#Job Testing Strategies

[businessabroad]

How to succeed in your test at the United Nations #14

Mastering the UN's Hiring Exams: Tips for Triumph

The road to securing a job at the United Nations often includes a crucial testing phase. Our latest video, "How to Succeed Your Test at the United Nations - UN Jobs #14," is your guide to conquering this step with confidence.

From written exams to language proficiency and competency-based interviews, we delve into each testing format and reveal strategies for success. With advice from those who've passed and proven stress management tips, this video is a valuable resource for all UN job hopefuls.

Embark on your test preparation journey with us and move one step closer to your UN career goals.

#UNCareerJourney #TestPreparation #UNHiringExams #JobSearchSuccess

Here are all the videos in this course.

The Benefits of Working at the United Nations

UN Duty Station: What it is and What you Can Expect

The Process of Getting A Job at the United Nations

How to Apply For A Job At The United Nations

United Nations Levels and Salary - What are they?

Type of Contract at the United Nations

United Nations Steps and Contract Negotiation

United Nations Jobs, Job Role, and Posting Locations

UN Job Opportunities - How to Increase Your Odds

Best Places for Your Family to Live

How are you Competing Against

United Nations Official Languages

This is What the UN's Application Process is Like

How to success your test at the United Nations

Before Passing Your Interview at the United Nations

How to Successfully Interview For a Competency-Based Job

List of Questions used in Competency-Based Interview

What to do After the Interview at the United Nations

[mercutiotakethewheel]

Kendra, inwardly: Omg I am so scared right now. I’m going to die here. This freakyass magical creatures about to do me in. And could do so easily, which I am imagining very vividly right now. Those are huge teeth. I am fighting god to hold it together right now. I don’t want to die. Why am I here? Just to suffer, every night I close my eyes and—

Kendra, outwardly: I cast vicious mockery.

[eydi-andrius]

.

[baycitystygian]

was looking at job postings cause I could use an upgrade and... uh.... bright red flags in this one, tell me I'm not crazy

[dravidious]

In AWBO, black and especially white have a theme of "using poison counters, but still trying to win through life" with stuff like corrupted and power boosts

And that's neat! I like that! Sounds like a cool twist on poison! The problem is that most of the cards that play into this theme are kinda trash. There's about 3 good cards total, 4 if you count the green one. Meanwhile, looking at the WB toxic creatures...

They're pretty good, and the best ones also have low power so they don't help deal damage. So if you're running a deck with all these efficient toxic creatures and poison counter spells, some solid cards that help your toxic creatures, and a bunch of mediocre corrupted payoffs... why not just cut the corrupted cards and go full poison?

And that's how I ended up with a WB poison deck that doesn't run Vivisection Evangelist

[manasastuff-blog]

CISF CONSTABLE / FIREMAN SYLLABUS 2024 #bestdefenceacademy #ndacoaching #army

The 2024 CISF Constable/Fireman Syllabus has just been revealed, and it's crucial that you know every detail to ensure success in the upcoming exam. This video breaks down the entire syllabus, providing you with insider tips and strategies to master each section. Whether you're just starting your preparation or looking to refine your study plan, this comprehensive guide will help you stay ahead of the competition. From physical training to written exams, we've got you covered with everything you need to know. Tune in to make sure you're fully prepared to ace the CISF Constable/Fireman Exam in 2024!

Call:7799799221

Website:www.manasadefenceacademy,com

#CISFSyllabus2024#CISFConstable#FiremanExam2024#CISFPreparation#ExamTips #CISFExam2024#trending #FiremanSyllabus2024#ConstableExam#CompetitiveExams #GovernmentJobs

[seospicybin]

COCKY.

CHAPTER I

Bangchan x reader. (s,f)

Synopsis: As a researcher developing a specialized condom in extra large sizes, you never expected the company’s product manager, Chris, to volunteer as a test subject—let alone for things to get this complicated. Balancing professionalism with undeniable chemistry, you must navigate a partnership that’s strictly business… or so you keep telling yourself. (23,6k words)

Author's note: One order of extra large Chris is here. Hope you enjoy it and pls share what your thoughts on it after ♡

Working at a company that specializes in sexual health products isn’t exactly dinner table conversation, but it’s your job—and you take it seriously. As one of the lead researchers in product development, you’ve spent months working on a specialized condom for individuals with extra-large sizes. And now, it’s time to pitch it to the board.

You take a deep breath, tugging at the hem of your blazer before stepping into the conference room. A long, intimidating table stretches before you, lined with executives who look way too serious for a meeting about condoms. Behind you, the screen glows with the first slide of your presentation, the product name in bold letters.

"Good morning, everyone," you begin, keeping your voice as steady as possible. "Today, I'll be walking you through my research on a new condom designed specifically for those who find standard sizing... insufficient."

A few executives glance at each other. Some raise their brows, others nod with mild interest. You press on, clicking to the next slide. Graphs, charts, and anatomical studies fill the screen as you explain the glaring gap in the market and why this product is necessary.

"Our research shows a real demand for this," you continue. "Current options on the market are often too restrictive, uncomfortable, or prone to breakage. This design addresses those concerns by enhancing durability while maintaining a natural feel."

You move through the slides with confidence, breaking down the materials, elasticity testing, and the competition. But as you reach the last slide, you sense the shift in the room. Mr. Kim, the head of the board, leans forward, fingers steepled together.

"Your research is solid," he says. "The product has potential. But before we approve production, we need real-world testing."

You pause. "Of course. We're already in the process of recruiting participants—"

"Expedite it," another executive interrupts. "We need actual user data before we move forward. Bring us results, then we’ll talk."

You nod, maintaining a professional expression, but frustration bubbles beneath the surface. Finding participants for something this specific isn’t exactly a quick task. But without those test results, your project is stuck in limbo.

As the meeting wraps up and the executives file out, you exhale, already running through possible recruitment strategies in your head.

What you don’t realize is that one of your participants might already be in the room—watching you with quiet interest.

-

Back in your lab, you slump into your chair with a sigh, letting your head fall back against the headrest. The sterile, fluorescent lights hum softly above you, a stark contrast to the high-stakes tension of the conference room. You kick off your heels, rolling your chair toward your desk just as the door swings open.

"So? How'd it go?" your friend and co-worker, Jane, saunters in, her lab coat barely hanging onto her shoulders.

"Ugh." You rub your temples. "It went as expected. They love the concept, but they won’t approve production unless I bring them real-world test results. And fast."

Jane lets out a low whistle as she strolls over to the shelves lined with various prototype models and sample products. Without hesitation, she picks up one of the dildos—one of the many you use for testing elasticity and fit—and spins it in her hand like a baton. "So basically, you need to find guys with huge dicks willing to help out?"

You groan, burying your face in your hands. "When you put it like that, it sounds ridiculous. But yes. And I haven’t found a single participant yet. Screening takes time, and I don’t have much of it."

Jane smirks, tapping the tip of the dildo against her palm. "Maybe you should try a more direct approach. Put up a ‘Now Hiring: Well-Endowed Men’ sign in the break room."

You shoot her a deadpan look. "Oh sure, that’ll go over great with HR."

She laughs, setting the dildo back with the others. "I’m just saying, desperate times call for desperate measures. You’re working against the clock, and if you don’t find someone soon, all that research goes to waste."

You exhale, staring at the mess of paperwork and sample prototypes on your desk. You know she’s right. You need a participant—fast.

Jane heads for the door but pauses before leaving, a mischievous glint in her eye. "Hey, maybe you should start looking for participants here in the office. You never know who might be hiding a big secret."

She winks before disappearing down the hallway, leaving you groaning into your hands.

What you don’t know is that the solution to your problem is much closer than you think.

-

Lunch break couldn’t have come at a better time. You needed to step away from your desk, from the research, from the stress of finding participants. But Jane’s words from earlier linger in your head, much to your dismay.

Because now, as you sit in the company cafeteria, sipping on your drink, you catch yourself doing something utterly mortifying—unintentionally observing every single man who walks by. Or, more specifically, their crotches.

You aren’t trying to. Really. But Jane had planted the thought, and now, your brain has decided to betray you. Your eyes flicker over a group of IT specialists at the salad bar. Then to the finance associate adjusting his belt. Then to one of the marketing interns stretching in line for coffee. You don’t even realize you’re doing it until Jane elbows you with a wicked grin.

"Oh my God, you’re actually doing it," she laughs, nearly choking on her sandwich.

Your face heats instantly. "I’m not! I mean—not intentionally. I was just—oh, shut up. Let’s go."

Jane, still giggling, follows you out of the cafeteria, coffee cups in hand. She chatters about some office gossip as you make your way back to your lab, but you barely register her words. You just need to get back to work and shake this subconscious habit before you embarrass yourself further. But the moment you step into the lab, all coherent thought screeches to a halt.

Because standing in the middle of your workspace, examining a row of sample products with a curious yet unreadable expression, is Chris.

His fingers hover over one of the prototype models, but when he notices you, he straightens and offers a polite smile. "Good afternoon," he greets. "I came to speak with you."

Jane arches a brow, glances between the two of you, then smirks. "I’ll leave you to it," she says before slipping out, leaving you alone with Chris.

You turn back to him, slightly puzzled. "How can I assist you?"

He hesitates for a moment before nodding toward your desk. "I would like a more detailed explanation regarding your product—its functionality and how far in development are you."

You blink, pleasantly surprised by his interest. "Of course." You proceed to outline the design, materials, and the challenges in securing participants.

Chris listens attentively, though his expression remains unreadable. He appears to be weighing something in his mind but ultimately checks the time and exhales. "I have a meeting to attend, but could you come by my office later? Around four?"

You nod, though curiosity lingers. "Certainly. May I ask what this pertains to?"

He offers a small smile. "We’ll discuss it then."

And with that, he heads out, leaving you wondering what exactly he has in mind.

-

Chris Bang is a name everyone in the company knows. As a product manager, he’s known for his reliability, innovative ideas, and ability to bring projects to life. He’s respected, well-liked, and a natural leader. A social butterfly who effortlessly navigates through the office, friendly to everyone he meets.

You, on the other hand, have only ever interacted with him in passing—polite nods, brief greetings when you cross paths in the hallway. So when you receive an invitation to meet him in his office, you can’t help but wonder why he suddenly wants to talk to you.

A few minutes before four, you find yourself lingering outside Chris’s office, nervously shifting on your feet. You check your watch, heart thumping. A little after four, Chris finally appears, offering an apologetic smile.

"My apologies for the delay," he says. "Please, come in."

You follow him inside, settling into the chair across from his desk as he takes his seat. He folds his hands on the desk, studying you for a moment before speaking. "Thank you for coming. I wanted to discuss something regarding your research."

You nod, trying to keep your curiosity at bay. "Of course. How can I assist you?"

Chris watches you carefully, his expression unreadable as he leans forward, resting his forearms on the desk. The slight shift in his posture draws your attention—just enough to make you hyper-aware of the space between you.

“What specific criteria are you looking for in a participant for your product test?” His voice is even, measured, but there’s something in the way he asks that makes your breath hitch for just a second.

You clear your throat, straightening in your seat. “The main requirement is that participants need to have a genital size above average.”

His lips quirk up slightly, though his expression remains composed. “And what qualifies as above average?”

You’re certain he already knows the answer, but you respond anyway, keeping your tone professional. “Anything more than 5.5 inches when fully erect is considered above average.”

A beat of silence stretches between you. Chris doesn’t say anything immediately, just sits there, tapping a finger lightly against the desk, his gaze flickering over you in a way that makes the air feel heavier.

Then, finally, he exhales, tilting his head slightly. “I may have a solution to your participant problem,” he says, his voice lower now. “I would like to volunteer.”

Your brain short-circuits for a second. “You… what?”

“I want to be a participant.”

You blink, your mouth opening slightly before snapping shut. Your grip on your pen tightens as you try to process what he just said.

He nods. "I see potential in your product, and I believe in its success. More importantly, I want to contribute to the company’s innovation."

You stare at him, still trying to wrap your head around it. "How exactly are you going to be a participant?"

Chris leans back slightly. "I ask that my involvement remains anonymous."

Your throat feels dry as you nod. "Alright. But how are we going to conduct the test if you want to remain anonymous?"

He watches you carefully before answering. "We can arrange to do it outside of the office, in secret."

Without another word, Chris pushes himself up from his chair and moves around the desk. He stops right in front of you, leaning against the edge of his desk, arms crossing over his chest as he watches you, waiting. And that’s when it happens.

For the first time, you really look at him—not just as a well-respected product manager but as a man. The sharp cut of his jaw, the slight crease between his brows, the way his fitted white dress shirt does absolutely nothing to hide the definition underneath. How had you never noticed before?

Your eyes trail lower before you can stop yourself, a fleeting glance—until you realize exactly where you’re looking. The bulge against his dark slacks.

Heat floods your face as you snap your gaze back up, praying he didn’t catch that momentary lapse in professionalism.

