He didn’t look around - didn’t comment on the small, cozy apartment, the scattered movie posters, the faint smell of instant ramen - just closed the door behind him.
“You left me standing, Jisung,” Minho continued, his eyes fixed on him. “You keep running every time I get close to the truth. I’m tired of it.”
“I’m not-” Jisung started, but the words died when Minho stepped closer.
The air between them was heavy. Close enough now that Jisung could see the faint shadow of stubble along Minho’s jaw, the way his shirt clung faintly to his shoulders from the rain. “Tell me you didn’t mean it,” Minho said. “Tell me you didn’t spend nights thinking about those pictures.”
Jisung’s throat went dry. “I-”
“You can’t.” Minho’s voice was soft now, dangerous in its certainty. Jisung hated how his knees felt weak, how much heat rushed through him. He hated that his boss - a man twice his age, cold, infuriating - could strip him bare without ever touching him.
Minho took one more step forward, close enough that the scent of rain and his cologne made Jisung dizzy. “Stop pretending,” he murmured.
Jisung’s breath hitched. “What are you going to do if I don’t?”
The ghost of a smile touched Minho’s lips. “You’ll find out.”
Jisung blinked himself back into motion. “You’re soaked-” he muttered, stepping forward before he could think better of it trying to change the topic.
Minho didn’t stop him when Jisung’s fingers brushed his shoulders, sliding the heavy, rain-damp coat off his frame. The fabric was cold and smelled faintly of wet wool and expensive cologne. Jisung swallowed, hanging it over the back of his lone dining chair. “Sit,” he said, half on instinct, half because he didn’t know what else to do with the sight of Minho dripping water onto his tiny entryway rug.
Minho arched a brow but obeyed, sitting on the edge of Jisung’s bed - the only real piece of furniture in the living space. It made him look too big, too out of place, but somehow also… too natural there. Jisung disappeared for a moment, rummaging in his bathroom before returning with a clean towel. “Here,” he said softly, holding it out.
Instead of taking it, Minho just tilted his head slightly. “You do it.”
Jisung froze. “…What?”
“Dry my hair,” Minho said, like it was the simplest thing in the world.
Jisung’s pulse thudded hard in his ears, but he stepped closer, lifting the towel to Minho’s head. He worked gently, careful not to muss his hair too much, but Minho just sat there, still as stone, watching Jisung from under half-lidded eyes whenever the towel shifted enough to reveal his face. The air between them was too quiet. The rain outside was the only sound.
When Jisung finally pulled the towel away, Minho didn’t move. His gaze dipped - just briefly - to Jisung’s mouth before returning to his eyes. “You take care of people too easily,” he said, voice low.
Jisung looked away quickly, sitting beside him on the bed because it felt wrong to stand while Minho sat there like some immovable force. “Maybe you just… need taking care of.”
Minho gave a quiet, humorless chuckle. “You wouldn’t survive a week if you knew the truth.”
That pulled Jisung’s gaze back to him. “Then tell me.”
Minho’s expression shifted, something unreadable flickering across his face. “Not yet.” The silence stretched, heavy, as if there were a dozen things unsaid hanging in the air between them. The rain was still coming down outside, but inside the small apartment, the quiet felt heavier than the storm. Minho sat there like he belonged - hair now dry, broad shoulders taking up too much space on Jisung’s bed, fingers loosely clasped in his lap. He looked… softer like this, without the sharpness of his suit and office lighting. And yet, that same unreadable wall was still in place.
Jisung stared at him for a long moment before the words tumbled out, his voice sharper than he intended. “Why are you here, Minho?”
Minho’s eyes lifted slowly, as if Jisung’s question had been expected but unwanted. “I told you. I was passing by.”
Jisung shook his head, moving to stand in front of him. “That’s not good enough. You don’t ‘pass by’ my place. You don’t even live in this part of the city.”
A flicker of something - annoyance? amusement? - crossed Minho’s face. “Maybe I just wanted to see you.”
“That’s not funny,” Jisung snapped, heat rising to his cheeks. “You’ve been… confusing for months. One moment you’re-” He stopped himself, swallowing, because he didn’t want to list all the little moments Minho had given him just enough warmth to make him crave more. “You can’t just show up and act like this means nothing.”
Minho’s gaze hardened. “And if I told you it was better for you not to know my reasons?”
Jisung took a step closer, pulse loud in his ears. “Then I’d call you a coward.”
That landed - Jisung could see it in the way Minho’s jaw clenched, his knuckles tightening briefly. For a second, Minho looked like he might get up and leave. Instead, he leaned back on his hands, looking up at Jisung with a mix of frustration and something else - something warmer, more dangerous. “You think you want answers,” Minho said quietly. “But you’d rather keep the fantasy than deal with the truth.”
Jisung’s stomach twisted. “Try me.”
