Work Text:
Jay was halfway through Photoshopping devil horns onto Sunghoon’s staff photo when he heard footsteps approaching his cubicle.
He minimized the image with the reflexes of a seasoned menace and smiled angelically at the intern passing by. “Good morning, Yunjin.”
Yunjin barely spared him a glance, clearly terrified of being drafted into one of his many ill-advised schemes. Reasonable. She nodded once and power-walked away like she could hear HR softly weeping in the distance.
Jay leaned back in his chair, spinning a slow, thoughtful circle before halting to stare at the headline he'd typed in bold Comic Sans:
"Staff Spotlight: Mr. Perfection and the Case of the Missing Personality."
He sipped his Caramel frappuccino with all the calm of someone who had definitely already crossed a line. Or five. It was fine. Probably.
Sunghoon hadn’t
technically
said anything about the last issue. But he’d glared at Jay in the break room for a full thirty seconds without blinking. Jay had counted.
He minimized the newsletter draft again and clicked open his folder marked “Sunghoon Crimes.” It wasn’t actual crimes—it was just a growing collection of absurdly overachieving things Sunghoon had done to ruin Jay’s mornings.
Like the time he’d color-coded the department supply cabinet. Or the time he’d fixed the printer correctly when it was Jay’s turn to passive-aggressively ignore it for three days. Or, worst of all, that one Tuesday where Sunghoon showed up looking like a business casual god, smelled like expensive wine, and had the audacity to smirk when Jay spilled coffee on himself.
That had been the beginning of the end.
Jay didn’t know what his problem with Sunghoon was, not exactly . There was just something about him—his perfectly centered nameplate, his habit of sighing when Jay walked into a room, his painfully neat handwriting on department memos—that made Jay want to bite him. Possibly on the ankle. Just a little.
And so, naturally, Jay did what any reasonable adult with unchecked authority over the company newsletter would do:
He weaponized it.
The newsletter had started innocently enough—a fun way to connect people in the building, brighten up their dreary nine-to-five routines. But somewhere between “Weekly Dog Pics” and “Guess That Coffee Order,” it had devolved into Jay’s personal Burn Book.
Only funnier. And less pink.
He never used names, of course. He wasn’t a monster. But the staff had eyes. They could read between the lines.
"Some say the office printer jammed itself out of fear this week after a certain team leader glared at it for five full seconds. We’re not naming names, but it rhymes with ‘dun goon.’"
Sunghoon had read that one. Jay knew because the next morning, a sticky note appeared on Jay’s monitor that read:
“You spelled ‘jammed’ wrong. Also: I hope you step on a LEGO.”
Jay still had the note. He’d laminated it.
The post-it note war had become its own thing. Entire conversations, insults, and threats were now exchanged via fluorescent squares of passive-aggression. Jay looked forward to them more than he cared to admit.
Today’s note was already waiting for him when he arrived:
“Please stop submitting memes to HR.”
Underneath it, in smaller handwriting:
“They don’t think you’re funny. I promise.”
Jay scrawled a reply and stuck it to Sunghoon’s office door on his way to the break room:
“I’m not here to be funny. I’m here to cause psychological damage.”
He grinned as he stirred sugar into his coffee. Petty warfare was the only thing keeping him from quitting. That, and the dental plan.
Back at his desk, he pulled up the draft again and skimmed the staff feature one more time. Something was missing. The usual spark of spite. The little twist of verbal knife that would make Sunghoon roll his eyes so hard they might get stuck.
Jay twirled his pen, frowned, then typed:
"Known for his ruthless efficiency, alarming competence, and the unnerving ability to make spreadsheets look smug, our Team Lead of the Month continues to terrorize coffee machines and coworkers alike. We remain unsure if he sleeps or simply powers down."
He sat back, satisfied. It wasn’t even hate, really. It was more like... bloodthirsty admiration. With a dash of complicated feelings he refused to unpack before 3 p.m.
He hit "save" and stretched, bones popping. Just as he stood to drop off his report to Accounting, Sunghoon passed by his desk.
Immaculate, as always. Slate-gray button-up. Black slacks. Zero personality.
Jay gave him a saccharine smile. “Looking sharp, boss man. Steal that outfit from a Bond villain or just inspired by the concept of disappointment?”
Sunghoon didn’t stop walking, but his eyebrow arched—so slightly, so elegantly, it should’ve been illegal. “Try not to get fired today, Jay.”
Jay mimed saluting with his coffee cup. “Try not to combust from emotional repression.”
Their eyes locked for a fraction of a second too long.
Jay blinked first.
Sunghoon disappeared around the corner, and Jay exhaled through his nose like he’d just lost a staring contest with a very smug shark.
He sat back down, fidgeted with a paperclip, then added one last line to the newsletter:
"Some people brighten a room just by leaving it. Others brighten it by rolling their eyes while muttering about newsletter ethics. You be the judge."
He hit "Schedule for Friday" and closed the file with a click that felt like slamming a door.
Because here’s the thing: Jay didn’t hate Sunghoon.
He excelled at hating Sunghoon.
And if that hate came with a hint of fascination, if it burned a little too close to obsession... well.
He wasn’t ready to deal with that.
Yet.
Jay was not expecting to get summoned by HR before lunch.
He strolled in anyway, sipping from his “Most Likely To Be Cited In A Workplace Harassment Training Video” mug and grinning like a man who didn’t just make a Sunghoon-themed crossword puzzle for the latest newsletter. (Across 7: “Cold-blooded, allegedly incapable of smiling.”)
The HR rep didn’t look up.
Jay plopped into the seat. “So, what’s today’s charge? I feel like we’re going for Bingo at this point.”
“You included a flowchart titled ‘How To Tell If You’re Being Micromanaged By A Beautiful Lizard in Slacks.’ ”
Jay blinked. “...I fail to see the problem.”
“He was wearing glasses and reading it out loud , Jay.”
Jay perked up. “Sunghoon reads my newsletter?”
Heesung gave him a dead stare. “You’re not supposed to be pleased .”
“I’m just saying, that’s huge! I didn’t think he even understood humor, let alone appreciate it.”
The door creaked open behind him.
Jay turned around.
Sunghoon walked in with all the grace of someone who knew they were dressed like a Forbes 30 Under 30 hitman and didn’t have to try. He nodded politely to Heesung. He didn’t look at Jay.
Jay hated him.
Sunghoon took the seat next to him like it was his meeting and Jay was the sideshow. Which—rude. Jay had worked very hard to be the main character of every HR meeting.
“This won’t take long,” Sunghoon said smoothly, adjusting the cuff of his shirt like he was about to do surgery, not tattle on Jay for the fifth time that week.
“It never does,” Heesung muttered, then louder, “Let’s review some of the concerns.”
Jay leaned forward. “I would just like to say, in my defense, the office poll about ‘Which Team Leader Most Likely Sold His Soul to a Spreadsheet Demon’ was anonymous.”
“You posted the results. With a pie chart. Labeled ‘Sunghoon 96%, Other 4%, My Dead Plant 0%.’”
“To be fair,” Jay said brightly, “the dead plant has more emotional range.”
Sunghoon remained utterly still. No eye-roll. No twitch. Not even a flicker of reaction. Just serene, unbothered silence.
Jay narrowed his eyes.
The man was unreadable. And it was driving Jay insane .
Most people, when pushed, reacted . They got flustered. They snapped. They glared. Sunghoon just… existed. Like a corporate monolith. Tall, intimidating, and seemingly immune to Jay’s particular brand of chaos.
Jay didn’t even know why he hated him anymore. It was just instinct. Like a cat spotting a cucumber. Sunghoon walked in and Jay’s brain immediately went, do crime .
Meanwhile, Sunghoon blinked like he was on a different frequency and not stuck in this HR purgatory for the fifth time in a week because Jay had turned the break room into a crime scene titled “Mug Theft: A Case Study” and made Sunghoon the main suspect.
Jay sat back, arms crossed. “Okay, fine. I’ll tone it down. No more newsletter features about him. Unless something truly newsworthy happens, like he learns to smile.”
Sunghoon finally looked at him.
Jay froze.
It wasn’t a glare. It wasn’t even annoyance. It was... a look of amusement . Faint. Barely there. But enough to punch Jay right in the ego.
“I don’t mind the newsletter,” Sunghoon said calmly. “I’m flattered, if anything.”
Jay choked on nothing. “I— what ?”
Sunghoon stood. Straightened his cuffs again. Glanced at the HR rep with a slight nod. “Are we done?”
Heesung looked one second away from quitting. “Please get out of my office.”
Jay was still staring at him. “You’re flattered? By what? The sarcasm? The blatant mockery? The time I compared your soul to a locked Excel sheet?”
Sunghoon offered him a faint, polite smile. “You put effort into it. I appreciate that.”
And then—he walked out.
Just… walked out. Like he hadn’t just emotionally Uno reversed Jay into a spiral of existential fury.
Jay stormed back to his desk and yanked out a hot pink post-it.
He wrote: “Appreciate this :*” and slapped it on the memo Sunghoon had left on the break room fridge.
The memo about kitchen cleanliness. Because of course Sunghoon was the kind of man who typed memos in full sentences with perfect grammar and printed them in Calibri.
Jay returned to his desk in a huff and opened the next newsletter draft.
If Sunghoon thought he was being flattered , then clearly Jay wasn’t being mean enough.
He cracked his knuckles and began to type.
"In this week’s ‘Unsolved Mysteries,’ we examine how one man maintains a perfect pocket square while sucking the joy out of casual Friday. Witnesses say he has smiled once—at a spreadsheet. "
He paused. Bit the end of his pen. Added:
"Sources remain unverified."
A new post-it appeared on his keyboard thirty minutes later. Pale yellow. Neat handwriting.
“You left your sarcasm turned on again. Please see yourself to IT.”
Jay stared at it.
He didn’t smile.
Okay, fine—he might have smiled a little.
But it was spiteful .
Probably.
Jay had a plan. And if it involved a spreadsheet titled “Ways To Emotionally Unravel Sunghoon In Under 10 Minutes,” then that was between him and his Google Drive.
Because after weeks of HR meetings, post-it note banter, and newsletters that were maybe bordering on libel, Jay had come to one irrefutable conclusion:
Sunghoon didn’t crack.
The man didn’t snap, snark, or storm off. He didn’t fire back in the break room or rage-slam his keyboard like a normal rival. He just... functioned. Like a perfectly calibrated espresso machine. Stainless steel soul. Zero malfunctions.
And it was infuriating.
Jay wanted drama. He wanted Sunghoon to roll his eyes so hard they got stuck. He wanted him to hiss in fury. He wanted him to react .
So now, Jay had a plan. Operation: Controlled Chaos.
It started with a flyer. Glossy. Full color. A fake seminar invitation with the title:
"How To Loosen Up: A Workshop For People With Emotionally Repressed Auras."
Subheading:
Hosted by Jay Park, Local Agent. Free snacks provided.
Time: 2 p.m.
Location: Conference Room B.
Guest of Dishonor:
You Know Who.
Jay casually left a copy on Sunghoon’s desk.
Then he waited.
No reaction. Not even a post-it.
Jay checked the hallway. Checked the coffee machine. Sunghoon was nowhere. It was too quiet.
He passed by Conference Room B at 2:01 p.m. just to peek.
Empty.
Jay’s eye twitched.
By 2:20 p.m., he’d rewritten the flyer twice, convinced he’d been too subtle. He debated wearing a sandwich board to work. Or maybe renting a live snake. Something had to break this man.
But at 3 p.m., an email landed in Jay’s inbox.
Subject: “RE: Loosen Up Workshop”
Attachment: A calendar invite for a real, company-mandated “Interpersonal Communication and Tone Awareness Training.”
Jay blinked.
Sunghoon had cc’d HR.
Jay’s jaw dropped.
He weaponized HR back.
With the quiet efficiency of a man who knew how to print double-sided and didn’t need to ask how.
Jay was staggered.
“Okay,” he muttered, cracking his knuckles. “He wants a war of professionalism? Game on.”
The next day, Jay swapped the communal coffee beans with a decaf blend labeled “For Legal Reasons, This Is a Joke.”
Sunghoon calmly posted a sign above it:
“Jay is currently banned from caffeine. HR has approved this message.”
Jay may have screamed a little. Internally.
Then came the paper war.
Jay “accidentally” sent a company-wide memo with a pie chart labeled:
“Things That Keep Sunghoon Awake At Night: 90% Misaligned Margins, 10% Jay Existing.”
Sunghoon responded by correcting Jay’s formatting in a reply-all email—with a compliment sandwich.
“Great enthusiasm as always, Jay. Just a quick note on alignment—also, please stop drawing flames around my headshots. Thanks for keeping things engaging!”
Jay saw it. He felt it. That wasn’t just a reply. That was a warning shot wrapped in politeness.
Sunghoon had entered the arena. And he was playing chess.
On Thursday, Jay escalated.
He printed fake certificates of achievement and left one on Sunghoon’s desk:
"Certificate of Emotional Restraint – Awarded for surviving 14 passive-aggressive newsletters without murdering the sender."
The next morning, Jay found a neatly wrapped box at his own desk.
Inside: a hardcover book titled "How to Make Friends and Stop Being Sued by HR."
Jay choked on his own laugh.
He stared at the note tucked inside the book:
“Chapter 3 might help. Also, your font choices are criminal. — S.”
It was handwritten. In the same clean, practiced script Sunghoon used for his perfect, infuriating post-its. Jay didn’t know if he wanted to flip a table or frame the note.
Probably both.
By Friday, Jay was spiraling.
He leaned over the wall of his cubicle and whispered to Yunjin, “I think he’s trying to ruin me. Professionally. Emotionally. Quietly.”
Yunjin didn’t look up. “You’ve declared war on a man who organizes his fridge by expiration date. Of course he’s winning.”
Jay dropped his head to the desk. “Why won’t he crack? Why can’t he just throw a stapler at me like a normal person?”
But it wasn’t just the lack of anger that was getting to him anymore.
It was the weird... rhythm they’d fallen into.
He insulted. Sunghoon countered with calm, surgical precision. Jay pushed harder. Sunghoon parried like a man with an Excel formula for social interactions.
And somehow, weirdly, Jay had started to look forward to it.
The snarky emails. The post-it shade. The mutual HR violations. All of it.
There was something… fun about trying to outmaneuver someone who actually could keep up.
Jay wasn’t used to that. People either laughed or avoided him. Sunghoon did neither.
He fought back.
And maybe— maybe —Jay didn’t totally hate that.
Not that he’d admit it.
Jay sighed dramatically and started drafting the next newsletter.
Title:
"A Study in Stillness: How One Team Lead Became the Human Equivalent of a Passive-Aggressive Printer Jam."
He grinned.
Let’s see how Sunghoon played this one.
Jay was not spiraling.
He was strategizing.
He was sitting at his desk, hunched over a mug of aggressively caffeinated regret, definitely not thinking about the note Sunghoon left on his keyboard that morning.
“You missed a typo in your last newsletter. Cute.”
— Signed only with a smiley face and an asterisk.
Jay had stared at it for a full thirty seconds. Then ripped it up. Then taped it back together. Then glared at it like it had insulted his ancestors.
Because what did that mean?
“Cute” like his mistake was adorable?
“Cute” like he was cute?