Chris doesn’t comment on it, but there’s something almost amused in the way he tilts his head. He extends a hand toward you, expectant.

“So? Do you agree to this arrangement?” he prompts.

“Yes,” you regret for answering too quickly, making you sound way too eager. When in fact, you're just glad to finally solve the problem but also, yeah, okay, you can’t lie, you're a bit curious about something, about Chris.

Your fingers wrap around his, and as you shake hands, you feel it. The shift. The undercurrent of something you can’t quite name just yet.

-

The next day, work starts as usual. You and Jane are in your lab, reviewing reports and planning your next steps. This time, she’s not interrogating you about Chris—at least, not yet. Instead, she’s too busy grumbling about her own research troubles.

“I swear, if I have to go through one more round of reformulations, I’m going to lose my mind,” she complains, tapping her pen against the table. “And to make matters worse, the participant who had the reaction was the best one in the trial. Great responses, perfect for data analysis, and now she’s out.” She rubs her forehead. “I need to find a replacement ASAP, or the timeline’s screwed.”

Hearing that, you can’t help but think about your own situation. At least Jane had a participant—even if it went south. Meanwhile, you were stuck—until yesterday.

Your thoughts drift back to Chris. To the conversation in his office. To the way he leaned against his desk, arms crossed, waiting for you to respond to his offer. To the handshake that sealed the agreement, his grip firm and unwavering.

To the fact that you somehow, in the middle of all that, had managed to glance down—

Nope. Not going there.

“Hey!” Jane’s voice snaps you out of it. You blink at her.

“What’s with that face?” she asks, squinting at you suspiciously.

“What face?”

“The one that says you were just thinking about something you don’t want to admit.”

Damn it. You shake your head quickly. “Nothing. Just work.”

Jane narrows her eyes. Then, suddenly, her gaze flicks past you—to the glass window overlooking the lab.

“Oh,” she whispers. “Oh.”

Your stomach drops. You don’t even have to look to know what—or rather, who—she’s seeing. Still, against your better judgment, you glance up.

There he is. Chris is standing outside, observing another team of researchers working on their project. His hands are in his pockets, head tilted slightly as he listens to someone explaining something.

Jane lets out a low whistle. “Well, hello, product manager Bang.”

You close your eyes briefly. “Jane. No.”

Jane ignores you. “You know, I never really paid attention before, but now that I’m looking at him properly… Damn. You’ve been sitting on gold this whole time, and you didn’t even realize it.”

“I am not sitting on anything,” you hiss, horrified.

Jane grins, enjoying this far too much. “Not yet.”

You gape at her. “Stop.”

But your attention betrays you because the longer Chris stands there, the harder it is to ignore the way he looks. The rolled-up sleeves. The way his dress shirt fits just right. The way he listens so intently, brows furrowed in concentration.

Jane leans in, voice barely above a whisper. “You have to wonder, though… With a body like that, what else do you think he’s got going on under there?”

You suck in a breath, scandalized. “Jane.”

She smirks. “I mean, you would know better than me now, wouldn’t you?”

You nearly choke on air. “I—excuse me?”

Jane just winks. “Just saying. You’re in charge of a very… specific study. And he’s very… qualified.”

You don’t even get the chance to respond because, at that exact moment, Chris shifts—and his gaze lands directly on you. Your heart stops. For a second, neither of you moves.

Then, as if sensing the sheer panic flooding your system, Jane casually takes a step back and hums. “Welp, have fun processing that. I’ll let you get back to work.”

And with that, she strolls away, leaving you to deal with the mess she just made in your brain. The worst part? You’re not sure you’ll ever be able to look at Chris the same way again.

Especially when, minutes later, Chris finishes his observation and starts walking past your lab.

Your body tenses as he nears the doorway, but when he glances in and sees you, his expression remains calm—pleasant, even.

“Good morning,” he says, voice as smooth as ever.

“Good morning,” you manage to reply, keeping your tone neutral.

He offers a brief nod before continuing down the hall, leaving you exhaling a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

But just as you think the encounter is over, your phone buzzes. You glance down, unlocking it. A new message. From Chris.

Meet me tonight. Hotel Mira. 8 PM.

There’s no explanation. No context. Just the time. The place. And the undeniable fact that your life is about to get a whole lot more interesting.

-

The sun is beginning to set, casting a dim orange glow through the windows. Most of the other researchers have already packed up and left, giving you just the moment of solitude you need.

With one last glance around, you reach for the shelf where your prototype samples are stored. Your fingers hover for a second before you carefully pick up a small box of the condoms—the very ones you’re supposed to be testing.

You hesitate only for a moment before swiftly slipping the box into your bag, ensuring it's hidden beneath your notebook and other miscellaneous items. Your pulse quickens. It’s not like you’re doing something wrong, but if Jane sees…

Yeah. You’d have a lot of explaining to do. You zip up your bag, moving as casually as possible, just in case—

“Hey.”

You nearly jump out of your skin. Snapping your head up, you see Jane standing in the doorway, arms crossed, one brow raised.

Your heart pounds as you quickly compose yourself, forcing your shoulders to relax. “Jesus, Jane. Don’t sneak up on people like that.”

She shrugs, stepping into the lab. “Didn’t know I had to make an announcement before entering.” She leans lazily against the doorframe, completely unaware of the miniature panic attack she just induced. “Anyway, my car’s still in the shop. Can you give me a ride to the station?”

You blink, still recovering. “The station?”

“Yeah. You know, where trains exist.” She gives you a look. “It’s in the same direction as your place, isn’t it?”

Your fingers tighten around your bag strap. The station. Which just so happens to be on the way to Hotel Mira.

You nod, keeping your voice neutral. “Yeah, sure.”

“Great. Let me grab my stuff, and we can head out.”

Jane disappears for a moment, giving you time to let out a slow breath. That was way too close.

-

The drive to the hotel feels longer than it should, your mind running in circles despite the fact that this is nothing more than a professional meeting. A business matter. An agreement you both shook hands on.

And yet, as you pull into the parking lot and step out of your car, there’s an uneasy flutter in your stomach that you can’t quite suppress.

Inside, the hotel lobby is polished and pristine, dimly lit with a warm, intimate glow. You walk past the front desk without sparing a glance, heading straight toward the restrooms.

Once inside, you take a moment to steady yourself. You set your bag down, gripping the edge of the sink as you look at your reflection. Your face betrays you. You don’t look like someone heading into a purely professional meeting. You look… nervous. Almost like—

No. You shake your head, breaking the thought before it can go any further. With a quick breath, you smooth out the creases in your shirt, adjust your hair, and dab a cool drop of water against the back of your neck. You look fine. Presentable. Professional.

And then, without giving yourself any more time to overthink, you grab your bag and leave the restroom.

The elevator ride is quiet, save for the low hum of the machinery as you ascend. The numbers above the doors blink steadily—six, seven, eight—each one making your pulse tick higher. By the time you reach the tenth floor, your grip on your bag is tight.

Room 1003.

You walk down the hallway, the carpet swallowing the sound of your footsteps. The walls are lined with identical doors, each one leading to a private, undisclosed space. Your destination is at the end of the hall.

You stop in front of it. For a moment, you just stand there. The number on the door gleams under the soft glow of the overhead light. 1003. The right room. The right place.

Then, shifting your bag in front of you, you lift a hand—

And knock. A pause. Silence. Then, the sound of movement from the other side. A slow, deliberate click of the lock and then the door begins to open.

-

The door clicks open, and you swear your heart stumbles over itself. Chris stands before you, his usual professional image softened by the undone top buttons of his shirt and the sleeves casually rolled up to his elbows. He looks relaxed—too relaxed. And that only makes your nerves spike even more.

“Come in,” he says, stepping aside.

You force yourself to move, slipping past him and into the room. It’s a standard hotel suite, sleek and modern, but your attention flickers to the small bar cart near the TV. Chris follows your gaze.

“Would you like a drink?” he asks, walking toward it without waiting for an answer.

You shake your head, gripping your bag a little tighter. “I��m good. I’d rather get started with the test.”

Chris chuckles, glancing at you over his shoulder. “You’re all business, huh?” He picks up a bottle of whiskey, pouring himself a small amount before holding up another glass. “Come on, just one drink. We’re going to be working closely together. Shouldn’t we at least loosen up a little?”

You hesitate, knowing this isn’t what you came here for. But the way he’s looking at you—warm, patient, but with an undeniable sense of control—makes you cave just a little. You sigh, finally moving toward the sofa. “Fine. Just one drink.”

Chris smiles, a pleased glint in his eyes as he pours your drink. You watch him quietly, noticing how different he seems outside the office. The polished product manager is still there, but here, in this dimly lit hotel room, he seems more at ease, more himself. He hands you the glass, his fingers grazing yours for the briefest second. You swallow before raising it slightly.

“To… professional courtesy?” you say, trying to keep this neutral.

Chris chuckles again, lifting his own glass. “To a successful product test.”

You clink glasses and take a sip, the burn of the alcohol trailing down your throat. You’re not sure if it’s the drink or something else entirely, but suddenly, you feel a little hot.

You set your glass down on the table after a single sip, straightening in your seat as you slip back into work mode. Clearing your throat, you open your bag and take out your notebook. “Alright. Before we begin, I need to outline the process.”

Chris raises an amused brow, swirling the liquid in his glass. “Go on.”

You nod, focusing on your notes. “The test requires me to take measurements—both in a flaccid and an erect state. This includes length, girth, and width to ensure the condom’s fit and elasticity.”

You glance up, expecting him to react professionally. Instead, Chris chuckles under his breath, shaking his head. You frown. “What?”

He smirks, taking a slow sip of his drink before meeting your eyes. “You’re so serious about this.”

Your lips part slightly, caught off guard by the comment. “Well… it is a serious matter. This is research.”

Chris hums as if considering your words. Then, with a teasing lilt, he tilts his head. “Or are you just impatient to see me naked?”

Your body locks up. “What—? No! That’s not—”

But Chris only chuckles, leaning back against the sofa, clearly enjoying your reaction. “Relax. I’m just messing with you.”

You exhale sharply, feeling warmth creep up your neck. Without thinking, you grab your glass and take another sip, hoping the drink will calm the sudden fluster in your system.

Chris watches you with a knowing glint in his eyes, then lifts his own glass. “Alright. Once we finish these, we’ll start.”

You nod, trying not to overthink how nonchalant he is about all of this while you’re barely holding it together. This is just research. Just a product test. You tell yourself.

A few more sips and the glasses are emptied, the clink of crystal against the table sounding much louder in the quiet room.

Chris exhales, setting his drink down with ease before rising to his feet. Without thinking, you follow suit, standing just as he does—an instinctive reaction, though you’re not sure why.

The two of you find yourselves facing each other, the space between you charged with something unspoken. His gaze holds yours, steady and unreadable, and you realize you’re gripping the edge of your notebook a little too tightly.

The silence stretches just long enough to make your pulse tick faster. Then, Chris breaks it with a low, amused murmur. “So… should we get started?”

His voice is smooth, casual, but the weight of the moment makes it feel heavier than it should.

You swallow, forcing a nod. “Y-Yes. We should.”

But your feet stay rooted in place and Chris notices. The corner of his mouth twitches—something between a smirk and a knowing smile. He tilts his head slightly, eyes never leaving yours.

For a moment, you wonder if he’s waiting for you to make the next move. Or if he’s simply enjoying watching you hesitate. Either way, you need to snap out of it.

Clearing your throat, you tighten your grip on your notes and take a steadying breath. “Let’s begin.”

Chris hums in agreement, but there’s something unreadable in his gaze as he finally moves. And suddenly, it feels as if the real test is not just the one you came here for—but something else entirely.

He moves first, unbuttoning the remaining buttons of his shirt with practiced ease. The fabric slips from his shoulders, revealing toned muscles beneath—broad chest, defined abs, and a confidence that makes the entire act seem effortless.

You keep your expression neutral, or at least you try to. “This is strictly professional,” you remind yourself silently.

Chris glances at you, catching the way your gaze flickers before you quickly refocus on your notes. “Do you need me to undress completely?” he asks, his tone smooth, almost teasing.

You press your lips together before answering. “For accurate measurement, I need access to the necessary area. So… yes.”

He chuckles, a deep, warm sound. “Straight to the point.”

You don’t respond, instead focusing on preparing the measuring tape and recording sheet. Anything to keep yourself occupied while he finishes undressing.

A moment later, you hear the rustle of fabric, the sound of a belt unfastening, the subtle shift of movement. You don’t look up until Chris speaks again.

“I’m ready when you are.”

When you finally lift your gaze, your breath catches for a fraction of a second. You do your best to maintain your professionalism—but the moment you see it, all thoughts momentarily leave your head.

Chris stands before you, bare from the waist down, his body relaxed yet radiating a quiet confidence. He doesn’t shy away, doesn’t fidget—he simply waits, watching for your reaction.

You knew he had to be on the larger side to even qualify for the study, but seeing it in person is something else entirely. Bigger than you expected. Definitely bigger than you imagined.