They held each other’s gaze for what felt like forever, until Minho finally looked away, exhaling through his nose. “Not tonight.” The words were a wall slamming back into place - but this time, Jisung could feel the heat of something behind it. Jisung didn’t move when Minho said, Not tonight. Something in him rebelled at the dismissal - the same way it did every time Minho pushed him back into the role of “intern” instead of “person he clearly gave a damn about.”
“That’s all you ever do,” Jisung said, his voice trembling with anger he hadn’t planned on showing. “You… dangle something in front of me, and then you take it away. Every single time.”
Minho’s head lifted sharply. “I don’t-”
“Yes, you do,” Jisung cut in, stepping closer. “You hover around me, you… look at me like-” He broke off, cheeks burning, unable to finish. “And then you act like I’m imagining it.”
Minho’s jaw flexed. “Maybe you are imagining it.”
Jisung laughed - short, bitter. “Right. That’s why you’re sitting on my bed right now. In my apartment. After you showed up in the rain with no warning.”
Silence. Just the rain and the sound of Jisung’s heartbeat in his ears. “You want me to be honest?” Minho finally said, his voice low, dangerous. “If I tell you the truth, you won’t look at me the same way again.”
Jisung’s throat tightened. “Maybe I don’t want to keep looking at you like this - like you’re some… unsolvable puzzle I’m too stupid to figure out.”
“That’s exactly why I don’t say anything,” Minho shot back. “Because you’re not stupid, Jisung. You’re… young. You still think certain things are exciting until you find out how messy they really are.”
Jisung flinched at young - the way Minho said it, like it was a flaw, like it disqualified him from wanting anything real. “I’m not a kid,” Jisung said, quieter now but sharper. “And I’m not afraid of messy.”
Minho stood - and suddenly he was too close, looking down at Jisung with that same unreadable expression that somehow felt like a challenge. “You think you know what you’re asking for. You don’t.”
Jisung’s chest was tight, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “Then teach me.”
For a long moment, Minho didn’t move. His eyes searched Jisung’s face - as if weighing every possible outcome - before he let out a quiet, frustrated sigh and stepped back.“This conversation’s over,” he said. And just like that, he was retreating toward the door.
Jisung stood frozen, pulse racing, his body buzzing with frustration and something far more dangerous - the feeling that he was so close to getting through.
The slam of the door was like a gunshot in Jisung’s chest. For half a second, he stood there frozen - and then his body moved before his brain caught up. He shoved his feet into sneakers, didn’t even bother with a jacket, and bolted after him. By the time he reached the street, the rain was cold needles on his skin, plastering his hair to his forehead. Minho’s tall figure was already halfway down the block, coat collar up, head down.
“Mr. Lee!” No answer. Just the sound of rain hitting pavement. Jisung’s shoes splashed through puddles as he chased him. “Minho, wait-”
Minho stopped but didn’t turn around. The streetlight ahead caught on the edge of his jaw, the rain beading and sliding down. Jisung came to a breathless stop a few feet away, chest heaving. “You don’t get to just walk away after dropping something like that.”
“I told you,” Minho said without looking at him, “you don’t want the truth.”
“I’ll decide what I want!” The words came out louder than Jisung intended, his voice cracking. “I’ve spent months - months - trying to understand you, and I’m tired of playing your game.”
That made Minho turn. His hair was damp, his eyes dark and steady even through the curtain of rain. “Game?”
“Yes!” Jisung stepped forward, rain soaking through his shirt. “You pull me close, you push me away, you stare at me like-” His voice faltered. “Like you… like you want something you won’t admit.” Minho’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t move. “Why?” Jisung asked, quieter now. “Why won’t you admit it?”
A muscle ticked in Minho’s cheek. “Because if I do, there’s no going back.”
Jisung swallowed hard. “Maybe I don’t want to go back.”
They stood there, just the sound of the rain between them. Minho’s gaze flicked over Jisung’s face - his wet hair, flushed cheeks, the stubborn set of his mouth - and for a second, something raw flickered in his expression.
Then, just as quickly, it was gone. “Go home, Jisung,” he said softly. “Before you regret this.” He turned again, walking into the darkness, leaving Jisung standing under the streetlight, rain dripping from his lashes, heart in his throat.
The rain had stopped days ago, but Jisung still felt damp inside. It had been weeks since the streetlight, and Minho had gone colder than winter steel. No more lingering looks in meetings. No brushing of hands when passing documents. No late-night emails that bled into personal conversation. Just Mr. Lee, the CEO. Jisung tried to keep his head down, but his chest clenched every time Minho’s voice cut across the room, clipped and impersonal.
At lunch one day, Chan slid into the seat across from him with a tray of fried rice. “You’re sulking again,” he said through a mouthful.
“I’m not sulking.”
“You’ve been staring at your soup for ten minutes like it owes you money.”
Jisung pushed the spoon around. “…He hasn’t spoken to me outside of work stuff since that night.”