“Cute” like Sunghoon was trying to kill him with subtle flirting and plausible deniability?!
Jay scribbled out a post-it and slammed it on Sunghoon’s desk:
“Bold to assume typos aren’t part of the brand. Some of us don’t rely on Helvetica to assert dominance.”
Sunghoon didn’t reply immediately. Jay spent the next hour fake-working while glancing over every 4–6 seconds like a raccoon trying to catch a vending machine in the act.
When Sunghoon finally responded, the note was folded like origami.
Jay unfolded it with the caution of a man expecting glitter or poison.
“Helvetica is assertive. Much like me. Should I be worried that you're so obsessed with my font... and me?”
Jay forgot how to inhale.
“What the hell,” he muttered, cheeks hot. “What is this ? A seduction note? A war declaration? Both?! ”
Sunghoon didn’t look over.
He didn’t even smirk.
Just kept typing, perfect posture and jawline in profile like a man out of a productivity ad, while Jay combusted in real time three desks away.
Yunjin poked her head over the divider. “Why do you look like someone just complimented you and insulted your entire lineage at the same time?”
Jay slapped the note face-down. “Because that’s exactly what happened. ”
It got worse.
The next day, Jay found a new note on his monitor. Pale blue. Familiar handwriting.
“Your chaotic energy is the only thing keeping this office from turning into a sentient spreadsheet. Thank you for your service.”
Jay stared.
Was that... a compliment?
A genuine one?
No snark. No sarcasm. Just—appreciation?
Jay sat down slowly, clutching his mug like it was a grounding stone. He reread the note. Three times. Then immediately wrote a rebuttal that was definitely not overthought.
“Don’t get soft on me now, boss. I thrive on your disapproval.”
He almost didn’t sign it. Then he did.
—J.
The next morning, Sunghoon left a coffee on Jay’s desk.
No note.
Jay blinked at it like it might detonate.
It was his order. Exactly right. Which meant—Sunghoon had noticed.
Jay took a slow sip.
He hated how good it was.
He hated how it made him feel even more.
Because this —this wasn’t normal. This wasn’t their game. This wasn’t HR-worthy, petty, passive-aggressive sniping.
This was… personal.
He stormed over to Sunghoon’s office. “Okay, what the hell is going on?”
Sunghoon looked up, unbothered. “Good morning to you too, Jay.”
“No. No, no, no—don’t good-morning me. You’re being nice. Stop that.”
Sunghoon tilted his head slightly. “Is that… a threat?”
Jay pointed an accusatory finger. “You brought me coffee.”
“You looked tired yesterday.”
“I’m always tired. That’s my brand!”
Sunghoon stood. Slowly. Calmly. Like this was a perfectly reasonable conversation and not an emotional hostage negotiation.
“Jay,” he said, stepping around the desk. “If I wanted to insult you, I would. If I wanted to flatter you...”
He paused.
Jay didn’t breathe.
Then Sunghoon added, softer: “...you’d know.”
Jay opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
Sunghoon stepped back, serene as ever, and sat down again. “You can close the door on your way out.”
Jay left. But only because his brain had exited the chat and his legs were moving on their own.
He returned to his desk and stared into the void.
This wasn’t flirting. It couldn’t be flirting.
Sunghoon was not the flirting type. He was the fill-out-forms-in-triplicate type. The uses whiteboards in meetings unironically type.
Unless... he was flirting. In that terrifying, emotionally-repressed, HR-compliant way that felt like a kiss and a background check at the same time.
Jay banged his head gently on the keyboard.
He was losing.
He was losing at his own game.
And worst of all?
He wasn’t even mad about it.
Not really.
Maybe a little.
(Okay, a lot.)
But also maybe—
Just maybe —
He kind of wanted to see what Sunghoon would do next.
Jay didn’t like the compliments.
That was the official party line.
He didn’t like the coffee. He didn’t like the notes that made his stomach do tiny backflips. He didn’t like the way Sunghoon said his name lately— Jay , but with a tiny uptick at the end like he was amused and intrigued and borderline fond.
No. Jay thrived on conflict. He was a menace, not a muse.
And whatever the hell Sunghoon had been doing for the past week—sneaky coffee orders, flirt-sults, and compliments disguised as workplace evaluations—had completely thrown off Jay’s entire internal GPS.
He needed the fight back.
He needed normal.
So, naturally, he built a cardboard cutout of Sunghoon and left it in the conference room wearing a “World’s Stiffest Boss” sash.
It was tastefully done. High-res print. Photorealistic. Jay even curled the ends of the mustache he’d drawn on. There were balloons.
It was a masterpiece.
And when Sunghoon walked in that morning and paused at the doorway, Jay was already waiting at his desk, spinning slowly in his chair like a cartoon villain.
He watched Sunghoon clock the cutout. Saw the slight tilt of his head. The minuscule inhale.
Jay grinned. “Welcome to your intervention, Sunghoon. Step one: develop a facial expression other than ‘disappointed in humanity.’”
There was a long, soul-deep pause.
Then Sunghoon turned to him. Calm. Measured. Dead inside.
“Why,” he asked slowly, “is there a balloon that says ‘Live, Laugh, Loosen Up’ above my decapitated cardboard twin?”
Jay raised both hands like a magician unveiling a rabbit. “It’s motivational!”
“It’s a crime against good taste.”
Jay stood up, ready to spar. “Your face is a crime against joy, and yet here we are.”
Something in Sunghoon’s expression flickered. Barely. Like an eye twitch that had fought hard to stay buried.
Jay’s grin widened. “There it is. That’s the face. The ‘one more incident and I go full villain origin story’ face. I missed you.”
Sunghoon walked over. Deliberate. Unhurried.
He stopped right in front of Jay and looked him up and down like he was evaluating a complex tax write-off.
“You’re impossible,” he muttered.
Jay, heart beating just a little faster than he wanted to admit, shot back, “And yet, somehow, HR still lets me roam free.”
Sunghoon sighed. Deeply. It was the sound of a man rethinking all his life choices. “Jay, this is the third time this week you’ve weaponized office supplies in a psychological warfare campaign.”
Jay made a thinking face. “...Actually, if you count Monday’s glitter incident, it’s the fourth.”
“I was trying to be nice, ” Sunghoon said, almost to himself. “You complained I was cold. I was being— friendly. ”
Jay recoiled, dramatically. “Friendly?! You left me coffee. That’s an act of war.”
Sunghoon stared. “Most people say thank you.”
Jay crossed his arms. “Yeah, well, I’m not most people. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m a little emotionally repellent.”
“I had noticed,” Sunghoon deadpanned.
Jay narrowed his eyes. “Was that a jab or a flirt?”
Sunghoon opened his mouth. Closed it. Rubbed a hand over his face.
Jay leaned in slightly. “Admit it. You like this more when I’m impossible.”
Sunghoon met his eyes. And for a second, something raw flickered across his face—quick and hot and unguarded.
Then it was gone.
He stepped back.
“I like it when things make sense,” he said, with tired precision. “You don’t.”
Jay tilted his head. “And yet you keep leaving me notes like we’re enemies in a Regency novel.”
Sunghoon stared at him for a long beat. Then sighed again, somehow even heavier than before.
“You are allergic to peace.”
“I’m allergic to being fake,” Jay shot back, too quickly.
Silence.
That hung in the air longer than it should have.
Jay swallowed. Realized, belatedly, that he might’ve said something real.
Sunghoon’s eyes softened. Just slightly.
“I’m not being fake,” he said, and for once there was no sarcasm. “I admire you. Even if I also routinely want to staple your mouth shut.”
Jay blinked.
His brain threw up a blue screen of death.
“I—okay, what? Pick a lane.”
Sunghoon shook his head. “I did. You just keep repainting the lines.”
Jay hated the way that made something flutter in his chest.
He also hated how much he wanted to argue. Not to win. Just to hear Sunghoon talk to him like that again. Exasperated. Honest. Close.
But this wasn’t who he was. Jay didn’t do honest.
He did chaos. Sabotage. Sarcasm as a defense mechanism with a side of performance art.
So instead, he leaned back on his desk, arms folded, and smirked. “You know, for someone who hates my guts, you sure spend a lot of time noticing me.”
Sunghoon didn’t smile. But the corner of his mouth twitched.
“You’re hard to miss,” he said, almost fond.
Jay’s throat went dry.
They stood there, the tension sharp and glitter-edged, like they were still fighting—but now the weapons were glances, and the battlefield was intimacy.
It was weird. And kind of great. And terrifying.
Jay broke the silence first.
“Wanna dismantle the cutout together?” he asked, too casually.
Sunghoon blinked. “Like… as a team?”
Jay shrugged. “Think of it as... emotionally bonding through vandalism.”
Sunghoon gave him a long, level look.
Then, slowly, deliberately, he rolled up his sleeves.
“I’ll grab the scissors,” he said.
Jay’s heart did a weird, traitorous little flip.
God help him, he was in it.
Jay didn’t mean to start a war in the middle of a quarterly planning meeting.
But in his defense, he also hadn’t meant to be personally victimized by Sunghoon’s presentation slide titled “Content Chaos: Risks of Tone-Deaf Marketing.” With an actual screenshot of Jay’s last newsletter.
And his typo circled. In red.
“Are you serious right now?” Jay hissed, leaning forward in his chair as heads started to turn like sunflowers following drama.
Sunghoon didn’t look at him. “It’s a relevant example.”
“You used me as a cautionary tale,” Jay said, incredulous.
Sunghoon clicked to the next slide. “A live one. Congratulations on surviving.”
Someone snorted. Jay saw Yunjin mouth “oh no” from across the table.
Jay’s pulse ticked up. “You could’ve at least given me a heads-up before publicly crucifying my inbox skills.”
“And you could’ve spell-checked your headline,” Sunghoon said calmly, turning to face him.
The table went quiet. Too quiet. Not even the HR manager was typing anymore.
Jay’s smile was sharp. “Wow. Guess friendliness had a shelf life after all.”
“Guess chaos has consequences,” Sunghoon shot back, voice still polite, still cool— but his eyes weren’t.
Jay stood up, slow and dramatic. “Well maybe if someone in this office had a sense of humor and not just a stick surgically implanted—”
“Jay,” Sunghoon cut in, finally raising his voice, “the company is not your personal stand-up comedy club.”
“And you’re not the tone police!”
“I’m the team lead—”
“And I’m the one keeping people reading your boring reports!”
They were fully shouting now.
In the middle of a glass-walled conference room.
Surrounded by the stunned silence of at least a dozen coworkers who absolutely did not get paid enough for this.
Sunghoon exhaled like he was trying very hard not to commit a felony. “I’m trying to help us stay credible.”
“You’re trying to control everything,” Jay snapped.
“Because when I don’t, you turn the newsletter into a dating profile for chaos!”
Jay’s mouth dropped open. “At least I have personality ! People like me!”
“People like watching you crash and burn!” Sunghoon snapped, and then—
Silence.
Jay felt something in his chest twist, fast and deep.
Sunghoon’s face changed the second it left his mouth—surprise, regret, something cold and brittle cracking in his eyes.
Jay swallowed.
There was a long beat where nobody moved.
Then the manager cleared his throat with the weary resignation of someone about to do paperwork he didn't want to.
“Well,” he said, “that was… a lot.”
No one laughed.
“We’ll circle back to action items later. Jay. Sunghoon. Can I speak with you two. Outside. ”
The HR conference room smelled like eucalyptus and regret.
Jay sat in one chair, arms crossed, trying not to look at Sunghoon, who sat diagonally across from him in full “I’m not mad, I’m just done” posture.
Heesung—who had definitely missed his calling as a hostage negotiator—looked between them like he was about to try group therapy and a cattle prod.
“Clearly, there’s tension,” he began, in the world’s biggest understatement.
Jay snorted. Sunghoon didn’t move.
“So,” he continued, “in the spirit of professional development , the company would like to offer you both a growth opportunity.”
Jay narrowed his eyes. “Growth opportunity,” he repeated slowly. “That sounds like a trap.”
Sunghoon rubbed his temple. “Please just say it.”
“You’ve both been selected to attend the upcoming three-day regional seminar,” he said brightly. “Together.”
Jay’s jaw dropped. “Like... a team-building retreat?”
“More like a... corporate relationship detox.”
“Are you sending us to couples counseling for coworkers?”
Sunghoon finally looked up. “This is a punishment.”
Jay’s brain was already spiraling. “Wait. Hold on. We’re going to be rooming together with flip charts and ice breakers?!”
The HR director beamed. “Not rooming. Just... attending the same program. You’ll each have your own hotel rooms.”
Jay pointed dramatically. “This is your fault.”
Sunghoon gave him the most tired look Jay had ever seen. “You called me emotionally repressed during a budgeting discussion. ”
“You made a chart about my personality flaws! ”
“Because I had the data! ”
Heesung held up his hand like he was stopping a speeding train. “Three. Days. I want zero reports from the seminar. No complaints, no incidents, no damage.”
Jay opened his mouth to protest.
Heesung cut him off with a glare that could curdle milk.
Jay sank back into his chair and muttered, “Fine.”
Sunghoon exhaled sharply. “Fine.”
Heesung nodded. “Glad we had this little chat.”
Jay stormed out first. Sunghoon followed.
The hallway was quiet. Cold. Jay didn’t look at him as they walked.
Until finally, softly, Sunghoon said, “I didn’t mean that. What I said in the meeting.”
Jay didn’t stop walking. “Sure you did.”
“I didn’t.”
Jay paused.
Turned.
Met his eyes.
Sunghoon looked tired. Annoyed. But also—remorseful.
“It was a low blow,” he said, quietly. “I was mad.”
“Yeah,” Jay said. “Me too.”
A beat.
Jay sighed. “Guess we’re gonna be spending some quality time together in the land of lanyards and lukewarm coffee.”
Sunghoon winced. “I already regret everything.”
Jay’s smile came back, slow and crooked. “Oh, don’t worry. By day three, you’ll be writing your own newsletter about me.”
Sunghoon gave him a long look.
“God help me,” he muttered.
Jay felt something uncurl in his chest.
He wasn’t sure what it was.
But maybe— maybe —it was the first sign they were finally starting to understand each other.
Through violence.
And corporate exile.
Jay should’ve known it would go badly when Sunghoon showed up to the airport early.
Like, early- early . Thirty-five-minutes-before-bag-drop early. Standing at the gate in a perfectly pressed coat with not a single hair out of place, sipping black coffee like he was auditioning for an ad about fiscal responsibility.
Jay arrived late. Obviously. With a duffel bag that screamed “I packed in rage,” and a suspicious stain on his hoodie that may or may not have been mustard and vengeance.
Sunghoon looked him up and down like Jay was a group project he hadn’t agreed to.
“You were supposed to be here half an hour ago.”
Jay held up a bagel like a peace offering. “And yet—miraculously—I am here now. Gaze upon my punctuality.”
Sunghoon didn’t take the bagel. “You smell like stress.”
“I am stress.”
They didn’t talk much on the way to the gate. Jay hummed pointedly through security, “accidentally” knocked Sunghoon’s laptop tray off the belt, and made intense, unblinking eye contact with a toddler until it cried.
Sunghoon pinched the bridge of his nose so hard it was a miracle it didn’t snap off.
The flight itself? A tragedy in three acts.
Act I: Jay took the window seat.
Even though his ticket clearly said aisle .