You barely catch yourself before audibly reacting, but your throat betrays you as you swallow air, a reflex you hope he doesn’t notice.

Chris, of course, notices everything. A slow smirk tugs at his lips. “Something wrong?”

You snap out of it, quickly shaking your head as you reach for your measuring tape, trying to ignore the sudden warmth creeping up your neck. “No, nothing at all. Let’s just get this done.”

Chris chuckles, but thankfully doesn’t press further. For now. You quickly move to retrieve a pair of latex gloves from your bag, slipping them on with practiced precision.

Chris raises an amused eyebrow. “You really came prepared, huh?”

You shoot him a pointed look. “Of course. This is an official product test.”

His lips twitch in amusement as he peeks into your open bag, catching a glimpse of all the testing materials. “What else do you have in there? A microscope? A lie detector?”

You ignore his teasing and pull out the measuring tape, standing straighter to compose yourself. “Alright. Let’s begin with the flaccid measurement.”

Chris doesn’t move, doesn’t make it easier for you. Instead, he watches—patient, unreadable—as you kneel slightly, positioning the measuring tape against him.

Your fingers brush against his skin through the latex, and you swear you feel the slightest twitch beneath your touch. You pretend not to notice. But Chris does.

And as the test continues, you realize that maintaining professionalism might be the hardest part of all.

You keep your focus steady, guiding the measuring tape along the length of Chris’s flaccid state. Your gloved fingers work efficiently, noting the exact numbers as you move on to measure his girth, wrapping the tape around the thickest part before finally noting the width calculation.

Chris watches you work, amusement flickering in his eyes. “How do you measure width, exactly?”

You don’t hesitate as you jot down the numbers. “You divide the girth by 3.14.”

Chris lets out a short laugh. “Huh. I used to think I wouldn’t need math in real life.”

You smirk, a little too focused on your notes when you reply, “Well, here’s a practical use of Pi for you.”

His chuckle is warm, and you don’t notice how his eyes linger on you as you make quick calculations in your notebook.

Once you’re done, you lift your head, meeting his gaze. “Alright, now I need to measure—” You stop mid-sentence as realization sets in. His fully erect size.

The complications of that request hit you all at once. Chris raises an eyebrow, clearly catching your hesitation. And for the first time, you’re at a complete loss for words.

You clear your throat, willing yourself to sound casual. “I need to take your measurements when you’re fully erect.”

Chris tilts his head slightly, studying you with quiet amusement. “And do you have any idea how to get me there?”

You keep your expression neutral. “You can look at pornographic images or watch an adult film. That should help.”

At that, Chris grins, a small chuckle escaping him. He shakes his head, clearly entertained by your clinical suggestion. “That’s one way,” he muses. “But I have a better idea.”

You don’t like the way his eyes darken ever so slightly, the playful glint in them laced with something else. You try to stay calm, but your fingers tighten around your measuring tape. “And… what’s that?”

He stalls, watching you carefully before answering. “You can help me with it.”

Chris must notice your reaction because he quickly adds, “I won’t touch you unless you give me permission.” His voice is smooth, patient, almost reassuring—but his gaze stays locked onto yours, watching your every move.

You know he’s waiting for a response but all you can think about is the weight of his words. And the heat in the way he’s looking at you. You take a steadying breath before nodding. “Okay.”

Chris’s eyes flicker with something unreadable before he speaks again, his voice firm yet gentle. “If anything makes you uncomfortable, tell me to stop.”

You nod again, not trusting your voice. He takes that as his cue, stepping closer. You hold your ground, determined to remain professional, but the moment he stops in front of you—so close that your bodies are only inches apart—you feel the heat radiating from him. And then, when you think this is where he’ll stop, he takes another step forward.

Your pulse quickens as the space between you disappears. He doesn’t touch you—not yet—but his presence alone is overwhelming. He tilts his head slightly, his mouth hovering near your neck, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath against your skin.

Chris stays there, simply breathing you in, dragging out the tension until your mind starts to blur. Then, in a low, hushed voice, he asks, “Can I hold you?”

You look at him, startled by the rawness of his request. His gaze meets yours, unwavering, intense. “I just need to hold you,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.

Something about the way he says it—like he’s asking for permission but also making a promise—makes you nod before you can second-guess yourself.

Chris doesn’t waste time. He closes the remaining distance, his arms slipping around your waist, drawing you fully against him. The contact is intoxicating. His body is warm and solid, firm in all the right places, and you feel every inch of it pressing against you.

His breath is hot against your skin as he buries his head in the crook of your neck. The tip of his nose brushes against you, and then, slowly, his mouth follows, dragging lightly across your skin.

“You smell good,” he whispers, his voice deep, laced with something that sends shivers down your spine.

You could say the same about him. His cologne, a mix of something woodsy and subtly sweet, blends with his natural scent in a way that makes your head spin.

He’s not even doing anything—his hands remain on the small of your back, respectful, unmoving—yet the moment feels unbearably intimate. Dangerously intimate. And the worst part? It feels good. Too good.

Chris lets out a soft, teasing hum. “You know, I don’t bite.” His voice is low, velvety. “You can put your hands on me if you want.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes even as you keep your hands hovering near his shoulders. “I don’t want to.”

He chuckles, a knowing sound. “Mmm. Sure.”

And yet, as if magnetized, your hands eventually land on him. First, just your fingertips brushing against the fabric of his shirt, then your palms pressing gently against his broad shoulders. He’s solid beneath your touch, his warmth seeping through his shirt and into your skin.

Chris stays buried in your neck, breathing you in, his chest rising and falling against yours. Then, just as your heartbeat starts to slow, he leans in further, pressing his mouth to your ear.

His next words are a whisper. “Even if I did bite…” He pauses, his voice dipping lower, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I think you’d like it.”

You keep your head turned away, refusing to acknowledge the way his voice alone sends heat curling through your stomach.

Chris chuckles, the sound deep and rich, vibrating against your skin. You’re not sure if it’s the heat of his body or your own rising temperature, but you feel warm all over. Your first instinct is to get a space so you can cool down.

Sensing you about to pull away, he tightens his arms around your waist, keeping you close. He lifts his head just slightly, his face now barely an inch from yours. His eyes are dark, lidded, fixed on you. “Just five more minutes,” he murmurs, almost pleading.

Your breath catches. “Five minutes,” you warn.

Chris smirks before dropping his head back against your neck, exhaling deeply as if settling in. This time, he draws you even closer, molding your body against his. His fingers press lightly into your lower back, holding you there as he murmurs, “I like the way you feel against me.”

You don’t respond. You can’t. Then, his head tilts slightly, his lips grazing the column of your throat as he speaks again. “So soft,” he whispers. “So warm.”

You feel his head shift, his mouth now pressing against the curve of your jaw. His voice is barely a breath. “I was right,” he murmurs almost to himself. “Your body fits me just right.”

Your eyes meet his, and for a long second, neither of you moves. His gaze flickers down—to your lips. Your breath hitches, and he looks back into your eyes again. Slowly, deliberately, he leans in.

And without thinking, you close your eyes. Your instincts pulling you deeper into the moment but your body refuses to cooperate. You shift slightly on your feet and that’s when you feel it. Something firm presses against your thigh. Your eyes snap open.

Reflexively, you break away from his hold, your hands flying up as you step back. Your gaze darts downward before you can stop yourself. And there it is. His erection. Hard, prominent, taunting you with its size.

Your eyes widen, and the moment you realize you’ve been staring, you jerk your head away, heat burning up your face.

Chris exhales, his tongue swiping over his lower lip as he watches you, amusement flickering in his gaze.

You clear your throat, voice pitched slightly higher than usual. “It’s time for the measurements.”

For a split second, Chris looks almost… disappointed. But then he lets out a soft chuckle, shaking his head as he glances down at himself.

“Well,” he muses, smirking. “Guess I’m ready.”

You take a steadying breath, willing yourself to focus as you retrieve your measuring tape. Slipping back into professionalism, you kneel slightly to get a better angle, careful not to react to the sheer size of what you're working with.

Chris watches you with a smirk, his arms resting loosely at his sides. As you wrap the tape around him, he hums. “Are you always this serious?”

You glance up at him, momentarily thrown by the question. His eyes are amused, but there’s something else there—something unreadable.

“I’m working,” you say simply, jotting down the measurement in your notebook.

Chris tilts his head, watching you intently. “Still. You didn’t even flinch.” His smirk widens. “I’m kind of impressed.”

You roll your eyes, shifting to take the next measurement. “You’re not the first participant I’ve worked with.”

He chuckles at that, his voice dropping slightly. “Somehow, that doesn’t make me feel any better.”

Chris lets out a deep chuckle, shifting slightly under your touch. “So, you’re saying you do this often?” His voice is laced with playful curiosity.

You don’t look up, keeping your focus on writing down the numbers. “It’s my job.”

He hums. “Right. Your job.” There’s a pause, then a teasing edge creeps into his tone. “Do all your test subjects get this kind of personal attention?”

You snap your head up, eyes narrowing at the smirk tugging at his lips. “I’m just being thorough.”

Chris bites back a grin, looking entirely too entertained by your reaction. “Thorough, huh? Should I be flattered?”

You scoff, rolling your eyes as you reach for your measuring tape again. “You should be cooperative.”

“Oh, I am,” he says smoothly. “But I have to admit, it’s kind of nice seeing you flustered.”

You pause for half a second—just enough for him to catch it—before quickly resuming your work. “I’m not flustered,” you mutter.

Chris chuckles again, low and knowing. “Right.” He shifts his weight slightly, and your fingers brush against his skin, making you tense. “You sure you don’t need to double-check any of those numbers? You know… just to be extra thorough?”

You shoot him a glare, but he just grins down at you, completely unbothered. You reach into your bag, pulling out one of the prototype condom packs. You hold it out to him, keeping your expression neutral. “Here. Try it on so I can check the fit.”

Chris takes the pack from your hand but doesn’t move to open it. Instead, he watches you with an amused glint in his eyes. “You know…” He tears the wrapper slowly, his fingers deliberately smooth over the material. “Since you’re the expert, shouldn’t you be the one putting it on?”

Your breath catches, and you quickly shake your head, keeping your voice steady. “I think you can manage.”

Chris lets out a low chuckle, tilting his head slightly. “Oh, I can. But wouldn’t it be more accurate if you did it? I mean, this is all in the name of research, right?” His tone is teasing, but there’s a challenge in his gaze, waiting to see how you’ll react.

You cross your arms. “Are you serious right now?”

He grins. “Completely.”

You exhale sharply, ignoring the heat creeping up your neck. “You’re perfectly capable of doing it yourself.”

Chris sighs dramatically, shaking his head. “Fine, fine.” He slides the condom out of the wrapper, still smirking. “But I have a feeling you’d do a much better job.”

You roll your eyes, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. “Just put it on, please?”

He chuckles again, finally following your instruction. But the way he keeps looking at you—as if he’s enjoying every second of your flustered state—tells you this won’t be the last time he teases you like this.

You take a step closer, eyes focused as you observe how the condom fits around him. Your fingers hover near, but you refrain from touching, keeping your professionalism intact.

“How does it feel?” you ask, glancing up at him.

Chris exhales slowly, rolling his hips slightly as if adjusting to the fit. “Honestly?” He looks down at himself. “It’s a little too tight.”

You immediately jot that down in your notebook. “Too tight…” you murmur, pen scratching against the paper.

“And I think it’s too short for my length,” he adds, pulling at the base slightly as if to emphasize his point.

Your eyes widen slightly before you catch yourself. You write it down quickly, nodding. “Alright, noted.”

Chris tilts his head, watching you with interest. “Are you sure you brought the right size?”

You don’t even look up as you answer, still focused on your notes. “Yes, these prototypes are all specifically made for extra-large sizes.”

Without thinking, you blurt out, “It’s your penis that’s too big.”

The moment the words leave your mouth, you freeze.

Chris blinks. Then, slowly, a smirk curls on his lips. “Oh?” He leans in slightly, his voice dropping into something more amused—almost smug. “So you’re saying I’m too big?”

You clutch your notebook a little tighter, willing yourself to keep your composure. “Scientifically speaking,” you emphasize, clearing your throat, “it exceeds the parameters we accounted for in development.”

Chris chuckles, shaking his head. “Sure, let’s call it that.”

You take a step back, regaining your composure as you focus on the real reason you're here. Flipping to a fresh page in your notebook, you clear your throat. "How does the material feel?" you ask, keeping your tone professional.

He glances down at himself, rolling his hips slightly as if assessing the sensation. He hums, thoughtful. "It’s… okay. Smooth, but a little tighter than I’d like. It doesn’t feel uncomfortable, just a bit restrictive."

You jot that down quickly. "Restrictive how? Like it’s compressing too much or just not flexible enough?"

Chris watches you with a smirk. "Look at you, so serious about this."

You shoot him a pointed look. "Just answer the question. Please."