“Night?” Chan’s brows shot up. “What night?”
Jisung hesitated. “The one where I- never mind.”
Chan leaned in, lowering his voice. “Jisung. Did you, or did you not, finally confess your DILF obsession to him?”
Jisung glared. “…You’re not helping.”
Chan smirked. “Okay, fine, I’ll be serious. If he’s ignoring you, maybe he’s scared. Or maybe…” He tilted his head. “…he’s waiting for you to make the next move.”
Jisung let out a humorless laugh. “Yeah. Sure. Because me chasing him into the rain wasn’t forward enough.” But even as he said it, he felt the itch under his skin. The kind that only grew when Minho’s voice called his name in that low, unreadable tone during a meeting later that afternoon.
A few weeks later, snow was falling in lazy swirls outside the tall glass windows of the company’s rented chalet. The board had decided this year’s holiday break would start with a day of “team bonding” - a phrase that made Jisung’s stomach turn, but one that everyone else seemed giddy about. A long table overflowed with gingerbread kits, mugs of steaming cocoa, and bowls of marshmallows. Off to the side, a corner crackled with a fireplace, and faint Christmas music played over the speakers.
Jisung had been roped into a team decorating contest. He kept his hands busy piping white icing onto the roof of his gingerbread house, but his eyes — without his permission — drifted toward the far end of the room. Mr. Lee was there. Black turtleneck under a charcoal wool coat, sleeves pushed just enough to show the watch on his wrist. He was speaking with two senior managers, head slightly bent, the firelight catching on the sharp line of his jaw.
Jisung quickly looked away when Minho’s gaze flicked in his direction. It was brief, but not brief enough - that lingering second made Jisung’s fingers squeeze the icing bag too hard, a thick blob oozing over the roof.
“Dude, you’re murdering the architecture,” one of his colleagues laughed.
“I- yeah. Oops.” Jisung tried to scrape the mess off. His palms were sweating. Why was he even here? It was supposed to be fun. A chance to relax. But Minho being only a few feet away felt like standing in front of an open flame.
Later, when the gingerbread judging ended, Jisung slipped away to the quieter hallway near the back exit. He needed air. Snow drifted down onto the wooden deck outside.
“Running away from team spirit?” The voice came from behind him — low, unmistakable.
Jisung turned. Minho was standing there, one hand in his coat pocket, the other holding a glass of wine. “I wasn’t- I just needed some air,” Jisung said quickly. His heart was already pounding.
Minho stepped closer, stopping just a few feet away. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes… they held something sharp, something watching. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
Jisung swallowed. “I thought that was your thing lately.”
For a moment, Minho said nothing. Then, with that maddening calm, he replied, “You don’t make it easy, Jisung.”
The words hung between them, carried by the faint scent of his cologne and the cold winter air seeping in from the open door. Before Jisung could push for more, Minho’s phone buzzed. He glanced at it, then nodded toward the main hall. “They’re starting the next activity. You should join before people notice you’re missing.”
And just like that, he walked away, leaving Jisung in the doorway, chest tight and breathless, wondering if the man was playing some kind of game… or if this was just who he was.
Then, without a word, came the winter holidays. A span of time that Jisung had decided to use as a spiritual retreat. The holidays passed in a blur, and it was already Christmas morning.
The city was still half-asleep. Christmas morning had draped it in a hush, the streets lined with untouched snow, shop windows dark except for the warm glow of a few cafés. Jisung hadn’t expected to hear from him. Not today. Yet, at 8:14 a.m., his phone lit up with a short, maddeningly casual message: Coffee. My office. Thirty minutes. No explanation. No holiday greeting. Just an order. He’d almost ignored it. Almost.
But an hour later, Jisung was stepping out of the elevator, scarf still damp from melted snow, holding a paper bag of pastries he wasn’t sure Minho would even eat. The office was silent - most lights off, the whole floor smelling faintly of pine from the oversized Christmas tree in reception. He found Minho’s office door cracked open, faint piano music drifting out. Minho was behind his desk, not in his usual suit, but in a dark cashmere sweater and slacks. No tie. Hair slightly mussed, as if he’d been running his hands through it while working.
“You came,” Minho said, glancing up from a folder.
“You asked,” Jisung replied, stepping in and shutting the door behind him. His voice was soft, but his pulse was loud in his ears.
Minho gestured to the chair opposite him. “Sit.”
For a moment, neither spoke. Jisung placed the paper bag on the desk between them. “Merry Christmas,” he murmured.
One corner of Minho’s mouth curved - not quite a smile, more like a private acknowledgment. “You didn’t have to.”
“You didn’t have to call me in on Christmas morning,” Jisung countered, leaning back in the chair.
Minho’s gaze held his for a beat too long. “I wanted to see you.”
It was almost enough to make Jisung forget how to breathe. “Why?”
A pause. Then, that infuriating shrug. “Maybe I like knowing you’ll come when I ask.”