Sunghoon stared at him, incredulous. “You’re in the wrong seat.”
Jay reclined by one inch—just to flex. “I’m in my destiny.”
“You’re in someone else’s seat.”
Jay gestured dramatically to the empty row. “They’re not here. Maybe the seat chose me.”
Sunghoon sighed and sat beside him. “I’m not fighting a metaphysical argument with you at 8:45 a.m.”
Act II: Jay hogged the armrest.
He claimed it with the silent dominance of a cat on a new pillow and refused to acknowledge Sunghoon’s passive nudges.
“Your elbow is in my space,” Sunghoon muttered.
“Your existence is in my space,” Jay replied sweetly.
Act III: The flight attendant asked them to keep their voices down.
Because yes, of course they started arguing about the snack selection.
“You eat almonds like a psychopath,” Jay snapped.
“I eat almonds like an adult who understands portion control.”
“You bring shame to peanuts everywhere.”
By the time they landed, Jay was vibrating with adrenaline and caffeine. Sunghoon looked five years older.
The hotel was the kind of aggressively generic place that smelled like lobby soap and corporate grief. The receptionist gave them matching welcome packets with overly enthusiastic fonts and pastel seminar schedules.
Jay squinted at the itinerary. “‘Finding Common Ground: Rebuilding Workplace Trust.’ Is this a conference or a punishment kink?”
“Don’t,” Sunghoon muttered.
They got separate rooms. Praise be. But they were across the hall from each other, which felt like fate mocking them personally.
Jay swiped into his room with the grace of a raccoon discovering a trash buffet.
Sunghoon, predictably, entered his room like a catalog model.
Jay stood in the doorway of his own room, watching Sunghoon struggle slightly with his suitcase handle, and—because Jay had no sense of self-preservation—he said:
“Wow. Didn’t know you could sweat.”
Sunghoon turned. “Didn’t know you could shut up.”
“Touché.”
A beat.
Jay leaned against the doorframe. “So. First fight on the flight. What do we think? Nine more before the weekend’s over?”
Sunghoon unzipped his bag with military precision. “That depends. Are you planning to antagonize every shared activity?”
“I wasn’t planning to. But now that you mention it, I do have a chaotic little itinerary of my own.”
Sunghoon didn’t respond. He pulled out a toiletries bag organized with surgeon-level intensity.
Jay, just to be annoying, wandered into the room.
“You know we have to do ice breakers tomorrow, right?” he said casually. “They’re gonna make us do some trust fall nonsense. You think I’ll catch you, Sunghoon?”
Sunghoon didn’t look up. “I think you’d let me fall and then write a newsletter about it.”
Jay grinned. “Only if you land with dramatic flair.”
“You don’t do trust,” Sunghoon muttered.
Jay paused.
Something flickered in his chest—irritation, maybe. Or something softer, harder to name.
“That’s rich coming from you, Mr. Everything-Is-A-Vulnerability.”
Sunghoon turned to him then, jaw tight. “You act like this is fun. Like it’s all just a game. But some of us actually care about the job. About not becoming the weekly office spectacle.”
Jay’s grin faltered. “So I’m just... a sideshow to you?”
“I didn’t say that—”
“No, you didn’t have to. That’s how you look at me.”
Sunghoon closed his eyes. “You look at everything like it’s begging to be mocked.”
Jay’s chest felt tight. “Maybe it is. Maybe if I don’t laugh, I’ll actually care. And then I’ll have to deal with the fact that you—”
He stopped.
Too close.
Too raw.
Sunghoon looked at him like he knew. Like he saw.
Jay hated that.
“I should go,” he said, voice lighter than he felt. “Wouldn’t want to ruin your symmetrical unpacking ritual.”
He turned to leave.
Sunghoon didn’t stop him.
The door closed softly behind him, and Jay stood in the hallway, heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with anger anymore.
Jay should’ve known they were doomed the moment he walked into the seminar ballroom and was handed a name tag that said “Jay, Communication Wizard!”
Sunghoon’s said “Sunghoon, Trust Anchor.” Which felt aggressively on-brand and also personally offensive.
Jay slapped his on like a war medal and immediately turned to Sunghoon. “So, you gonna anchor me, or what?”
“Please don’t say that again,” Sunghoon muttered, sipping terrible hotel coffee and already radiating “do not engage” energy.
Too late.
The seminar facilitator, a woman named Minnie with the energy of a motivational unicorn, clapped her hands. “Okay, partners! Let’s start the morning with a little ice breaker scavenger hunt! ”
Sunghoon’s eye twitched.
Jay leaned in. “Bet you ten bucks I find someone here who thinks HR is a myth.”
“I will Venmo you fifty if you stop talking for twenty minutes.”
Jay gasped. “That’s almost generous. Are you… softening?”
“Or desperate.”
They were assigned to the same group, obviously. Seminar fate was cruel like that.
Activity One: “The Web of Trust.”
Everyone stood in a circle and tossed yarn to each other, saying one thing they “valued in a teammate.” The yarn eventually created a literal “web” of connection and affirmation.
Jay got the yarn after a guy named Yugyeom declared, “I value transparency.”
Jay grinned. “I value dramatic flair and ruthless efficiency in equal measure.”
Sunghoon, who caught the yarn next, said with a blank face: “I value coworkers who don’t list arson as a personality trait.”
Jay smiled wide. “I’m feeling very seen right now.”
Yugyeom looked concerned.
Activity Two: Trust Falls.
This one was the real tragedy.
Jay had zero intention of participating. But the facilitator called them up. By name. Loudly.
“Sunghoon and Jay! You two seem like a dynamic duo!”
Sunghoon, ever the PR-trained robot, just nodded and walked to the mat like this was a business merger.
Jay followed, arms crossed. “This is a trap.”
Sunghoon sighed. “Just fall backwards and stop monologuing.”
Jay raised an eyebrow. “That’s not something you say to someone you've psychologically terrorized with post-its. ”
“I’m not letting you fall, Jay.”
That gave him enough pause to actually do it.
He let himself fall.
And, to Sunghoon’s credit, he caught him.
With a grip firm enough to make Jay’s heart jump.
For a second, there was silence.
Jay looked up. “You’re strong.”
“Please stop.”
But Jay’s brain was spiraling. That grip. That steadiness. That moment of not being dropped. It was—no. No. He was not going soft over a glorified trust plank.
It was one activity.
Until Trisha said brightly, “Now switch!”
Jay’s smirk returned like a vengeful ghost. “Your turn, Cap.”
Sunghoon gave him a look like he was calculating the exact distance to the exit door.
He took a breath.
He fell.
Jay caught him.
Barely.
Sunghoon hit the mat with a surprised grunt, halfway to the floor and glaring up at Jay like he’d just been mildly murdered.
Jay threw his hands up. “I caught you! Technically!”
“That was not a catch!”
“You’re alive, aren’t you?!”
The facilitator cleared her throat. “Okay, let’s move on!”
Activity Three: Emotional Honesty Circle.
This was the final boss of seminar hell.
A circle of coworkers, soft background music, and a pile of printed “prompt cards” like:
- “What’s one thing you’re afraid to admit at work?”
- “How do you really feel about your team?”
- “Name a time you felt misunderstood.”
Jay picked a card.
Read it.
Laughed out loud. “This is therapy with snacks.”
Sunghoon took a card.
His jaw tensed.
Jay squinted. “What’s yours saying?”
Sunghoon didn’t answer.
Jay snatched it.
Read it.
It said: “What’s one thing you’ve wanted to say to your colleague but haven’t had the courage to?”
Jay blinked.
Looked up.
Met Sunghoon’s eyes.
Everything froze for a second.
There was too much tension in the air. The kind that hummed behind your ribs. The kind that was charged.
And then Jay, because he was a chaos gremlin, said:
“Don’t worry. I know what you’d say. Probably something like ‘Jay, please stop terrorizing the entire floor with your glitter pens and jokes about asset mismanagement.’”
Sunghoon stood up.
Jay blinked. “Whoa.”
Sunghoon said, loud enough for the whole circle to hear, “I’d say you exhaust me.”
Jay stood up too, something hot in his chest. “Yeah? Well you bore me!”
“You make every team meeting feel like a hostage situation!”
“You make every interaction feel like a TED Talk on punctuality!”
The room was silent.
Trisha cleared her throat. “Well… that was very… vulnerable.”
Jay and Sunghoon were promptly asked to “take a break” from the workshop.
Translation: Get out.
They were escorted from the seminar ballroom by an intern who looked mildly terrified.
Jay muttered as they stepped into the hallway, “That felt like a very productive day of healing.”
Sunghoon looked at him. His tie was crooked. His hair was ruffled.
He looked… rattled.
Jay didn’t like that. Not really.
“You okay?” he asked, quiet now.
Sunghoon paused.
Then: “You didn’t catch me.”
Jay flinched. “I tried —”
“I know.”
And then Sunghoon walked away.
Jay stood there, name tag still stuck to his chest like a bad joke, and thought about what it meant to be trusted. And what it meant to break it. Even a little.
Even as a joke.
Especially as a joke.
Jay had never actually seen Sunghoon hide before.
Avoid, sure. Ignore, definitely. Emotionally repress? Like it was his Olympic sport.
But hide? As in vanish after a fight, straight-up disappear into the beige depths of the hotel without a trace?
That was new.
And, annoyingly, it was making Jay feel… things.
Not the petty things he was used to. Not the urge to prank him with glitter bombed folders or sign him up for seventeen email newsletters about “Becoming a More Playful Manager.”
No.
Jay felt concerned.
It was disgusting.
He scoured the lobby first—no Sunghoon. Then the gym (absolutely not, Sunghoon did not sweat in public), the conference floor (cleared out), and even the sad little business center, where one dude was printing a 94-page “team vision” document like his soul depended on it.
Still no sign.
Jay was about to give up and text something snarky like “If you’ve decided to fake your own death to avoid me, at least leave a dramatic note,” when he spotted a flicker of movement through the windowed hallway by the pool.
There. Out on the nearly-empty patio. Alone. Airpods in. Looking out at the parking lot like it was a live-action metaphor for despair.
Jay exhaled.
Of course he was outside. Of course he was brooding where the lighting was moody and poetic and made him look like a side character in a drama about ambition and repressed yearning.
Jay slid the door open, and the moment Sunghoon saw him, he tensed.
Jay held up his hands in surrender. “I’m not here to fight.”
Sunghoon pulled one earbud out. “Could’ve fooled me.”
Jay winced. “Yeah. That’s fair.”
A beat of silence.
Jay shuffled forward, suddenly very aware of how loud his sneakers were on the tile. “Look. I… I wanted to say I’m sorry.”
Sunghoon blinked. “For what? Screaming in front of a dozen corporate strangers or dropping me during a metaphor for workplace safety?”
“Okay, yeah, those and also maybe... making this whole thing a circus.” Jay scratched the back of his neck. “You didn’t sign up for that.”
“You didn’t either.”
Jay looked at him. Really looked.
Sunghoon had his coat folded neatly beside him. His tie was loosened—slightly. His hair was a little mussed, like maybe he’d run his hands through it one too many times.
Jay had never seen him like this. Off-duty. Uncurated. Human.
It messed him up a little.
“You know,” Jay said slowly, “I wasn’t always like this.”
Sunghoon turned. “Like what?”
Jay gave a weak smile. “A human disaster.”
“You’re not a disaster.”
Jay laughed, bitter and quick. “That’s adorable of you, but—”
“I mean it.”
Jay went still.
The breeze rustled between them. Somewhere inside, someone dropped a tray of glasses. Neither of them looked.
Sunghoon cleared his throat. “You’re chaotic. And unfiltered. And you have no regard for HR policies or proper email etiquette.”
Jay snorted.
“But you’re not a disaster. You care more than you let on. You just hide it under sarcasm and jokes. And yeah, it’s annoying. But it’s not... meaningless.”
Jay blinked.
For one horrifying second, he thought he might feel something. So he did what he always did when emotional gravity hit: he deflected.
“Are you… complimenting me?”
Sunghoon looked away. “God, I need a drink.”
Jay perked up. “Yes. Perfect segue. That’s literally why I came out here.”
Sunghoon raised an eyebrow.
Jay grinned. “Come get a drink with me.”
“Out of pity?”
“Out of self-preservation. You’re clearly one espresso away from quitting your job and becoming a monk.”
Sunghoon sighed. “Jay.”
Jay dropped the grin.
Softened.
“Come get a drink with me because I want to sit somewhere dark and loud and drink something overpriced and pretend we’re not... whatever this is. Just for a bit.”
A pause.
Then—miraculously—Sunghoon stood.
“Fine.”
Jay blinked. “Wait, really?”
Sunghoon picked up his coat. “But I’m choosing the place. No karaoke bars. No themed taverns. And if there’s a single neon flamingo, I’m walking.”
Jay clutched his heart. “You’re so cruel when you flirt.”
“I’m not flirting.”
“Tell that to the emotional trust fall flashback I keep having.”
Sunghoon rolled his eyes. But—Jay swore—there was the tiniest hint of a smile playing at his mouth.
They left the hotel together. No arguing. No muttered insults. Just... silence. Comfortable-ish. Weirdly new.
Jay didn’t know what the night would bring. He didn’t know if they’d end up laughing or fighting or something worse—like understanding each other.
But for once, he didn’t want to run from it.
Not even a little.
The bar Sunghoon chose was quieter than Jay expected. No neon signs. No themed cocktails with names like “The Synergy Slammer.” Just low lighting, dark wood, and a jazz playlist that sounded like it had existential regrets.
Jay slid into the booth across from him and blinked slowly. “This place feels like it was designed to make people have epiphanies and then cry in the bathroom.”
Sunghoon didn’t smile, but his lips twitched. “Exactly. Now order something before I reconsider.”
Jay waved at the bartender. “Two whiskeys, neat. And by neat, I mean emotionally devastating.”
Sunghoon just sighed like he regretted everything that led to this moment.
The drinks arrived. They clinked glasses without ceremony.
And drank.
And drank again.
The second sip hit Jay like a soft punch behind the eyes.
They sat in silence for a bit, letting the alcohol smooth the edges off their rough day.
Jay leaned back, watching the way the light caught on Sunghoon’s jaw. “You always drink like this? All... dignified and broody?”
Sunghoon raised an eyebrow. “You always flirt like it’s a dare?”
Jay blinked. “That wasn’t flirting.”
“Oh, thank god.”
Jay chuckled, then immediately regretted it because his face felt warm. “You’re funny when you’re mean.”
“I’m always mean. You’re just finally listening.”
Jay laughed again. Softer this time.
It startled both of them.
Sunghoon’s eyes lingered a second too long.
Jay noticed. Oh, he definitely noticed. And he didn’t look away either.
There it was.
That moment.
The kind that stretched, quiet and loaded, like the air had thickened between them.
Jay cleared his throat and looked away first. “So. Emotional implosion at the seminar. That was fun.”
Sunghoon took a slow sip. “I don’t usually do that.”
“Lose control?”
“Lose anything. ”
Jay smirked. “Yeah, no kidding. You’ve got that vibe like you came out of the womb with a quarterly roadmap and a retirement plan.”
Sunghoon didn’t answer.
And for a second, Jay thought he’d gone too far.
But then—
“I envy you, you know.”