He chuckles, but obliges. "I’d say both. The stretch is good, but it’s still a little snug, especially at the base. If I were to wear this for a long time, it might get uncomfortable."

You nod, scribbling notes. "Noted. What about sensitivity? Can you still feel everything, or does it dull the sensation?"

Chris leans in slightly, and you catch the glint in his eye before he speaks. "I can definitely still feel things. Though, if you really want an accurate answer, I’d have to—"

"Don't even finish that sentence," you interrupt, already knowing where he’s going with it.

Chris bursts out laughing, hands raised in surrender. "Alright, alright. Just saying, full functionality testing might be necessary."

You shake your head, exhaling sharply. "Noted," you say dryly, though you don’t actually write that one down.

Chris watches you with amusement before tilting his head. "So, what now?"

You glance at him—more specifically, at his still-erect situation—and then back at your notes. "We’ll discuss material modifications later." You pause, shifting on your feet. "But first… you should take that off."

Chris’s grin returns, playful and teasing. "You might want to turn around for this."

Rolling your eyes, you turn away just as you hear him peel the condom off while you put everything back into your bag.

A moment later, Chris has already discarded the condom and pulled his slacks back on, though his shirt remains unbuttoned at the top, his sleeves still rolled up. He leans against the desk, arms crossed, watching you with that ever-present smirk.

"So," he says, drawing out the word. "What’s the verdict, Doc?"

You ignore his teasing tone and glance down at your notes. "The material needs improvement—more elasticity without sacrificing durability. The length also needs to be adjusted for better coverage. And the base should have a slightly looser fit to prevent discomfort over time."

Chris nods along, but you can tell he’s only half-listening. "So, in short, you need to make a custom size just for me."

You look up at him, unimpressed. "You're not the only man with this issue."

He grins. "No, but I bet I’m the first one to have you personally taking notes on it."

Your mouth opens, then closes. He’s not wrong, but you refuse to let him have the satisfaction of seeing you flustered. "I appreciate your participation in this test. It was helpful."

Chris’s grin softens into something more genuine. "I’m glad. I mean it. I know this is important to you."

The sincerity catches you off guard. You hesitate, then nod. "It is."

A beat of silence stretches between you, the air oddly charged. Then Chris claps his hands together. "Well, I’d say that wraps up our very professional, totally scientific evening."

You huff a small laugh despite yourself. "Sure."

Chris pushes off the desk and steps closer, his voice lowering. "And I’m assuming this stays between us?"

You meet his gaze. "Obviously."

"Good," he murmurs, his eyes flicking down to your lips for half a second before he steps back.

As you gather your things, Chris watches you with a lazy smirk, his hands casually tucked into his pockets. Just as you reach for the doorknob, he speaks up.

"You sure you don’t want another drink before you go?" His voice is smooth, almost coaxing. "I still have some left."

You glance back at him, shaking your head. "No, thanks. I have work tomorrow."

Chris tilts his head, amusement flickering in his eyes. "So do I."

"Exactly my point," you say, giving him a pointed look.

He chuckles, then raises his hands in surrender. "Alright. No more drinks. Just thought I’d offer."

You nod, gripping the strap of your bag. "I appreciate it."

Chris takes a slow step closer, his smirk softening into something unreadable. "Well then," he murmurs, "I guess I’ll see you at work."

You clear your throat, clutching your bag. "Yeah. See you."

And with that, you turn and walk out of the hotel room, acutely aware of his eyes on you the entire way.

-

The next morning, you arrive at the lab early, hoping to get a head start on your request for adjustments to the condom's materials and dimensions. You’re deep in thought, typing notes on your computer when Jane suddenly appears beside you, peering at your screen.

Her eyes narrow. "What’s this?"

You nearly jump out of your seat. "Jesus, Jane! Stop sneaking up on me like that!"

Jane ignores your reaction, leaning in closer to read. Her eyebrows lift as she scans the document. "Wait a minute... requests for material flexibility? Increased length and width?" She crosses her arms and looks at you, her lips curling into a knowing smirk. "Oh-ho. This is interesting."

You immediately close the document. "It’s nothing."

"Nothing?" Jane repeats, her smirk growing. "Sounds like the test subject was huge if you need to adjust everything."

You keep your face neutral. "It’s just data. The prototype wasn’t a perfect fit, so I have to make changes."

"Uh-huh," Jane says, tilting her head. "So? Who was it?"

"What?"

"Who was the guy?" She wiggles her eyebrows. "And don’t even try lying because I know you had a test subject last night."

You grab a random file from your desk, flipping through it as a distraction. "Confidential."

Jane groans dramatically. "Oh, come on! Throw me a bone here. Was he at least good-looking?"

You sigh, exasperated. "It’s not about that."

"But it is, isn't it?" Jane leans closer, eyes sparkling with mischief. "You had to see everything, didn’t you?"

You press your lips into a thin line, refusing to indulge her.

Jane gasps, then grins. "Oh my God. You totally did."

"I work in research, Jane. It’s part of my job."

She hums, clearly not buying it. "And yet, you're being all weird about it."

You shake your head, pretending to focus on your paperwork. "Just drop it."

Jane taps her chin, pretending to think. "Fine. I won’t ask any more questions." She pauses, then adds, "For now."

After lunch, the two of you step out onto the balcony before heading back to the lab. Jane lights a cigarette, taking a slow drag, while you sip on your iced coffee, letting the coolness settle in your throat. The sun is high, casting a warm glow over the city skyline, but there’s a nice breeze that makes it bearable.

“Man, I needed this,” Jane sighs, exhaling a stream of smoke. “I swear, if I have to deal with one more report about allergic reactions, I’m going to start developing a whole new drug—one for my patience.”

You chuckle, taking another sip of your coffee. “Maybe that’s the next project you should pitch.”

Jane hums in amusement, but her attention shifts suddenly. Her eyes lock on something—or someone—on the other end of the balcony. You follow her gaze and immediately spot Chris. He’s leaning against the railing, looking effortlessly put-together as always, engaged in conversation with a woman.

You recognize her instantly—Suze, the executive manager of another department. She’s beautiful, stylish, and carries an air of confidence that makes her stand out in any room. She’s also notoriously popular among the higher-ups and has a reputation for being both sharp and charming.

Jane clicks her tongue, watching the two of them. “Well, well. Looks like Miss Perfect is making her move.”

You raise an eyebrow. “What?”

Jane gestures subtly toward them with her cigarette. “You don’t know? Suze has been eyeing Chris for a while now. Apparently, she’s been dropping hints left and right, but he’s been playing it cool.”

You turn your gaze back to the pair. Suze is smiling, leaning in slightly as she speaks. Chris listens, nodding occasionally, but his expression remains unreadable.

Jane lets out a dramatic sigh. “Honestly, they’d make a ridiculously good-looking couple. It’s almost unfair.”

You don’t respond, just watching the way Suze tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, her manicured fingers brushing the lapel of Chris’s blazer ever so slightly.

Jane exhales another puff of smoke. “She’s persistent, I’ll give her that. You think he’s into her?”

You shrug, keeping your voice neutral. “I wouldn’t know.”

Jane side-eyes you, smirking. “You sound like you don’t care, but I know you care.”

You scoff, finishing the last of your coffee. “I don’t.”

“Sure,” she drawls, taking one last drag before stubbing out her cigarette. “And I don’t need nicotine to survive the workday.”

You roll your eyes. “Come on, we need to get back.”

But as you turn to leave, you can’t help but glance one last time at Chris and Suze. And for some reason, the sight of them together lingers in your mind longer than you’d like.

-

In the lab, you and Jane stand over a workstation where another team has been developing edible lubricants. Small sample bottles line the table, each labeled with different flavors—strawberry, vanilla, honey, and even some unconventional ones like mojito and buttered popcorn.

Jane picks up a small vial labeled “Salted Caramel” and gives it an experimental sniff. “Huh. Smells legit,” she muses before wiggling her eyebrows at you. “Wanna try some?”

You scoff. “That’s not what we’re here for.”

Jane ignores your protest and dabs a tiny drop onto her finger before popping it into her mouth. She hums in thought, smacking her lips. “Damn. That’s actually good.”

You shake your head, amused. “You do realize this is meant for other uses, right?”

��Obviously.” Jane grins before picking up another sample labeled “Piña Colada.” She dabs some onto her finger and holds it out to you. “C’mon, just one taste. For science.”

You hesitate, narrowing your eyes at her suspiciously. “You’re just trying to make me look ridiculous.”

She gasps, feigning offense. “How dare you accuse me of such a thing? I am a woman of integrity.”

You snort, but before you can respond, a voice cuts through the room.

“Can I talk to you?”

You turn, your breath catching slightly when you see Chris standing there. His expression is serious, his posture relaxed but purposeful.

Jane, still sucking on her finger from the piña colada lube, slowly lowers her hand and looks between the two of you. “Uh-oh. That sounds important.”

Chris doesn’t react to her comment, his gaze fixed on you.

You clear your throat. “Right now?”

He nods. “If you’re free.”

You glance at Jane, who raises both hands in surrender. “Don’t let me stop you. I’ll just be here taste-testing the entire catalog.”

Chris doesn’t wait for further response—he simply turns and heads toward the door, expecting you to follow.

You exhale sharply, setting down the sample bottle you were holding. Whatever this is about, it’s clearly not a casual chat. You throw Jane a look before heading after Chris, your heart thumping just a little harder than it should.

-

You inhale a long air before you reach Chris’s office door. After that night, you weren’t sure how it would go. Would he act like nothing happened? Would he bring it up? Would things be… weird?

Pushing those thoughts aside, you knock.

"Come in."

You step inside, closing the door behind you. Chris is at his desk, reviewing something on his laptop, but when he looks up and sees you, that familiar smirk tugs at his lips.

Chris gestures to the seat across from him. "Have a seat."

You hesitate but eventually do as he says. Your fingers unconsciously tighten around the side of your lab coat.

He leans back in his chair, studying you. "How are you feeling?"

It’s a loaded question, but you pretend not to notice. "Fine. Why?"

His lips twitch, like he knows exactly what you’re doing. "Just checking." He nods toward your bag. "Did you review our test’s results?"

"Yes," you say, clearing your throat. "The prototype was too tight and short for your size. I’ll have to make some adjustments to the material and dimensions before moving forward with mass production."

Chris hums. "So, you’re saying I’m too big for the product."

Your fingers twitch, remembering last night’s slip-up. You keep your tone professional. "Technically, yes. The size I brought was meant for extra-large measurements, but you exceeded expectations."

Chris grins. "Exceeding expectations… I like the sound of that."

You shoot him a look. "Excuse me?"

He chuckles. "Back to business." He sits up, his expression turning a little more serious. "What’s your next step?"

"I already sent in a request for adjustments to the prototype," you explain. "It’ll take some time, but I can get an updated batch for testing soon."

Chris nods. "And when that happens, will I be your test subject again?"

You hesitate. "That depends. Are you still willing to participate?"

He tilts his head slightly. "What do you think?"

Your stomach flips at the way he’s looking at you—calm, confident, but with something simmering beneath the surface. You look away, keeping your voice even. "I’ll keep you updated."

Chris watches you for a moment before leaning forward, resting his elbows on the desk. "You know… I have to admit, that was more fun than I expected."

You raise a brow. "Testing a condom was fun?"

He chuckles. "No, but watching you try to stay professional while clearly flustered? That was fun."

Your face heats up. "I wasn’t flustered."

Chris’s smirk deepens. "Sure you weren’t."

Then, as if the weight of the conversation suddenly lightens, he tilts his head slightly. “You’ll let me know when it’s ready, right?”

His words sound casual, but there’s an underlying meaning in them that you can’t quite decipher. You nod, keeping your voice steady. “Of course.”

Chris holds your gaze for a second longer, then leans forward, resting his forearms on the desk. “Good,” he repeats, and there’s something in the way he says it that makes your stomach flip.

-

Exactly three days later, the revised prototypes arrives in your lab. You carefully open the box, inspecting the changes you requested. The material feels smoother, the elasticity slightly improved. Satisfied, you make a note in your log—only to jump slightly when Jane suddenly leans over your shoulder.

“Length 8.07 inches and width 2.02 inches... Holy shit!” Her voice is filled with pure astonishment as she snatches one of the foil packets and flips it over in her hands. “Are you seeing this? This is huge.”

You try to stay composed, pretending to be preoccupied with the paperwork in front of you. “It’s within the expected range,” you say coolly.

Jane squints at you, then back at the condom in her hand. “Expected range, my ass. You’ve been working on this for weeks, and I’ve never seen a prototype this size before.” She pauses, then gasps dramatically. “Wait a second… did you finally find a participant?”

Your heart nearly stops. “What? No.” You shake your head, scrambling for a convincing excuse. “I just figured… why stop at extra-large when we can push the boundaries even further? There’s always a demand for more variety in the market.”

Jane eyes you suspiciously, her lips pursed. “Hmm.” She leans in closer, lowering her voice. “Are you sure you’re not hiding some secret test subject from me?”