The words burned hotter than the coffee warming his palms. Jisung wanted to demand more - clarity, answers, anything - but Minho’s phone rang. He answered it without breaking eye contact, speaking low in Korean Jisung couldn’t fully catch. When the call ended, Minho closed the folder and leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “Stay a while. I don’t have anywhere else to be.”
And so, they sat there, sipping coffee as snow fell outside - the office unnervingly quiet except for the soft hum of the heater. Jisung knew this wasn’t a date. It wasn’t even a conversation with clear meaning. But it was something. And that was dangerous enough.
The snow had picked up by the time they left the building. Jisung half-expected Minho to simply nod and vanish toward wherever powerful, cold men like him spent their Christmas afternoons. But Minho fell into step beside him instead, gloved hands in his coat pockets. The street was quiet, the snowfall soft enough to feel unreal.
“You live this way, right?” Minho asked without looking at him.
“…Yeah.”
They walked for several minutes in silence, their footsteps muffled by snow. Jisung’s heart beat too fast for the pace they were going. Then, halfway down a block lined with small boutiques, Minho stopped in front of a café with fogged-up windows and golden lights strung across the ceiling inside.
“You eaten?” Jisung shook his head. “Come on,” Minho said, already pushing the door open.
The café was warm, smelling of gingerbread, cinnamon, and something buttery fresh from the oven. There were only a few customers - an elderly couple in the corner, a woman with a book, and now… them. Minho took a table by the window, unwrapping his scarf but leaving his coat on. Jisung sat across from him, still unwinding his own. A small wreath hung on the wall behind Minho’s head, framing him in a halo of green and red that made Jisung’s throat tighten. They ordered coffee and a slice of gingerbread cake to share. Minho paid without asking.
For a while, they sat quietly, watching snow blur the street outside. Jisung kept catching himself staring - at the way Minho’s hands wrapped around his coffee cup, the faint steam fogging the lenses of his glasses, the shadow of tiredness under his eyes. When their cake arrived, Jisung couldn’t hold it in anymore.
“Why do you do this?”
Minho glanced up. “Do what?”
“This,” Jisung said, motioning between them. “You… call me in on Christmas. You walk with me. You sit here with me. And then you never explain anything.” His voice cracked, soft but sharp. “I’m not… just someone you can pull around when you feel like it. So - what is this to you? What am I to you?”
For a moment, Minho didn’t move. He simply looked at Jisung, gaze unreadable, coffee halfway to his lips. Then he set it down. “Do you really want that answer?”
Jisung’s breath caught. “Yes.”
The corner of Minho’s mouth twitched, as if fighting back a smirk - or maybe something more vulnerable. “Then stop asking in public.” Jisung’s stomach flipped. The snow outside fell heavier. And suddenly, the gingerbread between them felt completely untouched.
The walk back was quiet. Not the comfortable kind, not exactly tense either - more like something heavy was dangling between them, swaying with every step. Snow kept gathering on Minho’s shoulders despite the collar of his coat being turned up. His hair was damp at the edges, dark against his pale skin. Jisung couldn’t stop glancing at him from the corner of his eye, replaying that single line from the café: stop asking in public.
When they reached his building, Jisung expected Minho to just say goodbye and head off. Instead, Minho paused, looking up at the narrow staircase.
“You going to be alright?” he asked simply.
Jisung swallowed. “Yeah. But…” His hands tightened in his scarf. “If you meant what you said… about not asking in public…” Minho’s gaze sharpened slightly, like he knew exactly where this was going. “…then come inside,” Jisung said, voice almost a whisper. “So I can ask you now.”
For a moment, Minho didn’t move. Snowflakes clung to his lashes. Then, wordlessly, he stepped past Jisung into the narrow hallway, bringing the smell of cold air and something faintly expensive with him. Jisung shut the door, suddenly aware of the tiny size of his apartment - the single room with a bed in the corner, a low table, and the faint glow of the streetlight through the curtain.
Minho stood near the door, unbuttoning his coat slowly. Jisung moved forward, helping him shrug it off, their fingers brushing briefly. He hung it on the hook, then offered Minho a towel. “Here. Your hair’s wet.”
Minho took it, rubbing at the strands absently while his eyes stayed fixed on Jisung. “Well?” Minho said finally, voice low. “Ask.”
Jisung’s heartbeat was so loud it was almost distracting. “Why do you treat me like this? Like you can’t decide if I’m important or… just some kid who works for you.” His voice faltered, but he kept going. “Why do you make me feel like I matter to you, and then pull away the second I start to believe it?”
Minho didn’t answer right away. He simply set the towel aside and stepped closer - close enough that Jisung could see the faint crease between his brows, the way his breath fogged the space between them. “That’s not why I pull away,” Minho said quietly.
“Then why?”
Minho’s jaw tightened. “Because the way I think about you… isn’t how a boss should think about his intern.” The words seemed to thud in Jisung’s chest like a slow, heavy drumbeat.