Jay blinked. “Okay, definitely too much whiskey. Say that again?”
“You don’t care what people think. You do what you want. Loudly. With props. You’re… fearless.”
Jay scoffed. “No. I’m just really good at pretending I am.”
Sunghoon looked at him.
Really looked.
Jay tried to swallow the lump forming in his throat.
“I used to care,” Jay said. “Too much. About being the best. About being liked. About being… worth something.”
Sunghoon didn’t interrupt.
Jay stared at the glass in his hands.
“And then I realized—people still screw you over. Still ignore you. Still call you too much or too loud or unprofessional. So I leaned in. Became a joke before anyone else could make me one.”
The words spilled out before he could stop them.
Maybe it was the whiskey. Maybe it was the way Sunghoon wasn’t looking at him with pity. Just… quiet understanding.
Jay exhaled. “And then you showed up. All perfect and polished and serious, and I hated you.”
“I noticed.”
Jay grinned. “But I didn’t know why. Not really.”
Sunghoon waited.
Jay shrugged. “Maybe because you were everything I couldn’t fake being. Or maybe because you didn’t laugh at my jokes the first day, and I took it personally.”
“I was jetlagged.”
“You were judgmental.”
“I still am.”
Jay snorted. “Yeah. But now it’s weirdly hot.”
Sunghoon choked on his drink.
Jay grinned, triumphant.
The silence that followed wasn’t tense. It was... new. Tentative.
Like something had shifted.
Sunghoon leaned back in the booth. “You’re not what I expected.”
Jay blinked. “When?”
“When I first read your newsletter.”
Jay laughed. “You read it?”
“Of course. It’s like watching a slow-motion train crash. But with puns.”
“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
Sunghoon didn’t smile. But his eyes were warm. Faintly amused. Maybe even... fond?
Jay’s heart did something inconvenient.
They ordered another round.
And another.
Somewhere between drink three and four, Jay kicked Sunghoon under the table.
Sunghoon kicked back, harder.
They devolved into a full-on leg war under the booth, which ended only when Sunghoon caught Jay off-guard and he smacked his knee on the table.
“God,” Jay groaned. “You’re violent when provoked.”
“You provoke me daily. ”
Jay grinned. “You love it.”
Sunghoon went very still.
Jay blinked.
“I meant—”
“I know what you meant.”
Their eyes met again.
This time neither of them looked away.
The noise of the bar faded.
Jay’s voice dropped. “You scare the hell out of me.”
Sunghoon tilted his head. “Why?”
“Because I don’t know how to be around you without making it a performance.”
Sunghoon’s expression softened.
Jay hated that it made his chest ache.
“You don’t have to perform,” Sunghoon said quietly. “Not with me.”
Jay looked at him like he was a language he hadn’t studied, but maybe always understood.
They sat there, warm and dizzy and too honest.
The silence between them wasn’t empty anymore.
It was full of all the things they hadn’t said yet.
And maybe—just maybe—all the things they would.
Jay was too drunk.
Not the fun kind, where everything was warm and hilarious and he had infinite charm and untouchable charisma.
No, this was the dangerously honest kind of drunk.
The kind where his legs didn’t listen, and neither did his mouth, and every time he looked at Sunghoon he felt like he was standing on a very high ledge and leaning forward just to see what would happen.
He giggled.
Actually giggled.
“Stop laughing,” Sunghoon muttered, adjusting Jay’s weight under his arm.
Jay leaned harder into him. “I’m not laughing.”
“You just did. ”
Jay gasped, scandalized. “You heard that?”
“You’re literally on me. I hear everything. Including your hiccups.”
Jay hiccuped.
Sunghoon gave him a look so full of suffering, it made Jay giggle again.
He hiccuped harder.
“God, I’m dying,” Jay said. “This is how I go. Death by whiskey and emotional vulnerability.”
“We didn’t even get that emotionally vulnerable.”
Jay squinted at him. “You called me fearless. I told you I built a personality out of glitter and unresolved trauma. That’s basically marriage by our standards.”
Sunghoon shook his head. “You’re insufferable.”
Jay beamed. “But like, charmingly so?”
“No.”
“Rude.”
They made it to the hallway, eventually. The long carpeted stretch of hotel beige looked like a surrealist painting to Jay. Everything wobbled slightly.
Sunghoon stopped in front of Jay’s door and propped him up. “Okay. You made it. Somehow. Open the door and collapse dramatically, as is your custom.”
Jay stared at him.
Sunghoon raised an eyebrow. “What.”
Jay didn’t answer.
He was too busy looking at him.
It wasn’t fair, honestly.
Sunghoon was just standing there, all clean lines and steady hands and infuriating patience, like he hadn’t just been dragged through twenty-four hours of forced company bonding and still managed to look composed.
Jay, meanwhile, felt like someone had microwaved his brain and poured him into a human-shaped cup.
He blinked.
Sunghoon took a half step back, clearing his throat. “Okay. Goodnight, Jay.”
He turned.
Jay grabbed his wrist.
Sunghoon paused.
Slowly, he looked back.
Jay’s voice was quiet. “Don’t go yet.”
There was a heartbeat of hesitation. “Why?”
Jay opened his mouth, and his brain tried to veto it, but the alcohol hit “send” on the thought anyway.
“I think I’m gonna do something stupid,” Jay said softly.
Sunghoon didn’t move.
Jay stepped forward. Just one small, ridiculous step, wobbling slightly with it. His hand stayed on Sunghoon’s wrist.
“Jay,” Sunghoon warned, voice low.
“I know,” Jay murmured.
But he did it anyway.
Leaned in.
And kissed him.
It wasn’t practiced or smooth. It wasn’t even a good kiss at first—Jay was off-balance, half-drunk, and completely unsure if he was making the worst mistake of his life.
But it was real.
And Sunghoon didn’t pull away.
For a moment, they just existed in it. Lips pressed together, breath catching, time folding in on itself like it wasn’t sure what came next.
Then Jay leaned back.
Just an inch.
Just enough to look at him.
Sunghoon’s eyes were wide. Shocked. Quietly wrecked.
Jay’s voice cracked. “I’m gonna regret that tomorrow, huh.”
The moment the hotel door shut behind them, Jay had Sunghoon against it.
Mouth crashing into his, hands already pushing his jacket off his shoulders, gripping his shirt like he was trying to shred it straight down the middle.
Sunghoon kissed him back, breath ragged, restrained—but Jay could feel the tension under his skin, like Sunghoon was trying to hold the line and failing with every second that passed.
“Fuck,” Jay muttered, breaking away just long enough to yank his own shirt over his head and toss it somewhere near the minibar. “I knew it. I knew you’d be like this.”
“Like what?” Sunghoon rasped, his hands finally, finally grabbing Jay’s waist.
Jay rolled his hips against him, dragged his fingers down the front of his chest. “Like you’re about to ruin me and act like it’s an accident.”
He kissed him again before Sunghoon could answer—deeper this time, with tongue and teeth and everything Jay had been holding back for months.
Sunghoon groaned into his mouth, one hand slipping down to grip his ass, the other fisting in his hair.
Jay gasped. It was messy and greedy and exactly what he needed.
“Bed,” Sunghoon said, voice low and frayed.
Jay laughed breathlessly. “Bossy.”
“Move, Jay.”
Jay stumbled backward, dragging Sunghoon with him by the front of his shirt until his legs hit the bed. He dropped down onto it and pulled Sunghoon over him in one smooth, ungraceful motion, legs spreading to make room between them.
“You’re so fucking hot when you’re mad,” Jay murmured, dragging Sunghoon’s belt free with one hand and sliding his other down to cup him through his pants.
Sunghoon hissed. “You’re impossible.”
Jay grinned. “Still here, though.”
Sunghoon kissed him again—hard, relentless—and Jay arched into it, grinding up against him. Their clothes were half-off, their skin hot and slick where it touched, and Jay couldn’t tell where his thoughts ended and his want began.
He got Sunghoon’s pants down far enough to get his hand on him—fingers wrapping around him, slow stroke that made Sunghoon break the kiss with a groan and press his forehead to Jay’s.
“Jay—”
“Yeah?” Jay’s voice was smug and wrecked all at once. “Gonna tell me to stop?”
Sunghoon’s eyes were dark, unreadable. “No.”
Jay bit his lip, pushed his hand lower. “Didn’t think so.”
The rest of their clothes hit the floor fast—hands fumbling, mouths never staying apart for long. Jay’s head was spinning, and for once, it wasn’t just the alcohol. It was him . It was Sunghoon, here, now, finally.
Jay was on his back, legs open, breath uneven as Sunghoon knelt between them. The sight of him—flushed, hard, focused—made something twist painfully in Jay’s chest.
“Condom,” Sunghoon muttered, voice hoarse.
Jay reached for his bag and threw it at him without looking. “Front pocket.”
Sunghoon found it. Tore one open with shaking fingers. Slipped it on while Jay watched with dark, hungry eyes.
Then he was over him again, and Jay pulled him down into a kiss that tasted like desperation.
It wasn’t slow.
It wasn’t soft.
It was raw and too much and exactly what Jay needed.
Sunghoon pushed into him in one long, deliberate thrust, and Jay let out a choked moan, gripping his shoulders, arching up to take him deeper.
“Fuck,” Jay whispered. “You feel—shit—you feel so good—”
Sunghoon held still for a moment, breathing hard, letting Jay adjust. His hands were planted on either side of Jay’s head, jaw tight, eyes searching his face like he was still waiting for this to be some kind of trick.
Jay met his gaze. “Don’t stop.”
Sunghoon didn’t.
He started moving—slow at first, like he was trying to pace himself, but Jay was impatient, rolling his hips up to meet every thrust, moaning shamelessly, nails digging into Sunghoon’s back.
It built fast—friction and heat and months of tension snapping like rubber bands inside his chest.
“Harder,” Jay gasped. “Come on, Hoon—don’t make me beg —”
Sunghoon groaned and obeyed, thrusts deep and punishing now, dragging broken sounds from Jay’s throat with every movement.
Jay couldn’t think.
Couldn’t speak.
Could only feel—Sunghoon inside him, over him, everywhere. The burn of his skin, the weight of his body, the realness of it.
It was too much.
And still not enough.
His hand slipped between them, stroking himself in time with Sunghoon’s rhythm. His moans turned high and desperate. “I’m—fuck—I’m gonna—”
“Do it,” Sunghoon whispered into his ear. “Come for me.”
Jay cried out as he did, body arching, muscles tensing as pleasure crashed over him like a wave breaking. It was white-hot and overwhelming, and he barely registered Sunghoon’s stuttering thrusts, his low groan as he followed seconds later.
For a long, long moment, there was nothing but breath and silence and the feeling of skin against skin.
Jay’s mind was blank.
Then it wasn’t.
Then it was screaming.
What did I just do ?
He lay there, chest heaving, as Sunghoon pulled out carefully and rolled off to the side.
Jay covered his face with his hands.
And laughed.
Low. Broken.
A little wild.
Sunghoon turned his head toward him. “What?”
Jay peeked out from between his fingers. “I just made the worst mistake of my entire professional life.”
Sunghoon snorted. “I think I made it with you.”
Jay flopped his arm across his eyes. “God, don’t be nice about it.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Ugh, I hate you.”
“You just came all over yourself because of me.”
Jay groaned. “ Shut up. ”
But he was smiling.
And he wasn’t pretending.
Jay’s body ached.
Not in the way it had before—no, this felt different. Slower. Deeper. It wasn’t just the alcohol or the rush of heat in his blood. It was him , raw and exposed and too honest.
He should’ve hated this.
Should’ve felt like a complete disaster, like he always did when things spun out of his control.
But here he was. Bare. Heart still racing, breath shallow, staring up at Sunghoon like he wasn’t sure what was real anymore.
Sunghoon’s eyes were darker now—less hesitant, more certain . His hand, warm and steady, rested on Jay’s hip as he moved over him again. Slow this time. A low, drawn-out kiss that tasted like everything Jay had been hiding from.
“You’re not gonna stop, are you?” Jay murmured, voice rougher than he’d expected.
Sunghoon’s smile was small but sharp. “Not if you keep looking at me like that.”
Jay scoffed, but the smirk on his lips faltered when Sunghoon’s hand slid down his chest, grazing his stomach. Jay’s breath caught in his throat.
Sunghoon leaned down to kiss him again, slow and deliberate, one hand lifting Jay’s leg to settle between them. The press of his body against Jay’s made him gasp, a quiet noise slipping out before he could stop it. Sunghoon was pulling back, a look of quiet amusement on his face as he traced Jay’s lips with his thumb.
“You’re so fucking beautiful when you’re undone,” Sunghoon said, low and guttural.
Jay swallowed thickly, unsure how to respond, but before he could speak, Sunghoon kissed him again—deeper, softer this time. The roughness was gone, replaced by something more intimate, more insistent , and Jay found himself melting into it, fingers digging into the bedspread as Sunghoon shifted against him.
This time, there were no distractions. No playfulness. No chaos.
Just Sunghoon, deep in his space, his touch as steady as it was devastating.
Jay’s breath hitched when Sunghoon moved inside him again. Not fast. Not forceful. Just steady .
It was different. This time, it wasn’t a rush. It was a pull, a deep, slow drag that dragged Jay into the moment, the intimacy, everything he never realized he needed until it was happening. He didn’t even try to control it this time—he just let Sunghoon have him, have all of him, the way he wanted.
Jay gasped, a broken sound as Sunghoon hit that spot inside of him, making his entire body go rigid. The pressure built again, slow, but undeniable, like a tide pushing against the shore.
Sunghoon's hand slid down his chest to wrap around his cock, and Jay couldn't hold back anymore. His hips rolled forward, meeting Sunghoon’s in the perfect rhythm, that tension coiling up in his gut like a live wire.
“Fuck, Hoon,” Jay panted. “You feel—so fucking good.”
Sunghoon’s mouth was back on his, swallowing his words as his thrusts became deeper, more demanding. Jay’s nails scraped against his back, drawing shallow lines down his skin. He couldn’t think anymore. Couldn’t process anything except the way Sunghoon’s body felt against his, inside of him, pushing him further and further into a state of pure need.
It wasn’t frantic this time. It wasn’t messy. It was a connection, one they both couldn’t deny. The heat between them wasn’t just sexual—it was the unspoken things neither of them had the courage to say out loud, the words trapped in their throats.
Jay's breath faltered as he came again—his body jerking, pleasure ripping through him like a wave, leaving him limp in Sunghoon’s arms.
But Sunghoon didn’t stop.
He kept moving. His grip tightened on Jay’s hips, pulling him deeper, his thrusts slower now, but more deliberate, like he wasn’t just fucking Jay—he was taking his time, savoring it.
“Jay,” Sunghoon breathed, voice ragged. “Fuck, I’m close—”
Jay could feel it, feel how much Sunghoon was holding back. The tension in his body, the way his breath hitched, how his pace faltered just slightly.
“I know,” Jay whispered, staring up at him, willing him to finish, to let go with him. “Let go. Come on, Hoon. for me.”
Sunghoon’s thrusts became erratic, and Jay felt the warmth of his release spill inside of him, deep, shuddering. It wasn’t a frantic, rushed end—it was a slow, perfect surrender .
And Jay let it happen.
For the first time, he didn’t fight it. He just let it be.