You force a casual laugh. “Jane, I would tell you if I had someone lined up. It’s just research.”

She doesn’t seem fully convinced, but she lets out a sigh and puts the condom back. “Alright, fine. But if you do have a participant, I wanna meet him.”

You quickly turn back to your paperwork, hoping she doesn’t notice the way your ears are burning. As soon as Jane leaves, you let out a slow breath, your fingers still gripping the pen you had been pretending to write with. You wait a few moments to make sure she’s really gone before pulling out your phone.

Your thumb hovers over Chris’s contact for a second, your mind briefly flashing back to the last test, to the way he had looked at you, the way he had—

You shake the thought away and type out a quick message.

The revised prototype is ready for testing. Let me know when you’re available.

You hit send, placing your phone face-down on the desk as you try to focus on your notes. But the distraction is already there, the anticipation simmering in the back of your mind.

A few minutes pass before your phone vibrates. You glance at the screen to read a reply from Chris.

Tonight. Same place.

Your breath catches slightly. No hesitation. No pleasantries. Just straight to the point. Your fingers tighten around your phone before you type back.

Understood. See you then.

You lock your screen and exhale, pressing your hands to your warm cheeks. This is fine. It’s just a professional test. Just like last time.

…Right?

-

As the workday winds down, you keep your head low, avoiding unnecessary conversations. You wait until Jane is nowhere in sight before discreetly slipping a box of the new prototype into your bag, carefully tucking it beneath your other belongings. Just as you zip it up, your phone buzzes. You pull it out, and your stomach does an unexpected flip when you see Chris's name.

Can’t do the test tonight. Something came up.

You stare at the message, an unfamiliar twinge settling in your chest. Disappointment? No, that’s ridiculous. This is strictly professional. You quickly type out a response before you overthink it.

That’s okay. Let me know when you’re available, and we’ll reschedule.

You lock your phone and sigh, shaking off the strange feeling as you hear familiar footsteps approaching.

"Hey," Jane leans against the doorway. "Can you give me a lift again?"

You figured as much. You nod, grabbing your things, and the two of you make your way down to the parking lot.

Just as you unlock your car, Jane grabs your arm, stopping you mid-motion.

"Oh my God," she whispers excitedly, nodding toward a sleek black car a few rows away.

You follow her gaze and instantly regret it. Chris is there. But he’s not alone. Suze is with him, sliding into the passenger seat like she’s done it a hundred times before. Chris gets in right after her, and within seconds, they’re driving off together.

Jane whistles low, crossing her arms with a knowing smirk. "Damn. Guess the rumors weren’t just rumors."

You don't respond, just gripping your car keys a little tighter.

Jane, of course, doesn’t stop there. "I mean, it makes sense. She’s his type, isn’t she? Gorgeous, high-profile, and let’s be real, she’s been eyeing him for a while now. Wonder if they’re dating or just—"

"Can we go?" you interrupt, climbing into the driver's seat before Jane can read your face.

Jane laughs, sliding into the passenger seat. "Alright, alright. No need to get grumpy."

You roll your eyes, but as you start the car, you can't shake the odd heaviness in your chest. It’s none of your business. It shouldn’t bother you. But somehow… it does.

-

The entire company is in high spirits, and it doesn’t take long to remember why—tonight is the launch event for the newest collection of vibrators.

The venue is decked out with neon lights and sleek product displays, and there’s an open bar keeping everyone’s spirits high.

You mingle with your co-workers, drink in hand, while Jane, as expected, thrives in the lively atmosphere. She’s laughing, flirting, and making jokes that get progressively bolder with each sip of her cocktail.

At one point, she throws an arm around your shoulders. “This is fun, huh?” she grins.

You force a smile. “Yeah. Totally.”

It’s not that you aren’t enjoying yourself—you just need a breather.

“I’ll get you another drink,” you tell her, using it as an excuse to slip away from the group.

Jane waves you off without a second thought, already too invested in another conversation. You weave through the crowd and make your way to the bar, ordering another drink. As you wait, you take a deep breath, letting yourself relax. But before you can even take a sip—

“Hey, can we talk?”

The familiar deep voice makes you turn, and there stands Chris, looking effortlessly sharp in his suit. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes are locked onto you with intent.

You open your mouth to respond, but before you can, Chris doesn’t wait for an answer—he just reaches for your wrist and leads you away from the crowd.

Your pulse jumps as he guides you through the party, his grip firm yet careful. The noise fades behind you as he takes you into a quiet hallway, away from the music, the laughter, and most importantly—prying eyes.

Finally, he stops, turning to face you. His gaze is steady, searching.

Your heart beats a little too fast. “What is this about?” you ask, your voice steady despite the rush of emotions swirling inside you.

Chris exhales, running a hand through his hair before finally meeting your eyes. “Sorry about bailing on you last night,” he says, his voice softer now. “Something came up.”

You shake your head. “It’s fine. We can do it another time.”

There’s a brief silence between you. The muffled sounds of the party filter in from the other end of the hallway, but here, in this secluded space, it feels like the two of you are in your own little world.

Then Chris asks, “Do you have any plans this weekend?”

You blink at him, caught off guard by the sudden shift in conversation.

“I—uh—” You hesitate, quickly running through your mental calendar, but there’s nothing. “No, not really.”

Chris grins at that. “Good. Let’s do the product test tomorrow. Saturday night.”

You weren’t expecting that. The way he says it so casually, like it’s the most normal thing in the world, throws you off. But before you even fully process it, you find yourself nodding.

“Okay,” you agree, your voice quieter than you intended.

His smile lingers as he pushes off the wall, standing tall in front of you. “I’ll text you the details tomorrow.”

You nod again, almost dazed, and Chris watches you for a second longer before he turns to leave. Just as he’s a few steps away, he glances back, his voice dropping slightly. “Can’t wait for tomorrow.”

And with that, he walks away, disappearing into the crowd. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. You definitely need another drink. Or at least a moment to breathe.

-

Your phone buzzes early Saturday morning, and when you check the screen, it’s a text from Chris.

Dinner first. 7 PM. La Riviera.

That’s it. No unnecessary words, no emojis—just the time and place. You stare at the message longer than you probably should.

Dinner? This wasn’t how the last test went. You were expecting another hotel, another quick, professional meeting. But a restaurant?

You shake your head, telling yourself not to overthink it. It’s probably just to discuss the test before getting into it. But despite that rationalization, you catch yourself preparing more than you intended to.

Your outfit selection takes longer than it should, your makeup is a little more put together, and even when you tell yourself it’s just because you’re stepping out for the evening—not because of who you’re meeting—you know it’s a lie.

You arrive at La Riviera a little before 7 PM, taking a deep breath before stepping inside. The restaurant is elegant but not overwhelmingly fancy—warm lighting, soft jazz playing in the background, and the faint aroma of wine and freshly baked bread filling the air and then you spot him.

Chris is already seated, dressed in a casual formal ensemble. A dark button-up shirt, sleeves rolled up just enough to tease his forearms, paired with tailored slacks. The contrast between the deep color of his shirt and his pale skin is striking, and for a second, you almost forget why you’re here.

His eyes find yours almost instantly, and he smiles, standing up slightly as you approach. “Glad you made it.”

You sit across from him, suddenly feeling a little nervous because this—this doesn’t feel like a business meeting at all. The dim lighting, the quiet atmosphere, the way he leans slightly forward as he watches you—it feels like a date.

Dinner starts off casually enough, but then Chris begins asking you questions.

“Are you seeing anyone right now?”

His question catches you off guard, but you answer by shaking your head, then throw it back at him. When you ask if he’s seeing someone, he hums, picking up his wine glass. “I am.”

Your mouth moves before your brain catches up. “Is it Suze?”

Chris freezes mid-sip, then lowers his glass, blinking at you. “Suze?”

You instantly regret your brashness, but it’s too late now. You clear your throat, trying to sound indifferent. “Yeah. You two seem close, and the rumor said—”

“The rumor.” Chris chuckles, shaking his head. “Of course.”

You watch as he leans back in his seat, amusement dancing in his eyes. “And what exactly did the rumor say?”

You shift in your seat, suddenly feeling exposed under his gaze. “Just… that Suze and you are close.”

Chris tilts his head slightly, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “And do you believe everything the rumor says?”

You purse your lips, looking away. “Not everything.”

He chuckles, the sound deep and amused. “Well, for the record, Suze and I are not a thing. She’s a great colleague, but that’s it.”

You should feel relieved—it’s not like you care who he’s seeing—but something about his tone makes you wary. You meet his eyes again. “Then who’s the someone you’re seeing?”

Chris doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he takes a slow sip of his wine, watching you over the rim of his glass. The silence stretches just long enough to make your stomach twist. Then, finally, he sets his glass down and leans in slightly, his voice lower now. “You.”

Your heart skips a beat and a second later, you blink. “Me?”

Chris grins, clearly enjoying your reaction. “Well, we are having dinner together, aren’t we?”

Your lips part, but no words come out. He’s messing with you—he has to be. You try to regain your composure, clearing your throat. “This is a business meeting.”

Chris raises an eyebrow, his fingers casually tapping against the stem of his glass. “Is it?”

You open your mouth to say yes, obviously, but the way he’s looking at you—the way tonight feels—makes you hesitate. The air between you shifts, heavy with something unspoken.

Chris tilts his head. “Tell me… if I didn’t bring up the product test, would you still be here?”

Your stomach twists again. You don’t know how to answer that. You feel your pulse quicken, the weight of his question pressing down on you. Instead of answering, you grab your napkin and mutter, “I—I need to use the restroom.”

Chris doesn’t stop you. He just leans back in his seat, watching with quiet amusement as you push your chair back and walk away, your heart pounding with every step.

The moment you step into the restroom, you grip the edge of the sink and take a deep breath. What the hell was that?

You turn on the faucet, letting the cool water run over your hands as if it’ll help clear your thoughts. This was supposed to be a simple dinner before the product test—so why does it feel like he’s pulling you into something else entirely? And worse, why aren’t you stopping him?

You glance at yourself in the mirror, your reflection betraying the nervous energy buzzing under your skin. No matter how much you try to convince yourself that this is just work, that Chris is just teasing, something about the way he looks at you makes it hard to believe that. You take another breath, steadying yourself. Just go back out there and keep it professional.

Easier said than done.

-

The car ride is quiet, but the tension between you is thick. You grip the hem of your dress, feeling the fabric twist between your fingers as you steal glances at Chris. He’s focused on the road, one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on the gear shift. His sleeves are rolled up again, exposing the strong lines of his forearms, and it takes everything in you not to stare. Then, you notice something. The hotel he took you to last time—the one you were expecting—flashes past the window.

“Wait,” you blurt out, turning to him. “You just passed the hotel.”

Chris doesn’t look surprised. In fact, he grins slightly, eyes still on the road. “Yeah, I know.”

Your brows furrow. “Then where are we going?”

“I know a nicer hotel,” he says smoothly, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. Then, as if reading your thoughts, he adds, “It’s not like you have anything to do tomorrow, right?”

No, you don’t. But the way he phrases it—like it’s already decided—sends a shiver down your spine.

Chris glances at you then, his gaze flickering down to your hands still gripping your dress. His smirk softens, but his voice is just as teasing when he says, “Relax. It’s just for the test, remember?”

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to loosen your grip. But you’re not sure if it’s his words or the way he says them that make your pulse race even more.

Chris pulls into the hotel’s driveway, the warm glow of the entrance lights reflecting off the sleek surface of his car. You step out, adjusting your dress as you follow him inside, your heart pounding a little too fast.

The lobby is luxurious, far more upscale than the previous hotel. The marble floors gleam under the chandelier lights, and the air is filled with a faint scent of expensive cologne and polished wood. You try not to fidget as Chris approaches the front desk.

“One suite, please,” he says smoothly.

Your head snaps toward him. “A suite?”

Chris doesn’t even glance at you, just slides his card across the counter to the receptionist. “Yeah.” Then, finally, he looks at you, an amused glint in his eyes. “Problem?”

You hesitate, glancing between him and the receptionist, who remains professional as she processes the request. You don’t know why you expected anything less from Chris—of course, he wouldn’t settle for a standard room. But a suite?

“I just thought…” You trail off, pressing your lips together.

Chris leans in slightly, voice low enough that only you can hear. “If we’re testing a product, shouldn’t we have more space to move around?”

Your breath catches at the implication, and he chuckles at your reaction before straightening up, accepting the key card from the receptionist. “Let’s go.”

You follow him into the elevator in silence, gripping the strap of your bag tighter than necessary. The numbers on the display climb higher, the anticipation pressing down on you.

When the doors finally slide open, Chris gestures for you to step out first. You do, walking down the plush carpeted hallway until he stops in front of a door and swipes the key card. The lock clicks open.

He pushes the door wide and turns to you with a smirk. “After you.”

You hesitate for just a second before stepping inside, and as the door closes behind you, you realize just how different tonight already feels.