Jisung’s throat went dry. “What… what does that mean?”
Minho’s eyes didn’t flinch away. “It means I think about you when I shouldn’t.” His voice was low, each word deliberate. “At work. At home. When I should be focusing on a meeting and instead I’m wondering what you’re thinking about.”
Jisung’s breath caught. “Then why do you act like I’m… nothing to you?”
“Because if I didn’t, Jisung…” Minho’s gaze dropped briefly to the space between them, then back up. “…you’d see right through me. And I can’t have that.”
Jisung’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “Too late,” he said, voice trembling. “I already do.”
The silence between them stretched. The streetlight outside flickered through the thin curtain, painting faint gold shapes on the floor. Minho’s fingers twitched at his side like he wanted to reach out - then stopped. “You don’t know how close I am to doing something I can’t take back.”
Jisung stepped forward, just enough that their coats brushed where they hung on the hook. “Then do it,” he whispered.
Minho’s breath hitched, and for a fraction of a second, it looked like he might. But then his hand clenched, his jaw tightened, and he stepped back instead. “You don’t want me the way I am,” Minho said. “Not really.”
Jisung’s heart dropped. “Then why-”
“Because wanting you doesn’t mean I should have you.” Minho turned away, pulling his coat from the hook.
“Don’t walk away from me again!” Jisung’s voice cracked, raw with something almost desperate.
Minho froze, his back still to him. Snow kept falling outside, faint and steady, like the whole world was listening in. Without turning, Minho said, “If I stay, I won’t be able to stop.” And then he left, the door shutting quietly behind him.
Jisung didn’t think. He just grabbed his coat, slipped into his shoes, and ran. The cold hit him instantly, biting through his sweater. Minho was already halfway down the block, his dark coat blending with the shadows.
“Minho!” The older man didn’t turn. Jisung’s boots crunched against the snow as he chased after him, breath coming out in ragged white clouds. “Minho, stop!” He caught up just under the flickering streetlight, the kind that made the snow look like slow-falling gold dust. His chest heaved, the cold stinging his lungs. “You can’t just-” Jisung grabbed his sleeve, fingers trembling. “You can’t keep saying things like that and then walking away. You can’t just… leave me with nothing!”
Minho finally turned, and in the dim glow, his face looked almost tormented. “You think I don’t want to give you an answer? You think this is easy for me?”
“Then tell me!” Jisung’s voice cracked. “Tell me why you look at me like you - like you want me, but then you freeze me out. Tell me why I can’t stop thinking about you. Tell me why you left tonight like I’m - like I’m not even - ” He broke off, shoving his shaking hands into his coat pockets, eyes burning. “Do you know what it’s like? Wondering if I’m imagining all of this? If you’re just toying with me? I hate it, Minho. I hate it.”
Minho’s breath clouded between them. He didn’t move for a long time. Then, slow as the snow falling around them, he reached out and gripped Jisung’s wrist. Not hard - just enough to make him stay. “You’re not imagining it.”
Jisung’s chest tightened painfully. “…Then what are we doing?”
Minho’s thumb brushed against the inside of Jisung’s wrist before he let go. “We’re surviving. That’s all I can let us do right now.” And again, he turned away, the streetlight casting his shadow long across the snow. Jisung stood there long after Minho disappeared, the imprint of his touch burning like a brand.
It was late - too late for anyone sane to be out in the freezing air. But Jisung’s chest felt like it would split open if he stayed home one more minute, surrounded by the echo of Minho’s words from that night under the streetlight. You’re not imagining it. He had replayed them over and over, trying to find a reason, an excuse, a way to make sense of Minho pulling him close one second and shoving him away the next.
And now he was here. Standing outside Minho’s apartment building with numb fingers and a pounding heart. He hadn’t called. He hadn’t texted. He just climbed the steps, knocked on the door, and prayed he wouldn’t regret it. The door opened slowly. Minho was barefoot, in dark sweatpants and a loose black T-shirt, his hair slightly mussed like he’d just woken up.
“Jisung?” His voice was low, confused. “What-”
“I couldn’t…” Jisung’s throat felt tight. “I couldn’t sit there and wonder anymore. You-” He swallowed hard, looking at the floor before lifting his gaze. “You touch me like you want me. You look at me like you want me. And then you walk away. I can’t… I can’t keep doing this unless you tell me what it is you want.”
Minho’s eyes darkened, his hand tightening on the edge of the door. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Then tell me to leave,” Jisung whispered. Minho didn’t. Instead, after a long pause, he stepped back and let him in. The warmth of the apartment hit Jisung like a wave, but it wasn’t enough to stop the shiver running through him. Minho closed the door, leaning against it as though he wasn’t sure what came next.
Jisung’s coat dripped melting snow onto the hardwood, but he didn’t move to take it off. “I just… I want to be close to you. I want what your actions keep promising. And if you don’t want that, you have to say it, Minho.”