Sunghoon collapsed beside him, both of them panting, the weight of their breaths mingling in the space between them.
Jay closed his eyes, his body feeling like it was still humming with that aftershock.
But Sunghoon wasn’t done. He shifted, rolling over to his side to face Jay. His fingers trailed gently over Jay’s chest, brushing away the stray strands of hair that clung to his forehead.
Jay’s breath caught in his throat.
“Stay with me,” Sunghoon said quietly, his voice soft, tender in a way Jay hadn’t heard before. “Just... stay.”
Jay nodded, too exhausted to speak. He let Sunghoon guide him gently onto his side, pulling the covers over them both, his hand never leaving Jay’s skin.
The silence between them wasn’t awkward—it was comforting. Like everything had shifted, and now they were just two people, raw and real, lying in the quiet aftermath of something that didn’t need to be explained.
Jay’s eyes fluttered shut, the last remnants of consciousness slipping away like sand through his fingers.
Jay woke up to the soft light of morning creeping through the hotel curtains. The sheets were cool against his skin, but the warmth of the body next to him was still lingering on his side.
He blinked, disoriented for a moment. The room was quiet, but there was a faint hum of distant traffic outside. His head felt thick, heavy, like it had been stuffed with cotton. He hadn’t meant to sleep this long, had he?
Then his eyes shifted.
He froze.
Sunghoon.
The sight of him sprawled on the bed beside him hit Jay like a wave. Sunghoon, lying on his back, half his body tangled in the sheets, his hair mussed from sleep, a soft exhale escaping his lips as he shifted.
Jay’s heart jumped into his throat, his pulse spiking as the fragments of last night began to come back in a rush.
The hotel room. The drinks. The tension. The fights. The kisses.
The fucking.
His stomach lurched.
Jay sat up quickly, pulling the covers around him as if they could shield him from the reality of what he’d just done. His heart was pounding, the panic creeping in, turning his blood to ice.
What the fuck had he done?
This wasn’t supposed to happen. He hadn’t planned this. This... this mess .
His mind spun with chaotic thoughts—too many to process, too many to catch hold of. But the overwhelming feeling was the same.
Oh no.
He had just—he had just—
Jay’s eyes darted to Sunghoon again. His chest tightened, a sick, heavy feeling pooling in his stomach.
Sunghoon was still asleep. Still breathing. Still fucking there. And Jay was... here . Fucking paralyzed by it.
What did this mean?
Jay scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to calm his breathing. His thoughts were a jumbled mess of what-ifs, should-haves, and fucks. This was so not what he had signed up for. He couldn’t—he couldn’t even look at Sunghoon right now without feeling like he might implode.
His heart was racing. His palms were sweaty. The anxiety was crawling up his throat, choking him, suffocating him in the aftermath of whatever the hell this was.
Why had he done it? Why had he let it go this far?
What was it?
There were a million questions, but only one answer kept knocking at the door of his mind.
This was a mistake.
Jay slid his legs off the bed, his feet hitting the cold floor with a soft thud. He didn’t look back at Sunghoon as he stood, moving in slow, deliberate motions as he gathered his clothes. The chaos in his chest didn’t stop as he dressed, his hands shaky as he pulled on his pants, his shirt, his shoes.
Don’t think about it.
His mind was a runaway train. Each thought raced through him faster than the last, none of them making sense, all of them circling around the same question. How could he face Sunghoon after that? After everything?
He couldn’t.
Jay turned, one last glance at the bed where Sunghoon lay, still asleep and unaware of his panic. It felt like the walls were closing in on him, pressing in on all sides, reminding him of every stupid thing he’d done, every part of him that had just given in to something he had never intended.
He was already halfway to the door before his mind caught up with him.
You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to leave.
But Jay didn’t stop. He couldn’t. He had to get out. He had to get some air. Something to clear his head. He couldn’t be here. He couldn’t look at Sunghoon again. Not like this. Not now .
The door clicked shut behind him with a soft click, and for the first time, Jay let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.
The hallway was empty, quiet. He walked quickly toward the elevator, his heart thumping in his chest like it was trying to break free.
Jay’s mind was a mess. How was he supposed to deal with this? With what happened last night? With Sunghoon ?
He ran a hand through his hair, his stomach twisting with the same sick feeling.
Everything had changed. Nothing felt the same anymore.
And he had no idea what to do about it.
The flight was agonizingly quiet.
Jay sat by the window, eyes fixed on the blurred expanse of clouds below them, though his thoughts had long since drifted from anything as simple as the view. The hum of the airplane and the occasional murmur of passengers were the only sounds that broke the suffocating silence.
It felt like the space between him and Sunghoon was growing wider with every passing second.
Sunghoon, sitting beside him, didn’t say anything at first. Jay could feel his presence, could feel the weight of Sunghoon’s gaze on him, but he refused to meet it. His fingers clenched tightly around the armrest, trying to focus on the soft buzz of the plane’s engines, anything to drown out the noise in his head.
Jay was used to controlling his emotions. He was the guy who was always ready with a comeback, who thrived on chaos, who never let anyone see him crumble. But this? This was something else. Something he couldn’t shake off.
What had happened last night?
He could still feel the heat of Sunghoon’s touch, the roughness of their kisses, the way Sunghoon had held him. It was impossible to forget, even though Jay wanted to. He wanted to shut it down. Pretend it didn’t happen. It was just a mistake, Jay , he told himself. Just a one-off.
But his heart didn’t buy it. And it wasn’t even the physical part—the sex—that was eating at him. It was the vulnerability, the way Sunghoon had made him feel things he didn’t want to feel. The way they connected .
Jay hadn’t been ready for that. And now he didn’t know how to un-feel it.
His stomach twisted. He hated the way his mind kept replaying it. Hated the soft way Sunghoon had spoken to him afterward. That tenderness, the calmness, the care . It was the last thing Jay expected, and it fucked with his entire worldview. He was used to being the chaos. The unpredictable one. The one who kept people at arm's length. He didn’t need care. He didn’t want it.
But Sunghoon had given him that care anyway. And Jay hated himself for feeling like he needed it.
He wasn’t ready for any of this.
“You’ve been quiet,” Sunghoon said, finally breaking the silence. His voice was low, gentle. But Jay could hear the concern laced underneath. “Are you okay?”
Jay’s gaze stayed fixed on the window, the outside world a blur of clouds and blue. He could feel Sunghoon’s eyes on him, could practically hear the unspoken questions hovering in the air between them.
Don’t say anything, Jay silently begged. Just let me be alone in my head for a little longer.
But Sunghoon wasn’t about to let him off the hook that easily. He shifted in his seat, leaning a little closer, his presence still there, heavy. “Jay,” he said, his voice soft but insistent. “You can talk to me, you know.”
Jay’s chest tightened, and he wanted to scream. He wanted to lash out. Tell Sunghoon to fuck off and leave him alone. But the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he just kept staring at the window, trying to ignore the way his heart was racing. Trying to ignore the way Sunghoon’s concern was starting to dig under his skin.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. He wasn’t supposed to feel anything.
“I’m fine,” Jay muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. But it felt like a lie. A betrayal of everything he was trying to convince himself of. He wasn’t fine. He wasn’t even close.
Sunghoon didn’t back off. He never did. The persistent bastard always came back for more, whether Jay was ready for it or not.
“You don’t look fine,” Sunghoon said, his tone laced with a mix of amusement and frustration. He shifted again, closer this time, so close that Jay could feel the heat of his body against his side. “I don’t know what’s going on, but it’s clear you’re pissed. Or... something. What changed since last night?”
Jay couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t. If he did, he knew he’d see something in Sunghoon’s eyes—something raw, something real —and that was the last thing he could handle right now.
It was just a mistake , Jay repeated to himself. He had to keep repeating it. It had to be. Because if it wasn’t, then Jay didn’t know what the hell he was supposed to do with it.
“Nothing changed,” Jay said stiffly, his voice flat. He could feel the tension rising in his chest, could feel the words like an iron weight in his mouth. “Nothing happened.”
But that was the problem, wasn’t it? Something had happened . Too much. And now Jay was left with the mess of it, trying to convince himself that it wasn’t real, that it wasn’t important , that it didn’t mean anything.
But Sunghoon wasn’t letting him pretend. He never did.
“Bullshit,” Sunghoon muttered under his breath, but loud enough for Jay to hear. “We both know that’s not true.”
Jay’s heart sped up, and he clenched his fists in his lap, his fingernails digging into his palms. He wanted to scream. Or cry. Or something. Anything. But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. He was too damn proud to fall apart now.
“Drop it,” Jay said, his voice sharp. “It was a mistake. That’s all.”
It was a lie. The words tasted like ash in his mouth. He was trying to push Sunghoon away, trying to push himself away from the truth.
But Sunghoon didn’t back off. “Jay—”
“I said drop it,” Jay snapped, turning his head sharply to face him for the first time. His voice was tight, strained, but he didn’t care. He was done talking. Done with this conversation.
Sunghoon didn’t flinch, didn’t pull back. His eyes were steady, but there was something darker in them now. Something almost... hurt .
“You can keep pretending all you want,” Sunghoon said quietly, his voice a little colder now, “but I know you, Jay. You can’t keep running from it forever.”
Jay’s chest tightened again, and he turned his gaze back to the window, desperate to avoid Sunghoon’s eyes. He didn’t want to hear this. He couldn’t deal with this. Not now.
But Sunghoon’s words hung in the air, louder than any noise the plane could make, impossible to escape.
The flight stretched on in painful silence, and Jay didn’t know if he was more terrified of the quiet or the truth that was starting to settle over him like a cloud he couldn’t shake.
Jay was back in the office, but it didn’t feel like he’d ever really left.
He’d spent the entire morning glued to his computer screen, trying to ignore the nagging thoughts in his head. The awkwardness between him and Sunghoon was palpable , and Jay couldn’t figure out how to move past it. He was used to chaos, sure, but this? This silent treatment , mixed with the nagging feeling that Sunghoon was somehow... taking care of him ?
Jay hated it. Hated that Sunghoon kept showing up at his desk with coffee in hand or leaving a hand sanitizer bottle just a little too close, as if he were some kind of caretaker. He knew Sunghoon wasn’t doing it on purpose, but that didn’t stop Jay from wanting to toss the damn coffee in his face every time Sunghoon dropped by.
Jay had been trying his best to keep his head down, to focus on work and not think about that night . But Sunghoon had this uncanny ability to worm his way into Jay’s orbit, even in the most subtle ways. Like now.
Jay had been reading through the latest drafts for the office newsletter, his mind not really focusing on the content. Instead, his attention was split between trying to make sense of the article and the lingering presence of Sunghoon at his side. Sunghoon had come over to talk about some edits for the next issue, but Jay could feel his proximity like an electric current. Every time Sunghoon got too close, it was like the air around him thickened with something that Jay wasn’t prepared to handle.
Jay sighed and pressed his fingers into his temples, trying to clear his head. That was when Sunghoon slid a warm cup of coffee onto his desk, a little too close to his laptop.
“Here,” Sunghoon said softly, his voice annoyingly calm. “You look like you could use this.”
Jay’s brow furrowed as he glanced at the coffee, then at Sunghoon, who was already turning back to his own desk. He could feel the tension creeping back into his shoulders.
“I don’t need anything from you, Sunghoon,” Jay muttered, barely loud enough for Sunghoon to hear. He didn’t even care if he sounded like a prick. He was so done with this subtle caring shit.
Sunghoon, to his credit, didn’t flinch. But he didn’t leave either. Instead, he gave Jay a side-eye as he adjusted his tie, looking way too composed for Jay’s liking.
“You could at least acknowledge it,” Sunghoon said with a barely-there smirk, like he was toying with Jay now.
Jay ground his teeth together, staring at the coffee. Sunghoon was like a constant, irritating presence that refused to let Jay wallow in the chaos of his own making. It pissed him off more than he cared to admit.
“Yeah, well,” Jay said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “maybe I don’t want it. Maybe I don’t need a reminder that I’m a mess.”
Sunghoon’s smirk didn’t falter, but his eyes narrowed slightly. “Don’t be so dramatic,” he muttered, as though Jay wasn’t even worth a response. “It’s just coffee.”
Jay slammed the lid down on the coffee cup with far more force than necessary, pushing it away. “I don’t care what it is, Sunghoon. Don’t do that.”
Sunghoon raised an eyebrow, his expression more amused than concerned. “Do what? Help you?”
“You’re not helping,” Jay snapped, leaning back in his chair. “You’re just... you’re just trying to fix me. And I don’t need fixing.”
It wasn’t the words he meant to say, but it was the only way he could push Sunghoon away without losing his mind. He didn’t want Sunghoon’s sympathy. Didn’t want to be seen as a problem that needed to be managed. He wasn’t broken . He didn’t need Sunghoon in his space, pretending to care.
“Fine,” Sunghoon said simply, raising his hands in mock surrender. “I won’t fix you.”
Jay could feel the weight of Sunghoon’s gaze lingering, even though he was already moving back to his office. But Jay didn’t look up. He couldn’t. He was still too annoyed, too flustered, to deal with whatever Sunghoon was doing to him.
But of course, this wasn’t the end of it. Not by a long shot.
By the end of the day, the familiar war was in full swing again. The passive-aggressive battle they’d been having for months was back with a vengeance, fueled by a few too many tense moments between them. Jay had taken his turn, of course, with a particularly biting article in the newsletter, a subtle roast of Sunghoon’s meticulous ways—framed under the guise of a “team-building” piece.
It was all playful, right? That’s what he told himself. Just good-natured fun. But when Jay hit send on the newsletter and saw Sunghoon’s icy response—the glaring feedback written in red ink—he could almost feel the sharpness of the attack.
Sunghoon had edited it in a way that was so subtle, so refined , that it took Jay a second to understand what had happened. Every jab, every little comment, was disguised as advice. But Jay could see through it. And it burned.
He stormed into Sunghoon’s office after that, ready for another round of battle.
“What the hell is this?” Jay demanded, holding up the printed feedback for Sunghoon to see. “You really think you can just correct my edits like that?”
Sunghoon didn’t even look up from his screen, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “It’s called editing , Jay. Maybe you should try it sometime.”
Jay’s hands balled into fists at his sides. “You’re a fucking nightmare.”
“And yet,” Sunghoon finally looked up at him, his expression cool, “I’m the one who keeps saving your ass. You might want to be careful about biting the hand that feeds you.”
Jay stared at him, eyes burning with a mixture of frustration and something else that made his heart beat a little faster than it should have.
Sunghoon’s grin was infuriating. The calm, controlled way he was handling this—like he was the one with the upper hand—just made Jay’s blood boil. The nerve of him to stay so composed while Jay was barely holding it together. It made Jay want to knock that smug little grin right off his face.
And yet... something in him wanted to fight harder. Push back more. Because despite everything, despite the anger and the frustration, there was something undeniably familiar about this.
It was like the chaotic, messy war they’d been having before. The one that kept things interesting. The one that made everything feel alive.
“Alright, Sunghoon,” Jay growled, his voice low. “You want to play this game? Fine. But just know I’m not backing down.”
Sunghoon’s smile widened, like he’d been waiting for this moment. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Jay.”
The newspaper war had begun again. And this time? It felt personal.