Instead of taking a tour around the room, you hurriedly take a seat on the sofa, your hands clasped together as you watch Chris move around the suite with ease, like he belongs here. The room is larger than you expected—modern, sleek, and far too intimate.

Your nerves start creeping in, tightening your shoulders. It’s not that you haven’t done this before, but something about tonight feels… different. More deliberate. More dangerous.

Chris, on the other hand, looks completely at ease as he wanders over to the minibar, his eyes lighting up at the sight of the complimentary bottle of champagne. He plucks it from its ice bucket and grins. “Perfect timing.”

You watch as he peels off the foil and works the cork loose. “You don’t have to open that—”

Pop!

The cork flies off, the sudden noise making you jump. Chris bursts into laughter, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Relax,” he drawls, pouring the golden liquid into two glasses. “You’re acting like this is your first time in a hotel room with me.”

You press your lips together, refusing to respond to that, and instead accept the glass he offers you. He raises his in a toast, his voice smooth. “To… scientific research.”

You huff a small laugh despite yourself and clink your glass against his before taking a sip. The champagne fizzes pleasantly on your tongue, cool and crisp.

But then—

“You know,” Chris muses, swirling his drink, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were nervous. Maybe even a little flustered. But that can’t be right, can it?”

You shoot him a glare. “I’m not—”

And then it happens. Your fingers slip, and in your haste to retort, your glass tips forward, sending a splash of champagne straight down the front of your dress. The cold liquid soaks through the fabric instantly, making you gasp.

Chris freezes for a second, then— He bursts out laughing. You groan, setting your glass down as you grab a napkin from the table, dabbing at the wet stain. But it’s useless. The fabric clings to your skin, highlighting every curve.

He leans back against the minibar, arms crossed, watching you with open amusement. “Well,” he says, biting back another chuckle, “if you wanted to take your dress off, you could’ve just asked.”

His laughter still lingers in the air as he moves across the room, casually plucking a plush bathrobe from the hotel’s wardrobe. He turns to you, holding it up like a peace offering, his grin unrepentant.

“Here,” he says. “You can’t just sit around in a wet dress all night.”

You hesitate, gripping the damp fabric clinging to your skin. It’s uncomfortable, borderline unbearable—but the idea of slipping into a hotel bathrobe, of making yourself even remotely comfortable here, feels dangerous.

Still, you don’t have much choice. With a sigh, you accept the robe and head toward the spacious en-suite bathroom. Just as you’re about to close the door behind you, a shadow appears in the doorway.

Chris. You look up in confusion, but he leans against the doorframe, completely unfazed by your reaction. “Want some help?”

Your eyes widen slightly. “Excuse me?”

He shrugs, completely at ease. “I mean, it only makes sense, doesn’t it? You need me ready for the test, and I need a little… encouragement. Two birds, one stone.”

You gape at him, caught between indignation and sheer disbelief. “You—”

Chris lifts both hands in mock surrender, though there’s a wicked gleam in his eyes. “Just a suggestion.”

Your fingers tighten around the door handle, and for a second, you actually consider slamming the door in his face. But then reality kicks in—the sooner you finish this test, the sooner you can leave.

With a deep breath, you step back and pull the door open just a little wider. “Fine.”

Chris blinks, as if he wasn’t expecting you to agree so quickly. Then, a slow smirk curves his lips as he steps inside, the door clicking shut behind him.

-

The bathroom feels smaller with Chris standing behind you, the soft glow of the vanity lights casting both of your reflections in the mirror. You keep your gaze locked on yourself, trying to ignore the warmth radiating from his body as he reaches for the zipper at the back of your dress.

His fingers brush against your skin as he tugs it down, agonizingly slow, and the air shifts—suddenly heavier, thicker. The fabric loosens around your shoulders, slipping slightly, exposing more of your back. “You’re tense,” he murmurs, his voice low.

You grip the edge of the counter, willing yourself to focus on anything but the way his fingers ghost over your spine as he eases the zipper all the way down. “I wonder why,” you say dryly.

Chris chuckles, the sound vibrating so close that you can feel it. He places his hands lightly on your shoulders, his thumbs pressing gently into the bare skin there. “Relax,” he says, voice laced with amusement. “It’s just a dress.”

Just a dress. Just a simple, professional test. You exhale and let the straps slide off your shoulders, the silky fabric pooling at your feet. The cool air kisses your exposed skin, making you shiver slightly. You’re left in nothing but your underwear, standing there in front of him, vulnerable yet unwilling to let it show.

Chris doesn’t move right away. His gaze flickers up to meet yours in the mirror, something unreadable swimming in his dark eyes.

For a moment, neither of you speak. The air between you crackles with unspoken tension. Then, after what feels like an eternity, Chris finally steps back, his lips quirking into that knowing smirk.

“There,” he says, voice softer now. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

He grabs a clean washcloth, dampens it with warm water, and steps closer. You watch him through the mirror as he wrings out the excess water, his sleeves already rolled up, revealing his forearms.

“This might be a little cold,” he says, but before you can react, he presses the cloth against your bare shoulder, wiping away the sticky remnants of wine.

You inhale sharply—not because of the temperature, but because of the slow, deliberate way he drags the cloth down your arm, over your collarbone, and lower. His touch is gentle, almost too careful, as if he’s savoring every second of this moment.

“You have nice skin,” he muses, his voice taking on that teasing lilt. “Soft… delicate...”

You grip the edge of the counter a little tighter. “Chris.”

“What?” He tilts his head, eyes dark with amusement as he crouches slightly, now running the damp cloth along your side. “I’m just making an observation. It’s not every day I get to admire my researcher up close.”

You shoot him a glare through the mirror. “I don’t recall this being part of the test.”

He grins, completely unbothered. “No, but it’s a nice bonus.”

The cloth moves lower, skimming along the curve of your waist, across your stomach. His knuckles brush against your ribs, and for a split second, you wonder if he’s intentionally slowing down.

“You’re staring,” you point out, trying to sound unaffected.

Chris doesn’t even try to deny it. “Can you blame me?” He leans in just slightly, his breath warm against the back of your neck. “You look incredible.”

Your pulse jumps. You keep your eyes on the mirror, on the way his hands move with too much ease, too much familiarity. The way his gaze lingers, dark and intense. It feels too intimate. Too much.

You clear your throat, shifting your weight. “Are you done?”

Chris smirks, but he finally straightens up, tossing the cloth into the sink. “Yeah,” he says, stepping back. “For now.”

Before you can even react, Chris's hands grip your waist, and in one swift motion, he lifts you onto the sink. A surprised gasp escapes you as your palms press against the counter for balance. "Chris—"

"I'm not done yet," he interrupts smoothly, already crouching in front of you, the wet cloth in hand.

Your heart skips a beat as he starts wiping down your legs, his touch slow, precise, like he's savoring every second. He starts at your ankle, dragging the warm cloth up the length of your calf, then to your knee, and higher still. His fingers brush against your thigh, sending a shiver up your spine.

Your entire body feels like it's on high alert. "You don’t have to—"

"Shh," he hums, amusement flickering in his eyes as he continues. "Let me do this properly."

You press your lips together, watching him through the reflection on the shower glass door. He looks entirely too focused, like this is some kind of ritual for him. And then, just as he finishes, he does something you don’t expect. He parts your legs.

Your breath catches as he steps between them, standing so close that his body heat seeps into your skin. His hands rest on the counter beside you, effectively caging you in. He doesn’t touch you, doesn’t move any closer, just lingers there—his chest barely an inch from yours, his face so close that you can see the flicker of something dark in his eyes.

The air between you shifts, thickening with something unspoken. You swallow hard, trying to steady your breathing, but it’s impossible when Chris is looking at you like that—like he’s waiting for something. Like he’s daring you to react.

"Chris," you murmur, unsure of what you’re even asking for.

He tilts his head slightly, his gaze flicking down to your lips before meeting your eyes again. His voice is low, teasing. "Nervous?"

You straighten your shoulders, meeting Chris’s intense gaze with as much composure as you can muster. "No," you say firmly, not wanting to give him the satisfaction.

A slow smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. "No?"

All of a sudden, his hands grip your waist again, and with one sharp tug, he pulls you flush against him. The sudden contact knocks the air from your lungs—his body is solid, warm, pressing into you in a way that makes it impossible to ignore just how close you are.

"Don't be shy," he murmurs, his voice edged with challenge. "Go ahead and put your hands on me."

You hesitate, feeling the weight of his expectation hanging in the air. Then, awkwardly, you lift your arms, wrapping them around his broad shoulders.

Chris watches you the entire time, his eyes glinting with something unreadable. "Good girl."

Before you can process those words, he moves again—this time gripping the backs of your thighs and lifting them, guiding your legs to wrap around his waist. The position forces you even closer, your core pressed right against the hardness growing beneath his pants. His arms snake around you, locking you in place as he leans in, his breath ghosting over your ear.

"You feel so damn good," he murmurs, his voice like silk against your skin. "Better than I even imagined."

Your fingers tighten on his shoulders, a shudder running down your spine at his words. And then—he moves.

Slowly, deliberately, he rolls his hips against you. The pressure is subtle at first, almost teasing, but the friction sends a wave of heat straight through your core. He does it again, this time with more intent, dragging his clothed length against you in a way that makes your breath hitch.

"You like that?" he whispers, his lips brushing your ear.

Your fingers dig into the fabric of his shirt, your body tensing against his. You don’t answer, but Chris doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, your silence only encourages him. He grinds against you again, this time slower, more drawn out, savoring the way your body reacts to him. A quiet groan rumbles in his chest as he buries his face into your neck, his breath hot against your skin.

"You feel perfect," he breathes.

You swallow hard, trying to maintain some semblance of control, but it's slipping fast. The way he’s moving, the way he’s talking—it's intoxicating.

Chris pulls back just enough to look at you, his dark eyes searching yours. "Tell me to stop," he challenges, voice low and husky. "If you want me to."

He watches you, waiting, his lips hovering just a breath away from your skin. His body stays pressed against yours, his hands firm on your waist, and for a fleeting moment, you let yourself sink into the sensation.

The warmth of his breath against your neck, the intoxicating way his body molds against yours—it’s dangerously easy to forget why you're here. You close your eyes, allowing yourself just one more second of indulgence. One more second of feeling him. But then—an alarm rings in your head.

Reality crashes down on you like a wave of cold water. Your eyes snap open, and with a quiet breath, you press your hands against his chest, gently pushing him away. Chris hesitates for a fraction of a second before letting you go, his gaze flickering with something unreadable as you quickly slip down from the sink.

The heat of his body is gone instantly, but the lingering effect still pulses through your veins. You swallow hard, forcing yourself to move, to ground yourself back in the real reason you’re here.

You grab the bathrobe and hurriedly wrap it around yourself, securing the belt tighter than necessary. You can feel Chris’s eyes on you the entire time, silently watching, waiting for you to say something.

You clear your throat. "It’s time for the test," you say, your voice firmer than you expected.

Chris exhales a quiet chuckle, running a hand through his hair as he takes a step back. "Right," he murmurs, amusement laced in his voice. "The test."

There’s something in the way he says it—like he knows exactly what just happened between the two of you. Like he knows how close you were to completely surrendering but he doesn’t push.

Instead, he watches as you gather yourself, a knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Alright," he says, taking a step toward the door. "Let’s get started."

-

Despite dressed in a bathrobe, you clear your throat and slip back into professionalism as you grab the pack of condoms from your bag. Without looking at him, you extend your hand, offering one of the revised prototypes.

Chris takes it from you with a small, amused hum. "Let’s see how this one goes, then."

As you make a move to turn around and step out of the room to give him privacy, his voice stops you.

"You can stay," he says, his tone casual but carrying that underlying teasing edge. "It’s not like you haven’t seen me naked before."

You pause mid-step, fingers tightening slightly on your notebook. That’s true, but it doesn’t make it any less… distracting.

Still, you force yourself to act unfazed. You shift back to your previous spot, keeping your eyes locked on your notes as Chris continues undressing. The sound of fabric rustling fills the room, and when you finally glance up, your breath nearly catches.

The first time you saw him naked, he’d still had his shirt on. But this time, he’s taken everything off. Completely bare. Your grip tightens around your pen as you force yourself to maintain a neutral expression. But your eyes… they betray you. They keep flickering downward, drawn helplessly to the sheer size of him. It’s eye-catching, unfairly so, and despite your best efforts, you keep stealing glances.

Chris notices. Of course, he does. He smirks as he tears open the condom wrapper and then— "Want to put it on for me this time?"

You snap your head up, shooting him an unimpressed look. Without dignifying his question with a response, you roll your eyes and immediately focus on writing down the preliminary details of the product test.

He chuckles but doesn’t push. He sits down at the edge of the bed, takes the condom, and rolls it down his length with practiced ease. Your eyes flicker toward him again—just for a second—but it's enough for him to catch you looking.

You quickly redirect your gaze back to your notes. "How does it feel?" you ask, voice all business.