The older man’s jaw tightened, his gaze unreadable. “That’s the problem,” Minho said quietly. “I do.”
Minho’s words seemed to linger in the air, heavy and electric. I do. Jisung’s heartbeat thudded in his ears. He took a hesitant step forward, testing the distance, watching Minho’s expression for any sign that he should stop. There was none. “What does that mean?” Jisung asked softly.
Minho’s eyes swept over him, slow and deliberate. “It means…” He exhaled, a muscle twitching in his jaw. “…we don’t have to put a name on it today. No promises, no definitions. Just-”
“Just what happens,” Jisung finished for him, almost a whisper.
The corner of Minho’s mouth lifted, but it wasn’t quite a smile. “Exactly.”
Jisung’s coat hit the floor first, followed by Minho’s steady hands on his shoulders, guiding him closer. The air between them was hot and trembling with all the things they’d kept unsaid. It wasn’t a kiss at first - it was Minho’s knuckles brushing Jisung’s jaw, his thumb tracing the corner of his mouth, Jisung’s breath catching at the contact. Then Minho tilted his head, closing the last inch, and their mouths met in a slow, unhurried press that deepened with each second.
Jisung felt his knees weaken, his hands instinctively curling into the fabric of Minho’s shirt. The older man’s palm slid to the small of his back, pulling him flush against him, the heat of his body making Jisung dizzy.
They didn’t rush. Every touch felt deliberate - Minho’s lips against the hollow of his throat, Jisung’s fingers slipping beneath the hem of Minho’s T-shirt, the quiet sigh that escaped when skin met skin.
By the time they reached the bedroom, they were half-drunk on each other - not desperate, but fully lost in the slow, almost torturous unraveling. Shirts came off, their breaths mixing in the dim light, their movements somewhere between tenderness and hunger. Minho’s hand cupped the back of Jisung’s neck, holding him in place as their foreheads pressed together. “No labels,” he murmured, voice rough.
“No labels,” Jisung echoed, but his eyes were already glassy, as if some part of him wanted to call it something anyway. But he wanted it so much that he wasn’t able to argue it now. All that was their bodies pressed against each other and their skin touching.
Minho’s touch on jisung’s body was trembling at first. In a motion that had the intention to be soft but wasn't really. The older man’s hands were slightly calloused, his touch rough against Jisung’s soft honey skin. The contrasting feeling got Jisung whimpering softly. Minho giggled at the sound. “Sensitive, much sweetheart?” He asked with a teasing smirk that got Jisung over the moon. It was the first time Minho had told him teasing without being cold or mean, and the young intern loved it.
“Again…” He whispered between heavy breaths as Minho kept kissing his skin all over.
Minho let out a small laugh. “What again? Use your words, bunny.”
Jisung let out a moan. “I… please- keep praising me, Mr. Lee.”
The older man’s hands reached Jisung’s jeans as he was still kissing and nibbling on his neck. “Depends if you deserve it or not. You need to act good to be praised for your work, intern.” He liked playing with Jisung this way. And the young man wouldn’t complain because it was what ewanted too. He pulls up his hips to help Minho undress him. “Eager are we?” The man teased again.
Jisung whined and wiggled his hips. “Mr. Lee com’on… I’m hard already.” Minho chuckled and nodded, undressing both of them. He reached towards the night stand to get a pack of condoms and pulled out one of them. Jisung looked at Minho’s veiny hands holding the small paper wrap. He then started taking off his watch but Jisung grabbed his wrist. “No. Don’t.” Minho raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue. He then got back over the younger man, holding himself with his elbows - while also caging jisung with them.
“You sure that’s what you want?” He asked before going any further even though they were both rock hard and panting. Jisung wrapped his arms around Minho’s neck, lifting his hips as he nodded. “You asked for it.” Minho answered back as he bit the wrap open, before rolling the latex down on his shaft. Jisung finally dared to look down at it. His ears immediately started to burn. Minho seemed big in his perfectly tailored suit pants. But now Jisung was sure of it - Minho didn’t just seem big, he was big. The older man noticed Jisung’s eyes widening and asked : “Want we to be gentle?”
But Jisung frantically shook his head. “Hell no. Please no- no gentle, sir.” He managed to mumble which made the man laugh.
“Then ass up, intern. Won’t be gentle, just the way you wanted.” Jisung obeyed. Minho grabbed the young man’s thighs and pulled them up, accessing Jisung’s hole. “What a pretty shade of pink.” He teased, in an almost humiliating tone that made the boy moan. Minho traced the small hole with the tip of his fingers. Caressing the sensitive skin softly. Jisung’s breath was heavy, his heart pounding so hard he could feel it down there.
“You said you wouldn’t be gentle.” He stated, almost asking.