Jay had spent the entire morning crafting the perfect first page of the newsletter. It was a work of art—sharp, witty, and cutting, laced with just the right amount of passive aggression to make Sunghoon’s blood boil. It was the ultimate roast, the kind of thing that would make even the most uptight, polished person squirm in their seat.
There was no way Sunghoon could read it without reacting .
Jay had laid the paper carefully on his desk, positioned just so, hoping that the first person to see it would be Sunghoon. His hands hovered over the keyboard for a moment longer, but his mind was already racing ahead, imagining how Sunghoon would come storming in. Maybe he’d frown, maybe he’d try to suppress that little smirk of his, but whatever happened, Jay was ready for it.
He waited.
And waited.
It was nearing noon now, and there was still no sign of Sunghoon. Jay checked his phone—no texts. Checked his email—nothing. He even glanced over at Sunghoon’s desk, half-expecting to see him seated there, his posture too perfect, his pristine tie fixed just so.
Nothing.
Jay’s stomach twisted in annoyance. Where the hell is he?
He’d anticipated the confrontation. The snide comments. The back-and-forth. But now there was just... silence. No Sunghoon storming in, no dramatic response to the newsletter. It was like his favorite punching bag had just vanished off the face of the earth.
Was this some sort of power move? Sunghoon’s way of saying he wasn’t going to engage with the petty bullshit anymore?
Jay scoffed and sat back in his chair, leaning against the armrest as he scanned the room. Sunghoon was an enigma—always so composed, always so predictable in his perfection . And now, when Jay was finally ready to get a rise out of him again, Sunghoon was nowhere to be found.
The more Jay thought about it, the more irritated he became. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He wasn’t supposed to be the one left hanging . He’d crafted the newsletter with all the care and precision of an artist, and this was how it was going to be met? No fiery response? No confrontation?
He huffed and clicked his pen repeatedly, irritated that the game had been taken out of his hands. His phone buzzed in his pocket, and Jay grabbed it almost reflexively, hoping for some update or message that would at least make sense of this sudden, confusing absence.
It was a text from Sunoo, one of the team members in HR. “Sunghoon won’t be in today. Not feeling well.”
Jay blinked at the message, a strange lump forming in his throat. Sunghoon wasn’t sick . He didn’t get sick. The guy was a walking example of immaculate health. Always polished, always perfect . He couldn’t even imagine Sunghoon looking out of place, let alone being too ill to come in. He just didn’t do sick days.
That’s when it hit Jay—a dull, heavy thud in his chest. He wasn’t mad. He wasn’t angry anymore. He was just... confused .
What was this? What was happening?
And worse, Jay wasn’t sure whether he felt relieved or disappointed that Sunghoon wasn’t there to see the newsletter, to call him out on it. The fight he’d been eagerly anticipating, the one that would restore the balance of their chaotic, competitive relationship, was just... gone.
Jay drummed his fingers against his desk, staring at the newsletter. It was supposed to be a provocation, a challenge. He wanted Sunghoon to react—whether that was with frustration or a well-placed, clever comeback. But now there was nothing. No challenge. No confrontation. Just a damn empty chair across from him.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
Sunghoon had this irritating, quiet way of making everything more intense. Every look, every comment, every little exchange between them was like a carefully calibrated weapon. And Jay? He thrived on that tension, even when it annoyed the hell out of him.
Without Sunghoon here, there was just a vacuum of energy. The office felt quieter. More hollow. And Jay hated it.
For a moment, he found himself staring at Sunghoon’s empty desk. The neat stack of files, the polished pen holder—everything about the space was just... too perfect. Too pristine. It pissed him off even more.
Jay didn’t know how long he sat there, staring at the desk, willing Sunghoon to walk in so he could at least have the fight. But there was no Sunghoon.
He finally got up, too restless to sit anymore, and grabbed the newsletter from his desk. Holding it in his hands felt like a weird, misguided attempt to salvage something from the moment. But as he flipped through the pages, rereading his perfectly crafted shots at Sunghoon’s style, his mind kept wandering.
Where was Sunghoon?
Jay could feel the restless energy building inside of him. His office chair felt too stiff, his fingers tapped too loudly against the desk, and every time he glanced at the clock, it seemed like time was moving in slow motion. Sunghoon wasn’t in, and Jay’s brain couldn’t stop churning with thoughts that he definitely didn’t want to acknowledge. What was Sunghoon doing? Why hadn’t he seen Jay’s masterpiece of a newsletter yet?
So, naturally, Jay decided to break all the rules of professional boundaries and just— go to Sunghoon’s apartment . This was what being a good person would do, right? Find the address. Go check in on your co-worker, who’s apparently ill (though Jay didn’t buy it for a second, Sunghoon didn’t get sick ). Plus, he needed to rub it in that he was the one who had roasted Sunghoon perfectly on the first page. It wasn’t about making sure Sunghoon was okay. No, no. It was more about delivering the final blow in their latest round of passive-aggressive office war.
A knock on Sunghoon’s door. A deep breath. Jay could almost hear the dramatic music in his head. He had the newsletter under his arm like it was a treasure map to the most epic showdown of all time.
The door creaked open.
And there, standing in front of him in a baggy hoodie, messy hair, and looking like he had crawled out of a small disaster , was Sunghoon. Sunghoon, in all his buttoned-up, perfectly polished glory, somehow appeared... human.
“Jay?” Sunghoon’s voice was barely a whisper. It was kind of... endearing. A little raspy. That was new. “What are you doing here?”
Jay blinked. “I... I came to... uh, rub it in.” He held up the newsletter like a trophy, the paper crinkling under the pressure of his excitement. “You know, the whole ‘roasting you on the first page’ thing. You didn’t think I’d leave you hanging, right?”
Sunghoon looked at him with half-lidded eyes. “You came all the way here ... just for that?” He coughed, a little pitifully. “I’m not really in the mood to read your savage critiques right now, Jay.”
“I get it,” Jay said, still standing in the doorway like a clueless idiot, awkwardly holding up the newsletter. “No judgment. But hey, it’s a masterpiece —you’re gonna love it. You should at least check out page one. Anyway, I came to check on you, too. I’m... concerned.”
Sunghoon arched a brow. “You? Concerned? Are you sure you’re talking about me?”
“Well, yeah,” Jay muttered, looking anywhere but at Sunghoon’s face. “I mean, I did some research. You weren’t at work today. A little too sick, huh? I knew you weren’t the type to skip work unless it’s... serious.”
Sunghoon just stared at him for a long beat, before gesturing for him to come inside. Jay stepped in, immediately noticing the slight mess. The apartment was dark, the blinds barely letting any light in. A couch piled with blankets and an abandoned mug of cold tea on the coffee table. This wasn’t the ultra-organized, picture-perfect Sunghoon that Jay was used to seeing at work. This was a side of him Jay didn’t even know existed—and he wasn’t sure what to do with it.
“Alright, fine. You’ve seen me in my... vulnerable state ,” Sunghoon muttered, sinking down into the couch, pulling a pillow under his head. “But can you please just not roast me for the whole thing? I’m not in the mood.”
Jay stood there for a moment, staring at him, and then decided, screw it. He had no clue what he was doing, but he needed to do something . He wasn’t good at being the “comforting friend,” but he did know how to make a damn good bowl of soup.
“I’m gonna make you soup,” Jay declared dramatically, as if that was the obvious, rational next step in this whole saga.
Sunghoon didn’t move, just lazily muttered, “You don’t have to do that.”
Jay didn’t even bother listening. He’d already turned toward the kitchen, pulling ingredients out of cabinets and the fridge with a flurry of motion. He was freaking out . Why was this situation so awkward ? Why did it feel like his heart was running a marathon? Why did he care so much that Sunghoon was laying on a couch looking like an actual human person with feelings?
While he threw together a slapdash soup (he didn’t have time to care about the recipe), Jay found himself talking to Sunghoon like they were just back in the office, casually bantering to cover up the rising unease.
“So, this whole ‘being sick’ thing... is this your secret plan to get me to play nurse, huh? Have I fallen for it? Am I your personal assistant now, or...?”
“Shut up, Jay,” Sunghoon mumbled, his voice softer now. “Just leave the soup on the table, and you can go... do whatever it is you do. I’ll be fine.”
Jay made the soup in record time. It wasn’t fancy—just a quick, no-nonsense deal. He wasn’t a master chef ; he was just a guy who didn’t want to stand around awkwardly waiting for Sunghoon to say something.
When he returned to the living room, he set the steaming bowl of soup on the coffee table in front of Sunghoon and leaned over to check his temperature, lightly pressing the back of his hand to Sunghoon’s forehead.
And that’s when it hit him.
Jay didn’t know why he did it—didn’t know why he lingered there with his hand resting against Sunghoon’s warm skin. But suddenly, everything felt too real .
Sunghoon’s face was relaxed, his eyes half-lidded, looking... vulnerable . The usual walls he put up were gone. And damn it, Jay realized— he cared . Not in the sense of rivalry. Not in the sense of his usual mocking way. But... deeper.
Jay’s mind went completely blank for a second. This wasn’t supposed to happen. It wasn’t supposed to mean anything.
But as Sunghoon let out a soft sigh, clearly on the edge of sleep, Jay sat there for a long moment, hand still on his forehead, quietly feeling things he wasn’t ready to process.
It was when Sunghoon shifted slightly, curling up with a soft groan, that Jay realized his own hands were shaking.
“Do you need anything else?” Jay asked, his voice a little too quiet, a little too unsure for his liking.
Sunghoon mumbled something unintelligible before slipping into a light doze, the kind of sleep that made him look far too innocent. Jay stood there, watching him, his heart caught between wanting to run and wanting to stay.
He stayed. He wasn’t sure why. But somehow, the situation was already way more complicated than he ever expected it to be.
Jay’s fingers flew over his keyboard with a kind of frantic joy. There was something undeniably satisfying about taking shots at Sunghoon. It was like an art form for Jay—finding those little cracks in Sunghoon’s polished, perfect exterior and exploiting them with the sort of sly, passive-aggressive wit only he could pull off.
So, today’s newsletter had the perfect centerpiece: Sunghoon’s ‘sick day’ drama. Jay could already hear Sunghoon’s voice in his head—the way he probably would’ve scowled at Jay’s perfectly written roast, trying to hide his irritation under that icy façade. Jay had outdone himself. He knew it. The subtle digs, the quirky metaphors, the sarcasm so thick it could be spread on toast.
Breaking News: The Case of the Missing Sunghoon
In today’s thrilling chapter of “What Happens When You Leave the Office,” we uncover the case of one missing Sunghoon, the head of our team, who has apparently decided that his ‘sick day’ routine is just too intriguing to miss. As a service to our faithful readers (and, of course, our underpaid coworkers), we’ve decided to dedicate this newsletter to the mysterious phenomenon of what happens when someone decides to take a day off. Not that anyone’s blaming him, but... is there a “perfectly healthy” version of ‘taking it easy’ that we should all know about?
Jay added a few more details about Sunghoon’s alleged sick leave —fluffy descriptions of how he might be lounging around, sipping tea with lemon and honey while secretly avoiding work. There were no hard facts. Just delicious, witty speculation. Every paragraph dripped with that classic Jay chaos. This was a roast that would leave Sunghoon stewing for hours, Jay imagined, a smug grin already spreading across his face.
Once he finished the draft, Jay took a step back, admiring his work. His eyes scanned the page, double-checking for typos and making sure the insults were as sharp as possible without being too obvious. It was perfect.
He hit “send,” and the newsletter was released into the wild. Now, all he had to do was wait for Sunghoon’s reaction.
It didn’t take long.
By the time Jay walked into the office the next morning, he had a vague sense of pride. He casually strolled into the breakroom to grab a coffee, trying his best to act nonchalant as he waited for the inevitable firestorm of complaints from Sunghoon. This was going to be good. Jay could practically taste the frustration building up in Sunghoon’s veins.
But the thing was… there was no firestorm.
Instead, Jay rounded the corner of the breakroom and froze.
Sunghoon, who had just come in, was standing by the counter. And Jay wasn’t prepared for what he saw: Sunghoon was holding his phone, scrolling through the newsletter, and— wait for it —he was smiling.
A full, goofy, all-the-teeth grin spread across Sunghoon’s face.
Jay blinked. There was no way. No. Way. He was smiling at the newsletter, wasn’t he? Was this some sort of sick joke? Did Sunghoon have a secret sense of humor Jay didn’t know about? Maybe Sunghoon’s fake illness had been a cover-up to spend more time in his lair, laughing like a maniac at Jay’s attempt to publicly roast him.
Jay could feel his insides squirm with something between disbelief and... something else he wasn’t ready to unpack. But there was that damn smile, one that wasn’t filled with the usual icy superiority, but a kind of fond amusement.
“Do you—” Jay started, voice cracking just a little too much for his liking. “Do you actually find that funny?”
Sunghoon, still grinning like a man who had just been handed the punchline of his life, didn’t even look up. “Of course,” he said, glancing up for a second, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “It’s well-written. You have a gift for sarcasm, Jay. I didn’t know you cared so much.”
Jay’s brain short-circuited for a moment. Was Sunghoon... complimenting him? Or was he mocking him, wrapped in layers of dry humor? Was this just part of the sick, twisted game Sunghoon liked to play? And why was Jay’s heart pounding in his chest at the sight of him acting— normal ? Not perfect. Not cold and professional. But like a person, not some untouchable office god.
“I... care ?” Jay blinked. “You think I... care ?” That’s what he was supposed to say, right? This wasn’t care . This was strategic warfare. This was Jay doing his best to prove that he could take Sunghoon down without ever breaking a sweat. He was not the one who got emotionally attached. Ever.
Sunghoon set his phone down, clearly entertained by Jay’s confused expression. “Oh yeah. It’s charming, really. All that passive-aggressive energy. You’ve got talent . Should start charging for it.”
Jay narrowed his eyes. “It was supposed to roast you. You were supposed to be furious.”
“I am furious,” Sunghoon said calmly, picking up his coffee mug with a casual grace. “I’m furious at how good you are at this. Maybe I should start doing the same to you. See how you like it.”
Jay stared at him, jaw slightly slack. “Wait. You’re not mad? That wasn’t even a good roast.”
Sunghoon raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Oh, no, it was a great roast. I’m just not going to make a big scene over it.” He glanced down at the newsletter again. “It’s funny. I can’t deny it. I do have a knack for disappearing when things get boring. But hey, maybe if I took more sick days, you’d finally have a chance to top me, huh?”
Jay swallowed hard. His brain was still trying to process this level of chaos .
“Are you messing with me right now? This is some weird reverse psychology bullshit.”
Sunghoon took a sip from his mug, still grinning that infuriatingly charming grin. “Who knows?”
Jay’s heart skipped a beat. He didn’t know how to respond to that. He wanted to say something snarky, something that would reassert his control over the situation. But for some reason, the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he gave a sarcastic laugh that barely disguised the turmoil bubbling up inside.
“Whatever,” Jay muttered, looking anywhere but at Sunghoon. “I’m not going to let you win this.”
Sunghoon smiled again, a little softer this time, and leaned back. “I’m not trying to win, Jay. I’m just enjoying the ride.”
Jay froze. And, for the first time, he didn’t know if the joke was on Sunghoon—or on him.