Chris doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he leans back slightly, spreading his legs just a little as he looks down at himself, inspecting the way the condom fits around his length.

You keep your eyes on your notebook, pen poised over the page, but your fingers are tense around it. Your pulse is unsteady.

"It feels better than the last one," Chris finally says, his tone casual, though there’s a smirk playing on his lips. "Not as tight. And the length is better, too."

You nod, quickly jotting down his feedback, willing yourself to focus on the task and not on the fact that he’s sitting there, completely naked, completely unbothered.

"The material feels smoother," he continues, running a hand along his length, testing the stretch. You don’t dare look up. "Not too thick, but sturdy enough."

You scribble his words down, keeping your head low.

Chris hums. "You’re really not gonna look, huh?"

Your grip on your pen tightens. "I don’t need to look. I just need your feedback."

"Right," he drawls, clearly amused. "And what if I had trouble putting it on? You wouldn’t have helped me?"

You finally glance up, rolling your eyes. "You’re a grown man, Chris."

He grins. "I know, but isn’t this a part of product testing? Hands-on research?"

You shoot him a glare, but he just chuckles, leaning forward slightly. "Relax," he says, voice low and teasing. "I’m just messing with you."

You sigh, shaking your head as you jot down the final notes. "If the fit feels good, then we can move on to the next phase of testing."

Chris tilts his head. "The durability test?"

You meet his gaze, keeping your expression neutral. "Yes."

A slow smirk spreads across his face. "I’m looking forward to it."

You walk back to your bag resting in a chair, you pull out the box of condoms from your bag and hand it to Chris, keeping your expression professional. “For the durability test, you can conduct it yourself and come back to me with your feedback.”

Chris blinks at you, clearly confused. He glances down at the box in his hands, then back at you. “Wait… what?”

You arch a brow. “You don’t need me for that part. Just use it and let me know how it holds up.”

Chris leans back slightly, exhaling through his nose. “I thought we agreed to keep this a secret.”

“We are,” you reply evenly. “Your sexual partner doesn’t have to know the condom you’re using.”

His eyes narrow slightly, lips pressing into a thin line. “I thought you and I were doing this together.”

“We are,” you say, nodding. “Just… not that way.”

Chris lets out a low sigh, tilting his head as he studies you. Then, after a pause, he says, “Isn’t it better if we do it together?”

Your stomach tightens, but you keep your expression neutral. “Chris—”

He leans in slightly, voice lowering. “That way, I can give you feedback right away. No outside variables. Just you and me.” His gaze lingers on yours, unreadable yet intense. “And this stays between us.”

You exhale sharply, trying to keep your composure. “Chris, that’s not how this works.”

Chris smirks, tilting his head. “Why not?” He taps the box of condoms against his palm, his eyes glinting with amusement. “You’re the researcher. I’m the participant. Wouldn’t it be more efficient if we tested it… together?”

You roll your eyes and cross your arms. “That’s not how clinical testing works.”

His smirk widens. “Oh? And what exactly is stopping you?” He leans in, his voice dropping just slightly. “Are you scared?”

Your jaw tightens. “I’m not scared.”

“Then why not?” His gaze flicks over you, studying your reaction. “You’ve already seen everything. Touched, even. What’s one more step?”

You scoff. “There are plenty of reasons why.”

Chris hums, pretending to think. “Is it because you’re not attracted to me?” His grin turns playful. “Because I don’t believe that.”

Your lips part, but nothing comes out.

He leans even closer, just enough for you to catch the faintest scent of his cologne. “Or…” he murmurs, “is it because you are?”

That catches you off guard. His smirk deepens at your silence, clearly enjoying the way he has you cornered. You swallow, forcing yourself to maintain eye contact.

“It’s because we work together,” you say, your voice steadier than you feel. “I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

Chris lets out a low hum, tilting his head. “So it’s not because you don’t want to?”

You exhale sharply. “That’s not what I—”

He takes a slow step forward, closing the small space between you. “Because if that’s the only reason stopping you,” he murmurs, “then it’s not really a reason, is it?”

You scoff, crossing your arms. “Chris, workplace relationships are complicated.”

His smirk softens just slightly. “Who said anything about a relationship?”

You blink your eyes at him, nonplussed.

He chuckles at your reaction, eyes twinkling with mischief. “I’m just talking about product testing.” He lifts the box of condoms slightly, as if to emphasize his point. “Two consenting adults conducting a private experiment.”

You shake your head, trying to fight the heat creeping up your neck. “You’re relentless.”

Chris grins. “I just don’t like wasting good opportunities.” He taps the box against his palm again. “And you can’t tell me you’re not at least curious.”

Your stomach flips at the way he’s looking at you—like he already knows the answer.

“Look,” he says, his voice softer now, more coaxing. “This doesn’t have to be anything more than product testing. No strings. No expectations. Just a controlled experiment.” He lifts the box of condoms slightly, as if to emphasize the professionalism of it all.

You let out a slow breath, glancing away. Every rational part of you is screaming that this is a bad idea, that this is crossing a line. But then there’s the way Chris is looking at you, the way your body still remembers the way he felt pressed against you in the bathroom, the way your curiosity is getting the better of you.

You press your lips together, weighing your options. “Just product testing,” you repeat, as if saying it out loud will make it less dangerous.

Chris nods, his expression unreadable. “Just product testing.”

Another beat of silence. Then, before you can second-guess yourself, you slowly nod. “Okay.”

The corner of Chris’s mouth tugs upward, a slow, knowing smile. “Good.” He takes a step closer, his voice dropping just slightly. “Shall we begin?”

-

It's unclear how long you've been standing there, unsure on how to do this, or even to process that you, a researcher, are about to conduct a durability test on your product with your participant.

Chris watches you for a moment, then leans back on the bed, his legs slightly spread as he gestures toward you. “Take off the bathrobe,” he says, his voice smooth, assured. “Then sit next to me.”

Your fingers tighten around the edges of the fabric, hesitation gripping you, but you remind yourself—this is just a test. Just product testing.

Slowly and awkwardly, you untie the robe, letting it slip from your shoulders, revealing your body with your matching underwear covering your private bits. The cool air of the room prickles against your skin as you step toward the bed and lower yourself beside him. Your heart is pounding so loudly that you barely register the way Chris shifts, turning toward you.

A moment later, his hand reaches for your face, his fingertips grazing your cheek. Instinctively, you squeeze your eyes shut.

Chris chuckles, low and warm. “Why so nervous?” he teases, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone. “You’ve been so composed this whole time… but now?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your brain is barely functioning. His touch is gentle as he tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his breath warm as he leans in. Your lips part slightly, bracing for a kiss—

But instead, he presses his lips to your closed eyelid. Your breath stutters, the unexpected tenderness sending a shiver down your spine. Then he moves, kissing the other eyelid, his lips soft and lingering.

A small sound escapes you before you can stop it, a quiet moan slipping from your parted lips and that’s when Chris takes the opening, tilting his head and capturing your mouth in a deep, heated kiss.

Chris deepens the kiss, his lips moving slowly, deliberately, as if savoring every second. His hand drifts from your face, down the slope of your neck, skimming the curve of your shoulder before sliding further down. His fingers find the strap of your bra, tracing it lightly before slipping it off your shoulder.

Your breath catches as his other hand settles on your waist, warm and firm, grounding you even as your mind spins. He kisses you deeper, his tongue brushing against yours, coaxing you further into the moment.

Then, with practiced ease, he reaches behind you, fingers deftly working the clasp of your bra. The fabric loosens, and he slowly pulls it away, his lips never leaving yours as he discards it to the side.

Chris shifts, guiding you backward onto the bed, his body following as he hovers over you. His hands smooth over your sides, his touch steady but unhurried, as if giving you time to stop him if you wanted to. But you don’t.

His fingers trail down to the waistband of your underwear, teasing along the edge before he hooks his fingers under the fabric. He pulls back just slightly, his dark eyes searching yours, silently asking for permission.

And when you give him the smallest nod, he slides them down, the slow drag of fabric sending a shiver up your spine. He discards them just as he did with your bra, then settles back over you, his body warm against yours.

For a moment, he just looks at you, his gaze dark and intense, his lips slightly parted as if taking in the sight of you beneath him. Then he leans down again, pressing a slow, lingering kiss just below your jaw, his lips trailing lower as his hands explore your body, mapping every inch of you. Your lips, your neck, your breasts and the way they fit his hands as if they were made for him. The dip of your waist and the curve of your hips, the ample flesh of your ass cheek. Then, there’s the miles and miles of soft skin, endlessly enthralling him.

Your body tenses beneath him, your hands instinctively reaching for his shoulders. “Chris, I don’t think you’ll fit,” you whisper, voice barely audible over the pounding of your heartbeat.

He stops, lifting his head to look at you, and for a brief moment, you catch the amusement flickering in his dark eyes. Then he lets out a soft chuckle, his fingers coming up to gently brush your cheek. “You’re thinking too much,” he murmurs. “Just relax.”

His touch is warm, his thumb stroking slow circles against your skin. Then, with ease, he presses you back against the pillows, his weight hovering over you but not pressing down. He leans in, capturing your lips in another kiss—this time softer, slower, as if coaxing the tension out of you with every gentle movement.

His mouth leaves yours, traveling downward, leaving a heated trail along your jaw, your neck. His lips linger at your collarbone, pressing a kiss there before continuing lower. The warmth of his breath sends a shiver through you as he moves further down, his lips grazing the center of your chest, the valley between your breasts and then a quick lick on each of your hardening nipples.

You try to steady your breathing, but it’s impossible when he’s kissing down your stomach, his hands sliding along your sides, feeling, exploring. He’s deliberate with every touch, every kiss, giving you time to ease into the moment.

“Mmh... You’re beautiful,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice hushed, almost reverent. Then he continues, his mouth mapping a path further down, his hands parting your thighs as he settles between them.

Chris lingers at the curve of your hip, pressing slow, deliberate kisses against your skin. His hands trail down your thighs, his touch both firm and teasing. You shudder as he parts them further, settling between them with an air of confidence that makes your pulse race.

He looks up at you through hooded eyes, a small smirk playing on his lips. “Still nervous?” he asks, his voice husky.

You don’t answer—not because you don’t want to, but because the moment his lips press against your inner thigh, all coherent thoughts slip from your mind. His breath is warm against your skin, sending a ripple of anticipation through you.

Chris lands his plush lips on your cunt, his tongue skillfully part your folds so he can drown in your wetness. This time, his mouth moving in lazy, unhurried strokes. Every kiss, every brush of his full lips, sets your skin alight. His hands grip your thighs, keeping you still as he delves deeper, his tongue tracing slow, deliberate patterns that have your fingers digging into the sheets.

A soft gasp escapes your lips as he finds the right spot, his rhythm precise, purposeful. Your body arches instinctively, a rush of warmth flooding through you as the sensation builds. Chris hums against you, the vibrations sending another wave of pleasure rolling through your body.

He doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up, his tongue moving with a practiced ease that leaves you breathless. Your hand flies to his hair, gripping onto him as the pressure inside you coils tighter and tighter. He knows exactly what he’s doing, and he’s relentless, determined to pull every last bit of pleasure from you.

Your head tilts back against the pillow, your lips parting on a shaky moan as your body gives in, waves of sensation crashing over you in a slow, intoxicating release. Chris doesn’t move away immediately—he lingers, pressing one last, lingering kiss against on your clit before finally pulling back, his hands smoothing up your trembling thighs.

He looks up at you, his lips glistening, a satisfied smirk curving them. “See?” he murmurs, his voice thick with amusement. “Told you to relax.”

Chris hovers over you, his hand smoothing over your thigh as he positions himself at your entrance. His gaze drags over your body, dark and hooded with desire. He exhales a slow breath, his fingers tracing lazy circles into your skin.

“You’re right. You're so little,” he murmurs, almost to himself, his voice filled with something close to awe. His hands roam over your waist, your hips, as if he’s memorizing the shape of you beneath him.

Chris takes one look at his cock, making sure the condom is still snug around him before he gives it a few pumps as if it's not hard, stiff enough. He takes your legs and puts them over his waist as he positions himself in between.

The anticipation coils tight in your stomach as he slowly pushes forward, just the tip stretching you open, and a sharp gasp escapes your lips. A sudden twinge of discomfort has you clenching around him, your hands gripping onto his arms as you mewl softly in protest.

“Chris, I—” You can't even finish your sentence as the sudden sensation surges through you.

Chris stops immediately, his brows knitting together as he watches you, his fingers stroking soothingly along your thigh. “Hey,” he murmurs, voice gentle, “breathe.”

But even with just that little bit inside you, the feeling is overwhelming. A shiver runs down your spine as you try to adjust, your body tightening involuntarily. Your breaths come in shaky pants, heat blooming from where your bodies connect.

Chris watches you intently, eyes never leaving your face as he shifts slightly, and suddenly, a sharp pleasure shoots through you, unexpected and electric. Your back arches off the bed as a strangled moan escapes your lips, your body quivering around him. The pressure, the stretch—it’s too much, yet somehow, it sends a rush of pleasure so intense that your body trembles beneath him.