Minho nodded and looked up, smirking. “But rough is for good boys.” He stated - Jisung let out a whimper - he then added. “Plus this hole is mine, I do as I wish with it.”
The boy whined louder, wiggling his hips again. “But I’m a good boy-” Minho grabbed his hips, stopping him from moving them - with a single hand. “I’m your boss, I get to choose.” He suddenly shoved a finger in, making Jisung whimper loudly.
Jisung squirmed, trying to get more friction as Minho added a second finger. He started moving in and out slowly - more teasing than gentle. “Mr. Lee please-”
Minho stopped moving. “Please what? Wasn’t I clear enough? I choose.” Jisung moaned one again, letting Minho choose the pace. The boy didn’t know he needed that kind of handling before getting it, and this was his best Christmas gift. So he did what felt like the best idea he ever had - he spread his legs and enjoyed the moment.
Minho chuckled and after a few thrusts that helped him find Jisung’s sweet spot - as well as how high the boy could go with his voice. He pulled his fingers out and positioned himself at Jisung’s entrance. “You sure you can take this big?” He asked - Jisung nodded. “Wouldn’t that make a little slut out of you?” He teased, raising an eyebrow sharply.
Jisung shook his head. “I don’t mind. I’m a- a little slut.” He mumbled, grabbing Minho’s shoulder - digging his fingers in the skin and flesh as if he was scared to drift away.
“Not quite what I wanted to hear.” Minho frowns. “Say the right thing and I’ll give it to you.”
Jisung looked up at him, slightly confused. A silence. Then, a sudden realization - Jisung got dark red. He parted his lips. Then closed them again. He looked away and mumbled : “I’m your little slut.”
“What was that? I didn’t quite catch that, sweetie.”
Jisung swallowed loudly. “I’m your little slut.” He repeated, with more conviction.
“Good boy.” He whispered as he finally pulled in.
Minho’s thrusts were all Jisung wanted. Fast, rough and deep. He kept moaning each time Minho would hit the back. The younger man soon dug his nails in Minho’s back, scratching it like his life depended on it.
“How are you so tight..?” Minho whispered in Jisung's ear. “Thought you’d be looser.”
“You don’t like it?”
“I love it.” Minho simply answered, thrusting harder.
After a while, Jisung could feel his orgasm building up. His cheeks burning hot, his doe eyes wet with overstimulation. “Mr. Lee… I think I’m close-”
“Shh. Not yet. When I tell you to, okay?”
Jisung nodded, clinging closer to Minho’s chest. The man started getting deeper, slightly slower - so he could always hit the post that made both of them moan and whimper. “Mr. Lee, please-” He whined.
Minho cut him off by grabbing his shaft and jerking it in time with his own thrusts. “Shh. Soon, soon. Hold it in, my slut.” Jisung cried and whined in pleasure - loud enough that the whole Seoul could hear.
“Minho I can’t-”
Minho finally comes undone, filling the condom. He gave Jisung’s shaft a few strokes which allowed him to shoot ropes of the warm liquid all over his flat stomach and slender waist. “Good, good…. Here it goes. You’ve been so good.” Minho whispers as he starts to wipe Jisung’s tears away from his cheeks with his thumbs.
The older man slowly pulled out, he took off the condom and tied it before throwing it across the room in the bin in one smooth motion of his wrist. He then rolled away and laid next to the smaller boy. The room was quiet except for the sound of their breathing - slow, uneven, trying to settle. The sheets were tangled around their legs, the air still warm from the heat they’d built together. Jisung lay on his side, facing Minho, the older man’s arm heavy across his waist. His hair was messy, his cheeks flushed, and there was a lingering taste of Minho’s kiss on his lips.
Neither of them spoke for a long while. Minho’s thumb traced lazy, almost absentminded circles against Jisung’s bare hip, and Jisung couldn’t decide if the touch was grounding or dangerous.
“You’re quiet,” Minho finally murmured, voice low and tired. “Was it that bad?” he softly joked.
Jisung swallowed. “I’m… thinking.”
“About?”
Jisung’s eyes darted away, toward the ceiling. “How wrong this is. How right it feels.”
Minho’s mouth twitched, something unreadable passing over his face. “It’s only wrong if you think it is.”
Jisung wanted to ask what it meant for work, for them - but the weight of the moment pressed against his chest, making the questions feel too fragile to release. Instead, he just inched closer, pressing his forehead to Minho’s collarbone, breathing in the faint scent of his sweat and skin. Minho’s hand slid up to cup the back of his head, holding him there.
“Sleep, Jisung,” Minho said quietly. And for once, Jisung didn’t argue.
The first thing Jisung registered was warmth - not just the kind under the blankets, but the kind his body instinctively leaned toward. Sometime during the night, he’d curled against Minho like he was a lifeline, one arm draped over his waist, nose tucked against the man’s shoulder. It wasn’t until the light streaming in through the curtains shifted across his face that he stirred, reaching out for that same warmth… and finding only cold sheets.