The elevator doors slid shut, and Jay pressed the button for the top floor, watching the numbers tick up as they rose. He was already running late, his mind racing through the day’s endless list of tasks. Sunghoon was standing next to him, as always, his perfect posture somehow making the tiny space feel even more cramped. Jay had long since stopped pretending they were fine with each other. They were enemies. The elevator had just become their battleground.
Except… today felt different.
It wasn’t the normal tension, the usual passive-aggressive sparring. Something hung between them—an uncomfortable energy that Jay couldn’t quite place. Maybe it was the fact that Sunghoon’s face was softer than usual, the lines of his jaw more relaxed, his shoulders less stiff. Or maybe it was the way Sunghoon kept glancing at him, like he had something to say but didn’t know how to say it.
Jay’s internal ramblings were interrupted by a sudden lurch.
“Great,” he muttered, rolling his eyes as the elevator jerked and then stopped with a loud thud. “Really great. I’m late for a meeting, and we’re stuck in a freaking elevator.”
He reached for the emergency button, but nothing happened. A moment of silence stretched before he groaned in frustration.
“What the hell, Sunghoon?” Jay snapped, looking over at him. “This is your fault. You’re the one who insisted we take this damn elevator. Should’ve taken the stairs.”
Sunghoon raised an eyebrow, not looking the least bit surprised. “You think I have control over the elevator?” He crossed his arms, his expression shifting to that signature cool indifference. “Not everything in this building revolves around me, Jay.”
Jay’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not the one who chose to ride with me, am I?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Sunghoon said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “You’re just so irresistible to be around. Maybe I just wanted to see how long it would take you to snap today.”
Jay snorted. “So this is a game for you now? Watch Jay lose his mind in a confined space?”
“Seems to be working, doesn’t it?” Sunghoon shot back, unamused. “It’s your own fault for thinking everything is about you.”
Jay clenched his fists, resisting the urge to throw some biting remark back at him. He could feel the tension building. It wasn’t just the fact that they were stuck in an elevator. It was Sunghoon . And, weirdly, it was himself . The way Sunghoon was acting—calm, collected, like he had no problem being here, no problem with the fact that they were both clearly pissed off at each other, yet still... not moving away.
God, Jay hated this. He hated the fact that he couldn’t just scream at Sunghoon without something stirring in his chest. It was like every moment they spent together was a spark waiting to ignite, and Jay couldn’t figure out if he was fanning the flames or feeding the fire with his own stupid pride.
“Why are you even still here, huh?” Jay hissed, crossing his arms as well. “You know I can’t stand being around you. So what’s the point of acting all high and mighty like you’ve got the moral high ground here?”
Sunghoon blinked, his jaw tightening. There it was again—the edge of frustration that usually came out in silence. But today, for some reason, it felt different. It wasn’t cold. It wasn’t detached. His eyes softened, just the slightest bit, and his voice came out a little more… subdued.
“I don’t think I’m acting high and mighty, Jay. I’m just... trying to get through this with you. Don’t make this worse than it is.”
Jay froze at the words. He hadn’t expected that. Sunghoon had said something softer, without the sharp sarcasm he usually aimed at him. There was no bite, no edge. Just exhaustion, maybe. Or maybe something else entirely. It caught Jay off guard, and for a moment, he didn’t know how to respond.
Instead, he just stared at him, the irritation he felt mingling with a strange flutter in his chest. He wanted to throw it away, to ignore it, to keep fighting. But... goddammit, Sunghoon was making it so difficult. It was like he was inviting Jay to cross some unspoken line they both knew was there.
Jay’s breath hitched, trying to break through the awkward silence. “I don’t need you to care , Sunghoon. You’re not the freaking savior of this place.”
Sunghoon’s lips quirked, like he was trying not to smile. “You sure about that? Because it seems like you’d prefer someone to care. You don’t like being alone, do you?”
Jay’s heart dropped. Was Sunghoon seriously saying this? Was that really what he thought? That Jay didn’t like being alone?
Before Jay could respond—before he could pull himself together and come up with something snarky and cutting—he felt Sunghoon’s hand lightly brush his arm.
It wasn’t aggressive. It wasn’t possessive. It was just a touch. But it felt like a damn invitation, something Jay had been fighting against for what felt like months now. Sunghoon’s eyes were searching his, those dark, calm eyes that always seemed to read him like an open book. The heat between them surged, unexpected, but undeniable.
Jay could feel his pulse quicken. It wasn’t the usual anger. It wasn’t the usual frustration. This time, it was something else. Something raw. Something... too real.
Jay opened his mouth to argue, to hurl some perfectly crafted insult, something sharp enough to keep that maddening look off Sunghoon’s face. But before he could speak, Sunghoon cut him off—calm, cool, and devastating.
“Shut up,” he said, voice quiet but firm, like a command dressed up in silk.
Jay froze, blinking like he hadn’t quite registered the words. Sunghoon was so close now, their argument forgotten in the electric pull between them.
Jay tilted his head, lips curling into something smug, something reckless. “Make me,” he shot back, his voice a little too breathless to sound as cocky as he wanted.
Sunghoon didn’t hesitate. Didn’t blink. Just moved in like gravity had chosen him, his mouth crashing into Jay’s in a kiss that was all heat and frustration and something dangerously close to want.
The kiss wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t slow. It was raw, desperate, and filled with everything they hadn’t said to each other. Jay’s body went completely still at first, but it wasn’t out of shock. It was out of the feeling that this was inevitable. That this thing, whatever it was between them, had been building for so long that it could no longer be ignored.
The kiss deepened, and Jay responded without thinking. His hands reached for Sunghoon, one wrapping around his neck, the other grabbing the front of his shirt, pulling him closer. It was messy, hot, desperate—a collision of lips and teeth, of wanting and frustration that neither of them had known how to express.
For a few moments, the world outside the elevator ceased to exist. There were no more deadlines. No more work. No more rivalry. Just the heat between them, thick and overwhelming.
When Sunghoon pulled back, he looked at Jay with that same soft, almost searching gaze. His lips were swollen, his chest rising and falling unevenly. There was a moment of silence—one that felt too long, but neither of them seemed to know what to say.
Jay’s mind was racing, trying to make sense of the explosion that had just happened. He wanted to say something clever. He wanted to make some witty remark about how Sunghoon had finally cracked under the pressure. But all he could do was stare back at him.
“Make me believe you don’t feel something,” Sunghoon whispered, the challenge in his voice softer than before.
Jay’s chest tightened. And he didn’t know how to respond.
Jay didn’t expect the kiss.
Okay, technically , he did say “make me,” but in his defense, he’d said it with all the venom of a man ready to throw hands, not tongues. And yet here he was, pressed against a mirrored elevator wall, mouth swallowed whole by the one person on Earth whose death he had fantasy-boarded more than once.
Sunghoon.
And what pissed Jay off the most—what made his skin burn and his stomach flip—was how good it was. Too good. Infuriatingly, devastatingly good.
Jay bit Sunghoon’s lip in retaliation.
Sunghoon groaned low in his throat and shoved closer, hand cupping the back of Jay’s neck like he owned it, like he could control this—control Jay. And Jay, like the hot mess that he was, leaned into it. Fisted a hand in Sunghoon’s blazer, yanked him forward, and kissed him back like he had something to prove.
The kiss turned frantic fast. Chaotic hands undid buttons, loosened ties, yanked shirts out of waistbands. Jay’s breath came hot and fast as he walked Sunghoon backward until the man’s back hit the opposite elevator wall.
“God,” Jay hissed, half-laughing, half-wheezing, “I still hate you.”
“You’re literally unzipping me,” Sunghoon panted, grabbing Jay’s ass with both hands.
Jay moaned—actual moan, out loud, unforgivable—and shoved a thigh between Sunghoon’s legs like he wanted to end this man’s career and also maybe beg him to never stop touching him.
“You infuriate me,” Jay growled, dragging his mouth down Sunghoon’s jaw. “You with your spreadsheets and pressed shirts and condescending meeting nods—”
Sunghoon turned their bodies, pinning Jay this time, hand sliding up under his shirt, fingers brushing his ribs and making Jay gasp .
“Then shut up,” Sunghoon said, low and sharp. “And let me ruin you.”
Jay blinked—and then laughed. “That a threat or a promise?”
Sunghoon kissed him so hard it knocked the air from his lungs. His thigh pressed up between Jay’s legs just right, and Jay’s knees buckled, grinding down against it with a shudder.
“You’re such a goddamn menace,” Sunghoon murmured, dragging his lips down Jay’s neck, leaving a bite that would be impossible to explain in Monday’s HR check-in.
Jay’s head fell back with a soft whine, hips bucking, needing friction, heat, anything . He was already too far gone. The tension that had been choking him for months now unfurled into something raw and desperate.
He didn’t know who started first—maybe him, maybe Sunghoon, maybe some chaos demon feeding off their sexual tension—but suddenly pants were undone, underwear shoved down, and Jay was pressed flush to Sunghoon, skin on skin, hardness grinding against hardness.
“Fuck,” Jay gasped, clutching Sunghoon’s shoulders like he was drowning. “Oh my god , are we really doing this here?”
“We’re already doing it,” Sunghoon muttered, dragging their hips together in a maddening rhythm.
Jay’s body burned. He felt everything —the scrape of Sunghoon’s teeth, the slide of his hand between them, the roughness of his palm as he gripped both of them and stroked, slow and deliberate. Jay’s breath caught, and he shoved his face into Sunghoon’s shoulder, biting down on the fabric of his shirt to muffle a cry.
Every stroke made his brain short-circuit. He was being touched like this in an elevator by a man he was supposed to hate, and it felt better than anything he’d allowed himself to want in a long time.
“You’re so fucking annoying,” Jay rasped, eyes squeezed shut, hips rocking with abandon.
“You love it.”
Jay didn’t answer—because if he opened his mouth again, something honest might come out. Instead, he kissed Sunghoon like he needed him to shut up and keep going. Which, to be fair, he did.
They were close. Jay could feel it coiling in his gut, hot and electric. His thighs trembled. His hands scrambled for purchase. And Sunghoon was relentless—murmuring filth into Jay’s ear, mouthing at his jaw, rutting against him like they had all the time in the world, even though—
“Oh fuck ,” Jay gasped as the tight coil inside him snapped.
He came hard, clinging to Sunghoon, panting against his throat. He felt Sunghoon follow seconds later with a low, breathy groan that made Jay shiver all over again.
It took a moment before he realized they were a mess—shirts wrinkled, pants half-down, skin flushed, breath ragged.
Jay laughed, breathless and still leaning on Sunghoon like he’d lost all structural integrity.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered.
“You okay?”
Jay looked up at him, dazed. “You’re still asking me that?”
Sunghoon just smiled softly and ran his hand down Jay’s back, slow and grounding. And Jay, despite everything, melted into the touch. For a second. One stupid second.
That was all it took.
Because that’s when it hit him.
He liked Sunghoon. Not just in the hate-sex kind of way, but in the let me make you tea in the morning and memorize how you take your eggs kind of way. The kind of like that made his chest hurt and his brain go static.
Jay stumbled back with a half-cough, half-laugh that sounded more like panic.
Sunghoon looked at him, concerned, but didn’t push. Just pulled up his pants and straightened his shirt, like he hadn’t just ruined Jay’s ability to emotionally regulate for the rest of his life.
Jay was still catching his breath, heart pounding, when the elevator doors opened with a dramatic ding .
And now, of course, the world was watching.
They stepped out, somehow composed—Sunghoon polished as always, Jay looking like he’d wrestled with a goddamn office chair.
No one said anything. But Jay knew they knew .
“Next time,” Jay muttered as they turned a corner, “we’re getting stuck in a supply closet instead.”
Sunghoon smirked. “Next time?”
Jay didn’t respond.
He was too busy realizing that, yeah—there would be a next time.
And probably a next-next time, and god help him, a brunch.
Jay was already having a bad day.
Someone had left a passive-aggressive note about dirty mugs in the break room, his oat milk had expired yesterday (he still drank it out of spite), and he’d stubbed his toe on the corner of the filing cabinet like it owed him money.
So when he walked into the Thursday team sync and saw her— Transfer Girl —in his seat, next to Sunghoon , laughing at something he had said, Jay knew today would be a certified disaster.
He paused at the doorway, mentally recalculating the trajectory of his morning from mild annoyance to I will break this stapler in half.
Sunghoon, of course, looked unbothered. Immaculate. Shirt crisp, tie symmetrical, posture disgustingly straight. Jay had once described him as “the human version of a Google Calendar” in a newsletter and had meant every word. And now Google Calendar was being chatted up by an unfamiliar, overly friendly Outlook invitation in heels.
“Who’s she?” Jay asked Yeonjun, sliding into the seat next to him while keeping one eye trained on the scene unfolding across the room like a hawk on a grudge.
“New marketing analyst,” Yeonjun murmured. “Transferred from Busan. She’s cool.”
“She’s laughing at a Sunghoon joke,” Jay said flatly. “No one’s that cool.”
Yeonjun shrugged. “Maybe he’s funny?”
Jay made a noise of pure offense. “Absolutely not.”
He couldn’t hear what they were saying. But he could see. And what he saw made his blood pressure do an interpretive dance.
Sunghoon was smiling. Not the polite, tight-lipped one he used during meetings, but the real one—the one where his eyes crinkled just a little and his dimple showed up like a personal attack.
Jay squinted. Since when did he smile like that at anyone but—
No. Nope. Not important.
What was important was that the new girl had just leaned over to show him something on her tablet, and her arm casually brushed his. Casually . As in “oops I’m so clumsy, let me just rest my elbow on your soul.”
Jay’s jaw locked so tight he was surprised he didn’t chip a molar.
“She’s touching him,” he hissed under his breath.
“She’s… tapping a spreadsheet,” Yeonjun replied.
Jay turned to him, wild-eyed. “ Intimately tapping a spreadsheet.”
Yeonjun blinked. “Okay.”
Jay whipped back to his surveillance.
Now she was writing something in her notepad. Then sliding it across to Sunghoon.
Sunghoon read it, smiled again—and wrote something back .
Jay nearly combusted.
“What are they doing?” he whispered.
“I think... flirting?” Yeonjun guessed, sipping his coffee like this was fine .
“They’re note-passing . Like it’s middle school. Like they’re on some weird professional version of a date.” Jay’s voice was rising in volume and pitch. “In my meeting.”
“It’s everyone’s meeting.”
Jay ignored him. He was too busy taking psychic damage from the way the girl playfully nudged Sunghoon’s arm and Sunghoon—traitor, Benedict Arnold, Spreadsheet Judas—did not visibly recoil.
“Oh my god . He’s letting her touch his blazer,” Jay whispered, clutching his pen like it was a weapon. “Does she know that blazer costs more than my entire monthly budget for groceries and emotional damage combined?”
The meeting started. Jay didn’t hear a single word.
His eyes were glued to the two of them. The girl kept leaning in. Laughing. Nodding too hard. Sunghoon had the audacity to match her energy , like this was a rom-com instead of Jay’s emotional breaking point.
At one point, the girl scribbled something else down and slid the notepad to Sunghoon again.
Sunghoon read it.
Then glanced up.
At Jay.
Their eyes met—brief, fleeting, but real . Jay’s heart stuttered.
Sunghoon blinked, then looked back down and smiled faintly at the paper.
Jay, internally: I'm going to commit workplace sabotage.
The rest of the meeting passed in a blur of imagined crimes and inner monologues so dramatic they’d make drama jealous.
When it ended, Jay didn’t wait to be dismissed. He fled.
Stormed back to his desk. Slammed his chair. Opened his laptop like it had personally wronged him.
And then—
He opened the newsletter template.
His fingers hovered over the keyboard, trembling with barely restrained chaos.
He didn’t know what he was writing yet. But someone— everyone —was going to feel it.
Because Sunghoon was his.
He just hadn’t admitted it yet.
The newsletter had always been his playground. His outlet. His way of poking the bear without ever admitting he was scared of the bear or lowkey obsessed with the bear or maybe wanted to make out with the bear in an elevator again.
But now?
Now it was a soapbox. A battlefield. A goddamn confessional booth.
He started typing furiously. Scrapped it. Started over. Deleted it again. Chewed on the corner of his stylus. Cursed out his own reflection in the monitor.
Then he cracked his knuckles, took a deep breath, and let the chaos possess him.
Employee Spotlight: Park Sunghoon
You’ve seen him. You know him. You may have called him “impossibly hot” in the break room or stared longingly at the way he alphabetizes his folders.
But here's the thing.
He’s mine. Deal with it.
Yes, this is your official notice. Your warning. Your line in the sand. Hands off. Eyes away. Take your mid-tier iced lattes and go.
He’s smart. He’s unfairly good at spreadsheets. He smells like expensive soap and emotional repression. He says he doesn’t like chaos but still makes out with it in elevators, so do with that what you will.
Park Sunghoon is this month’s Employee of the Month. Not just for being competent or well-dressed or for saving Jay’s life by tolerating him daily. But because he’s somehow real and soft and good underneath the perfection.
And yeah, Jay might be an emotional coward who can’t say this out loud.
But he can put it in a company newsletter, and honestly? That feels more on brand.
Congrats, Sunghoon. You win. You always do.
PS: Jay will still fight you over your opinions on comma placement.
Jay hit publish before he could chicken out.
And then sat back, immediately regretting all of his life choices.
What the hell had he just done? He’d basically confessed . Not just to Sunghoon. But to the entire office . He had emotionally spiraled into a layout design and weaponized Canva against his own heart.
“Oh my god,” he whispered into his hands. “Oh my god .”
He was halfway through mentally drafting his resignation letter when he heard it.
That low, familiar laugh.
He peeked over his monitor.
Sunghoon was standing by the break room printer, newsletter in hand, one brow raised and a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.
Jay’s pulse stuttered.
Their eyes met.
Sunghoon’s smile grew.
And Jay? Jay did what he did best.
He panicked.
He ducked behind his desk, whispered “I’m gonna die here,” and began drafting a new article titled How to Fake Your Death and Start a New Life in the Forest.
Jay had hidden in the records room before. Once, when the copy machine caught fire. Twice, when someone from HR asked if he “wanted to chat.” And one particularly dark Tuesday when someone tried to get him to join the birthday planning committee.
But this time was different.
This time, he wasn’t hiding from chaos.
He was hiding from feelings .
And they were worse.
He sat slumped against a filing cabinet marked “2017 Expense Reports,” knees pulled up, trying not to have a full mental breakdown in front of a box labeled “SHREDDING – DO NOT OPEN.” Very fitting.
Because apparently, declaring someone as “yours” in an employee newsletter was not the same thing as confessing your feelings like a functioning adult.
Not that Jay was one of those. At best, he was a gremlin with a decent font selection.
He groaned and dragged a hand down his face. “I should be fired,” he muttered to the ceiling. “No—exiled. Into the sea. With a rock tied to my ankle and my tragic gay regrets.”
The door opened.
Jay didn’t look up. “If it’s HR, just tase me. I won’t fight.”
But it wasn’t HR.
It was Sunghoon.
And because God had a sense of humor and Jay had made a lot of bad decisions, he was glowing with quiet confidence and soft eyes , dressed like a punchline to all of Jay’s self-restraint.
Sunghoon shut the door behind him with a click.
Jay remained on the floor, as still as an overcaffeinated corpse.
“Jay,” Sunghoon said, and oh no, it was his gentle voice—the one that made Jay’s brain short-circuit and his personality glitch.
Jay didn’t move. “How’d you find me?”
Sunghoon shrugged. “Where else would you go to have a nervous breakdown except next to a filing cabinet?”
Jay squinted up at him. “You sound like you’ve rehearsed that.”
“I have.”
Sunghoon walked over, slow and steady, like he wasn’t about to completely ruin Jay’s coping mechanisms. He crouched down, too close, too calm.
Jay held up a hand like a warning flare. “If you’re here to sue me for emotional defamation via internal newsletter—”
“I’m not.”
“—or worse, reject me gently and with dignity, I swear to God—”
“I’m not doing that either.”
Jay stopped. Blinked. His voice came out smaller than intended. “Then why are you here?”
Sunghoon exhaled, slow. “Because you said it. Finally.”
“Said what?” Jay deflected, the sarcasm instinct twitching like a dying animal.
“You said I’m yours.”
Jay stared at him. “That was a newsletter gag. It was satire. There were fonts involved.”
“Jay.”
“I picked Helvetica Neue , Hoon. No one confesses love in Helvetica Neue.”
Sunghoon smiled. And it wasn’t smug or amused or “oh look, Jay’s spiraling again.” It was warm. Devastatingly warm.
“Maybe not. But I got it.”
Jay’s throat closed up. “You… you aren’t mad?”
“I’m relieved. ”
Jay blinked again, hard. Like if he did it fast enough, it’d reset this moment and erase the weirdly sincere tone from Sunghoon’s voice.
“You were… waiting for me?” he asked.
“Yes,” Sunghoon said, like it was obvious. “God, Jay, do you think I put up with your weekly psychological warfare just for fun?”
“I mean—yes?”
Sunghoon laughed, that low sound that always made Jay’s chest feel like it was unraveling.
“Do you want to know what I felt when I saw that newsletter?” he asked.
Jay opened his mouth, probably to say something stupid. Sunghoon cut him off.
“ Happy. ”
Jay’s brain blue-screened.
Sunghoon leaned closer. “Like finally, finally, you’d stopped hiding behind jokes. And maybe I wasn’t the only one holding onto something here.”
Jay’s heart felt like it was trying to claw its way out of his ribs.
“You should’ve said something first,” he whispered.
“I didn’t want to push you,” Sunghoon said softly. “You flirted with the entire office through anonymous roast columns but couldn’t even look me in the eye some days.”
Jay looked at the floor. “That’s fair.”
“And yet, here we are.”
Jay risked a glance up. “You’re… not scared?”
Sunghoon tilted his head. “Why would I be scared of someone who made me soup when I had a fever and still insulted my posture in the same breath?”
Jay’s laugh broke before it could properly form.
Sunghoon leaned in. “You’re impossible.”
“I get that a lot.”
“I love you anyway.”
And that was it. That was the fatal blow. The knockout. The thing Jay had been avoiding like an overdue invoice for months.
His mouth moved before his fear could stop it.
“I love you too,” he said, shaky and wrecked and finally free.
They kissed like it had taken the entire world to get them here.
And maybe it had.
But Jay wasn’t hiding anymore.
Jay slammed the lunch container on Sunghoon’s desk with the kind of theatrical flourish that suggested he was delivering either a romantic gesture or a lawsuit.
“Here,” he said, as if the offering personally offended him. “Your lunch, sir. Because apparently you’re incapable of eating before 3 p.m. and I’m tired of hearing you argue with your stomach like it’s in your department.”
Sunghoon, as always, didn’t look up immediately. He finished signing whatever Very Important Paper he was working on, then glanced at the cup perched on top of the lunchbox. He squinted at it.
Jay stood with his arms crossed, trying to look like he didn’t care. “Yes, the cup has writing on it. Yes, it’s permanent marker. No, you can’t sue me.”
Sunghoon read the message. “‘Dear Sir, stop being attractive at the office. People are trying to work. Also, eat your carbs. Love, your local menace.’” He raised an eyebrow. “Charming.”
Jay rolled his eyes. “There were better drafts. I’m censoring myself for HR.”
Sunghoon chuckled softly, the kind of laugh that settled right under Jay’s skin like a heat rash he didn’t want to get rid of. Then he did the worst thing possible.
He opened the drawer.
That drawer.
Jay knew it existed. Had suspected for a while. But to see it—to witness it being opened with zero shame—was something else entirely.
There, stacked neatly like a deeply embarrassing paper trail of affection crimes, were the newsletters, post-it notes and love letters.
Every dumb little post-it, napkin scribble, cup doodle, and chaotic roast disguised as endearment he’d ever given Sunghoon over the past few months. All stored. All saved.
“You kept them,” Jay said, scandalized.
Sunghoon glanced at him like he was the unhinged one. “Of course I did.”
“That’s... creepy?”
“That’s romantic.”
Jay made a strangled noise and pointed accusingly. “You said you threw them away! ”
“I lied.”
Jay gasped. “ You never lie! ”
“I lie when the truth would give you a superiority complex.”
“I already have one, Sunghoon!”
Sunghoon smiled. “Exactly.”
Jay grumbled under his breath and plopped himself into the chair across from Sunghoon’s desk, crossing his legs with aggressive flair.
“I hate you,” he muttered.
Sunghoon took a slow sip from the insulted coffee cup. “You say that every time I call you baby. ”
Jay flinched. “Don’t—ugh, don’t call me that in public. It’s offensive.”
Sunghoon tilted his head. “Would you prefer darling ?”
Jay made a dramatic gagging sound. “I will literally jump out of this window.”
“We’re on the third floor. You’ll just sprain something.”
Jay grumbled. “Sprain my pride.”
“You did that the first time you texted me ‘u up’ at 7:48 p.m. and followed it with a picture of your half-eaten ramen.”
Jay threw a paperclip at him.
Sunghoon caught it without looking, set it gently on the desk, and said, “Sweetheart.”
Jay actually choked . “Sunghoon. This is a corporate setting.”
“I’m very professional,” Sunghoon said, with a smile that should be illegal. “I’m just professionally in love with you.”
Jay’s stomach did something gross and fluttery, so he scowled to cover it up. “You can’t just say stuff like that and expect me not to have a crisis.”
“You have a crisis daily.”
“Yeah, but now it’s romantic. That’s a whole new genre of disaster.”
Sunghoon’s smile softened. He reached out, brushed his fingers across Jay’s knuckles where they rested on the desk. It was casual. It was devastating.
Jay stilled.
“You’re getting worse,” he muttered.
“How so?”
“You used to just call me annoying and slam doors in my face.”
Sunghoon leaned forward slightly. “And now?”
Jay swallowed. “Now you save my stupid notes and look at me like I… like I’m not a total mess.”
“You’re a mess,” Sunghoon said easily. “But you’re my mess.”
Jay cracked a crooked smile, the kind that tried to hide feelings behind sarcasm but failed miserably. “Gross.”
Sunghoon just looked at him—calm, fond, stupidly attractive—and said, “You’re falling, huh?”
Jay snorted. “Please. I hit the bottom like five arguments ago.”
Sunghoon laughed again, quiet and real. “Good.”
Jay let himself stare a moment too long, heart stuttering like it still couldn’t keep up with the fact that this was real now. The petty notes. The annoying pet names. The chaotic lunch deliveries disguised as complaints. It wasn’t just a game anymore.
It was love.
Awkward, slightly aggressive, chronically sleep-deprived love .
And Jay was falling deeper every day.
Bonus:
Jay adjusted the font. Then changed it. Then changed it back. Then deleted the entire header and rewrote it from scratch in Comic Sans just to offend Sunghoon across the room.
He’d moved on to squinting suspiciously at the kerning when Sunghoon finally looked up from his laptop and said, “You know you don’t have to design our wedding party invitation like it’s a quarterly office memo.”
Jay didn’t even look up. “It’s called branding, Sunghoon.”
“It’s called a cry for help, ” Sunghoon said, entirely too calm for someone engaged to a lunatic.
Jay smiled without humor. “You say that, but you’re still marrying me.”
“Because I love you.”
Jay waved him off. “Sentiment won’t save you from this font choice.”
The invitation— Newsletter Vol. 96: A Celebration of Capital-L Love and Mild Emotional Blackmail —was already shaping up to be a masterpiece. Jay had broken it down into sections:
- A front-page spread titled “Sunghoon Said Yes (Despite HR’s Recommendations)”
- A column called “Top 10 Reasons You’re Invited (Yes, Even You, Niki from Finance)”
- And a special feature Jay was particularly proud of: “What to Wear, and No You Can’t Wear White, Wonyoung”
Sunghoon sighed fondly. “I still can’t believe we’re doing this.”
“What, getting married or you letting me design the invite?”
“Both.”
Jay turned to face him, leaning back in his chair with a grin that could only be described as “smug fiancé energy.” “You knew what you signed up for.”
“I didn’t realize it included a reader poll on who cried first during the proposal.”
Jay gasped. “You did not look me in the eyes and cry under fairy lights just to be a coward about it now.”
Sunghoon raised a brow. “You sobbed harder.”
Jay narrowed his eyes. “Because you quoted our first HR meeting in your vows.”
“It was romantic!”
“You said, ‘I knew I’d marry you the day I filed a complaint against you.’ ”
Sunghoon shrugged. “Still true.”
Jay made a choked noise and went back to typing. He was trying to figure out how to include QR codes shaped like hearts when Sunghoon wheeled his chair over and rested his chin on Jay’s shoulder.
Jay froze.
This was still a thing. Even months into engagement, Sunghoon being casually affectionate was like the sun peeking through his usually perfect, ice-cold exterior.
Jay would never get used to it.
“What are you writing now?” Sunghoon asked, voice low.
Jay tilted the screen a little, showing him the new section: “A Timeline of Questionable Romance: From Paperclip Wars to Vows of Eternal Suffering”
Sunghoon laughed quietly. “You’re unbelievable.”
Jay turned to him, eyes fond. “You’re the one who agreed to marry me, remember?”
“I did,” Sunghoon said. “I do.”
Jay’s chest pulled tight in that dumb, achy way. He still wasn’t used to this—being loved this much. Being chosen by someone who used to glare at him across staff meetings like he was a pest.
Sunghoon pressed a kiss to his cheek, then stood. “Do you want coffee?”
Jay nodded. “Black. Extra pettiness.”
Sunghoon smirked. “Perfect. Just like you.”
Jay stared after him, then turned back to the newsletter draft, blinking rapidly. After a moment, he added a new section right under the QR code:
Jay’s Final Note (Not That Final, I Plan on Haunting Him If He Ever Leaves Me)
You’re invited not because we have to, but because if you’ve been around long enough to witness the moment I first roasted Sunghoon in a newsletter, you’re already part of this chaos.
He’s my favorite enemy. My worst-kept secret. My best decision.
Come celebrate us. And bring cake. But not the lemon kind, we’re still in therapy over that.
Love,
Jay (and reluctantly, Sunghoon)
P.S. Don’t let him fool you. He’s keeping every note. Yes. Even the one I drew a tiny butt on.
He hit save. And smiled.
It wasn’t a traditional invite. But it was them —chaotic, ridiculous, and deeply in love. From war to wedding. From “shut up” to “I do.”
And maybe, just maybe, he’d let Sunghoon call him baby at the reception.
(But only if no one was recording.)