His eyes opened to an empty bed. Panic fluttered in his chest before he heard it: the faint scrape of a chair outside, the almost imperceptible exhale of smoke. He slid out of bed, the air cool against his bare skin. The first shirt he saw was draped over the back of a chair - crisp, expensive, smelling unmistakably like Minho. Jisung pulled it on. It hung off him like a blanket, sleeves covering his hands, hem brushing his thighs.
When he stepped onto the balcony, Minho was there, leaning on the railing with a cigarette between his fingers and a mug of coffee resting on the ledge. His gaze flicked over Jisung slowly - from the oversized shirt to his bare legs - but he said nothing.
Jisung stood there for a beat before speaking. “You left me alone.”
Minho took a drag, not turning his head. “I didn’t want to wake you.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Jisung said, crossing his arms inside the too-big sleeves. “I meant… what now? We can’t just-”
“Go back to how it was?” Minho finished, finally meeting his eyes. “No. We can’t.”
The words made Jisung’s stomach twist. “So… what are we doing?”
Minho’s jaw tightened. He tapped the ash from his cigarette, the smoke curling into the cold morning air. “We figure it out. Slowly. No rushing.”
“That’s not an answer,” Jisung pressed. “You keep pulling me closer and then acting like nothing happened. I can’t-”
Minho stepped closer, close enough that Jisung had to tilt his head back to keep looking at him. “It happened, Jisung. Last night happened. And it’s not nothing.”
The heaviness in Minho’s tone made Jisung’s pulse quicken. But the uncertainty still clung to him like the morning chill. Minho reached for his coffee, offering the mug wordlessly. Jisung took it, the warmth seeping into his hands. They stood there in silence, the city waking around them, neither ready to say the next thing out loud.
It wasn’t a workday. No deadlines, no meetings, no formal excuses to hover near Minho - and yet Jisung found himself gravitating toward him like gravity had a personal vendetta. They’d agreed on “no labels” last night, but that didn’t mean Jisung had to act like Minho was just… Minho. Not when the memory of his hands, his mouth, his warmth still lingered on his skin. At first, Minho seemed content to let him hover. Jisung made coffee in Minho’s kitchen without asking, curled up on the couch next to him instead of in the armchair, and even leaned his head on Minho’s shoulder while they absentmindedly watched some old black-and-white film on TV.
“You’re clingy today,” Minho commented eventually, eyes still on the screen.
Jisung tilted his head up, feigning innocence. “Maybe I just like you.”
A glance - sharp, fleeting, unreadable - but Minho didn’t move away. If anything, his arm settled more comfortably along the back of the couch, fingers brushing Jisung’s hair when he shifted.
The whole day unfolded like that: Jisung close, Minho letting him be close, both pretending this was normal. They had lunch together, Minho cooking while Jisung chopped vegetables like they’d done it a hundred times. They walked to the corner store for snacks, their steps somehow always in sync.
By evening, Jisung was almost daring Minho to admit it out loud - that they could be like this, every day, without the world ending. When Minho caught him watching with a quiet smile that wasn’t quite a smile, Jisung’s heart tripped.
“You’re trying to prove something,” Minho said finally.
Jisung didn’t deny it. “And? Am I succeeding?” Minho didn’t answer, but the way his gaze lingered felt dangerously close to yes.
By nightfall, Jisung’s chest felt tight - the kind of heaviness that came with knowing something perfect had to end. They both had work tomorrow. There were unspoken rules. He was already stretching the limits of whatever “no labels” meant. So he stood by the door, coat in hand, trying to convince himself it was better to leave while he could still call today just a day.
“I should go,” he said, forcing a small smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “We’ve got an early morning. And, you know… I’m already pushing my luck being here all day.”
Minho didn’t look up from the mug he was rinsing in the sink. “No.”
Jisung blinked. “…No?”
Minho finally turned, drying his hands on a towel, eyes sharp in the low light. “You’re not leaving.”
Jisung’s heart stumbled. “Minho, I-”
“I’ve been trying not to do this,” Minho cut in, walking toward him slowly, voice low but steady. “Not to… say too much. Not to want too much. I thought keeping you at arm’s length would make it easier. That if I acted like nothing mattered, it would protect both of us.”
Jisung’s grip on his coat tightened. “And?”
“And I’m tired of pretending,” Minho said. He stopped just in front of him, so close that Jisung could smell the faint trace of his cologne, the warmth of his breath. “I like you, Jisung. More than I should. More than I can ignore. And I don’t want you walking out that door tonight.”
The words hit Jisung like something physical - a mix of relief, fear, and a dizzying rush of heat. “You mean that?”
Minho’s gaze didn’t waver. “I mean it.” For a moment, neither moved. Then Minho reached for the coat in Jisung’s hands, set it gently on the table, and murmured, “Stay.”
And Jisung did.
THE END