Chris stills, his expression flickering with surprise before it melts into amusement. A slow, knowing smile curves his lips as he watches the way you writhe beneath him, helpless against the sensation.

“You came just from that?” he muses, his thumb brushing over your hip in lazy circles. “That’s cute.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks, embarrassment and lingering pleasure making your body feel even more sensitive. Chris chuckles softly, leaning down to press a lingering kiss against your parted lips before whispering, “Guess we’ll have to take our time, won’t we?”

Chris stays still for a moment, his warmth pressed against your back as he lets you catch your breath. His arms tighten around you slightly, anchoring you to him as he presses a lingering kiss to the back of your shoulder. You’re still trembling, body sensitive and flushed from your sudden release.

He exhales softly, his lips grazing the shell of your ear. “You okay?” His voice is low, gentle.

You nod, swallowing past the tightness in your throat. The feeling of him still inside you, filling you completely, makes you shudder.

Chris shifts behind you, adjusting the way he’s holding you. His arm is draped over your waist, fingers spread over your stomach, grounding you. His other hand smooths over your thigh, soothing, patient.

“Do you want me to keep going?” he asks, voice laced with restraint, as if he’s willing to stop if you say no.

To his surprise, you whisper, “Yes.”

A deep, quiet groan rumbles from his chest, and you feel his fingers flex against your skin. His lips press into the curve of your neck before he moves again, a slow, deliberate roll of his hips. The stretch burns slightly, but the pleasure laced in it makes your breath hitch.

Chris moves carefully, his thrusts slow and deep, keeping you flush against him as he spoons you. His hand trails from your breasts, to your stomach, splaying over your skin as if he wants to feel every reaction, every tremor that ripples through you.

“You feel so good,” he murmurs, voice breathless against your ear. His pace remains steady, each push and pull measured, sending waves of heat through your body.

Your hands grip onto his arm, holding onto him as pleasure coils low in your stomach once again. Every movement is intimate, every breath shared in the quiet space between you. Chris’s lips ghost over your shoulder, his soft grunts vibrating against your skin as he continues to move within you, drawing out every ounce of pleasure he can.

And in that moment, wrapped in his arms, pressed against him so completely, you find yourself lost in the way he makes you feel—like you were meant to fit together like this.

Chris’s breath is hot against your ear as he leans in, his voice dropping into a husky whisper. “Feels good,” he murmurs, his lips barely brushing your skin. “Fits just right… but I think it could be thinner. Let me feel you more.”

His slow, deliberate thrusts send a shiver through you, your body tightening around him in response. He chuckles, the sound deep and breathless. “You like that, don’t you?” He presses a lingering kiss to your jaw, his hand gripping your hip to keep you steady as he rolls into you again, deeper this time.

You don’t answer, too lost in the pleasure unfurling inside you. Chris doesn’t mind. He continues to move, the tension building between you both. “Maybe I should test a few more,” he muses between ragged breaths, his voice laced with amusement. “Make sure we get it just right.”

His words make you whimper, and he groans in response. “You’re so cute moaning like that,” he breathes, his pace quickening as he nears his peak. His grip on you tightens, his movements becoming more desperate, more frantic. The coil in your stomach tightens, and before you know it, you’re coming again, your body tensing as waves of pleasure crash over you.

Chris groans against your neck, his hips stuttering as he follows right behind you. His grip on you never loosens, holding you close as he spills into the condom, his breath warm and heavy against your skin.

For a moment, the room is filled with nothing but the sound of your breaths mingling. Chris presses a soft, lingering kiss to your shoulder before shifting, turning you gently onto your back so he can look at you. His dark eyes flick over your face, taking in your dazed expression before he leans down, kissing you deeply.

When he pulls back, a smirk tugs at his lips. Then, he reaches for the duvet at the foot of the bed and carefully pulls it over both of you, tucking it around your bare body. The warmth is instant, but not nearly as comforting as the way he wraps himself around you right after.

His arms tighten around your waist, drawing you flush against his chest. His breath is warm against the back of your neck as he settles in, his lips barely grazing your skin. For a while, neither of you speak. The rise and fall of your breaths eventually sync, the exhaustion from the night settling into your limbs. Just as your eyes begin to flutter shut, his voice breaks the silence—low, drowsy, and laced with something softer than usual.

“Goodnight,” he murmurs, the word barely more than a breath against your skin.

For a moment, you hesitate, but then, in the safety of the dimly lit room and the comfort of his arms, you whisper back, “Goodnight.”

Chris hums in contentment, tightening his hold just slightly before finally allowing himself to drift off to sleep.

-

The morning light filters through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the hotel suite. Your eyes flutter open, and for a moment, you're disoriented—until the sound of running water brings everything back.

Chris is in the shower.

Your stomach tightens as memories from last night flood in, and instinct kicks in. You need to leave. Carefully, you slip out of bed, scanning the room for your clothes. But just as you reach for your bag, the bathroom door swings open, and there he stands—his hair damp, beads of water clinging to his toned skin, a white towel hanging dangerously low around his hips. You freeze in place.

Chris notices your reaction and grins. "Unless you want to walk out of the hotel naked, I don’t think you’re going anywhere."

Your brows furrow in confusion as he tilts his head toward the chair. "I sent your dress for dry cleaning."

Your lips part in disbelief. "You what?"

Chris walks up to you, holding out a plush bathrobe. “Relax. It'll be back soon.” He doesn’t just hand it to you—he steps closer, draping it over your shoulders and helping you slip your arms through the sleeves, his touch far too gentle for how casual he's acting.

"Go shower," he tells you, his voice softer now.

You hesitate but eventually nod, dragging yourself toward the bathroom. Just as you reach the doorway, he calls after you, "Better hurry. I ordered room service for breakfast."

Your body tenses at his words, but you say nothing. Instead, you step inside and shut the door behind you, leaning against it for a moment—just processing everything from last night to this very second.

The test, the sex, everything blurs into one and before you recall more memories from last night, you get into the shower in hope to wash it away.

The scent of freshly brewed coffee and warm pastries fills the suite as you step out of the bathroom, now wrapped in the bathrobe Chris gave you. He’s already seated at the small dining table by the window, scrolling through his phone while absentmindedly sipping from his cup. A full spread of breakfast is laid out—omelets, toast, fruit, and two cups of coffee.

Without a word, you take the seat across from him. He glances up briefly but doesn’t say anything, just pushes a plate toward you in a silent invitation to eat.

The quiet stretches between you, thick with unspoken thoughts. You focus on your food, taking small bites, though you barely taste anything. Chris, on the other hand, eats leisurely, like this is just another morning. Then, he finally breaks the silence.

“So,” he says, setting his fork down. “What’s your conclusion on the product test last night?”

You almost choke on your coffee. Your eyes dart to him, but his expression is unreadable, as if he’s genuinely asking for a professional evaluation. You hesitate, gripping your fork a little tighter.

"Well?" he presses, taking another sip of his coffee. "Did it pass?"

You clear your throat, setting your coffee cup down carefully. “I think… to be thorough, it’s better to run a few more tests.”

Chris quirks an eyebrow, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “A few more tests, huh?” He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “Didn’t expect you to be so dedicated to research.”

You roll your eyes, trying to ignore the heat creeping up your neck. “It’s just proper procedure.”

“Proper procedure,” he repeats, his smirk widening. “You sure it’s just that? Because last night, it kinda seemed like you were enjoying yourself.”

Your jaw tightens, and you stab a piece of fruit with your fork. “That’s not relevant to the study.”

Chris chuckles, clearly entertained. “Right, of course. All in the name of science.” He tilts his head slightly, his gaze locked onto you. “So, how many more ‘tests’ are we talking about? Two? Three? A full trial period?”

You sigh, exasperated. “I haven’t decided yet.”

Chris hums, taking another bite of his toast. “Well, just let me know. I’m happy to help.” His tone is casual, but there’s a glint in his eyes that makes your stomach flip.

You quickly focus on your breakfast, pretending not to notice the way he’s watching you.

Chris leisurely takes a sip of his coffee, playing it cool as he glances around the suite. “You know,” he muses, “I’m really liking this hotel. Feels… comfortable.” He leans back slightly, stretching his muscular arms before resting them on the table. “I think it’d be a great place to conduct another test.”

You pause mid-bite, eyes flickering up to him. He’s watching you, but his expression is unreadable—except for the slight curve of his lips. Then, he grins. “Maybe next weekend?”

You nearly choke on your food, quickly taking a sip of water to recover. “You’re already planning the next one?”

Chris shrugs, feigning innocence. “Just being proactive. You said it yourself—we need more tests for accuracy.” He lifts his coffee cup again, smirking over the rim. “And I wouldn’t want to let you down.”

You exhale sharply, placing your utensils down. “I haven’t even analyzed the results from last night.”

“Take your time,” he says easily, “but don’t overthink it too much.” He tilts his head, studying you. “Unless… you’re backing out?”

You narrow your eyes at him, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing how flustered you are. “I’ll let you know,” you say, keeping your voice even.

Chris chuckles, clearly enjoying himself. “I’ll be waiting.”

-

Monday morning, you walk into work with an unusual lightness in your step. You try not to think too much about that night—about Chris, his touch, the way he whispered in your ear—but the memories flash unbidden in your mind, making your face warm. You force yourself to keep your expression neutral, not wanting to attract any suspicion. Especially from Jane.

Speaking of which… you realize she hasn’t come to bother you like usual. Curious, you make your way to her lab, where you find her hunched over her workstation, deeply focused.

“Hey,” you call out, stepping inside. “What’s got you so busy?”

Jane barely glances up before turning back to her notes. “I have to finish my reformulation today,” she says quickly. “Final presentation’s tomorrow, and if I don’t get this right, all my work’s going down the drain.”

You nod in understanding. The pressure of finalizing a product before launch is no joke, and seeing Jane—who’s usually so carefree—this stressed means she’s really cutting it close.

“You got this,” you tell her sincerely. “Good luck.”

She lets out a deep breath, finally pausing to give you a smirk. “I better. If I crash and burn, I’m dragging you down with me.”

You chuckle, shaking your head. “Noted.”

Back in your own lab, you try to push all thoughts of Chris aside and focus on your own work. But as you review your notes and the adjustments you’ve made to the product, an uncomfortable realization creeps in—you’re running out of time.

Jane’s stress reminds you that your own product is also in a critical stage. If she’s giving her final presentation tomorrow, that means your deadline isn’t far behind. You tap your pen against your clipboard, staring at the latest batch of data, and suddenly, the pressure starts to settle heavily on your shoulders.

You sigh and grab your phone, quickly sending an email to the team in charge of screening participants. A few minutes later, you receive a reply:

Final stage of screening participants. Will update once selection is complete.

You lean back in your chair, exhaling slowly. Final stage. That means any day now, you’ll have another participant to help move this process forward—another participant who isn’t Chris. For some reason, that last thought lingers a little too long in your mind.

-

A few days later, Jane is a walking ball of stress, and unfortunately, it’s rubbing off on you.

She paces back and forth in the break room, arms crossed, her fingers tapping against her upper arm impatiently. “I don’t get it. They should’ve given me an answer by now,” she mutters before turning to you with a sharp look. “What if they hated it? What if they’re just trying to figure out a way to reject it without making me throw a fit?”

You sip your iced coffee, trying to keep your own anxiety in check. “If they hated it, they would’ve told you already,” you reason, though you understand her panic completely.

Jane groans and drops her head onto the table. “I can’t take this anymore. The waiting is worse than the presentation itself.”

You don’t say it out loud, but you completely agree. Because the uncertainty of your own project’s progress is starting to gnaw at you too. You haven’t received any updates on the new participant, and without that, you can’t finalize the product. And without a finalized product, you can’t meet your deadline.

You exhale and press your fingers against your temples, suddenly feeling the weight of everything piling up. “Your stress is contagious, you know that?” you mumble.

Jane lifts her head just enough to give you a weak smirk. “Misery loves company.”

Later that day, you get a message from Chris’s secretary, asking you to stop by his office. You hesitate for a moment, wondering if you should prepare yourself for whatever he has in store this time. But you shake off the thought and head over.

When you step inside, Chris is leaning back in his chair, sleeves rolled up, looking effortlessly good as usual. He grins when he sees you. “Hey, right on time,” he says, and you do as told, walking over to his desk.

“I wanted to let you know I’m available this weekend for the test,” he says, watching you closely.

You nod, trying to muster up some enthusiasm. “Okay. That works.”

Chris tilts his head, his grin faltering slightly. “That’s it? No excitement?”

You blink at him. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

His brow raises. “I don’t know… maybe something like ‘Great! Can’t wait!’” He leans forward, resting his arms on the desk. “What’s wrong with you today?”

You sigh and rub your temples. “I’m just stressed about my product. There’s still so much to do, and I don’t even know if I’ll have another participant before the deadline.”

Chris hums in thought, then leans back again. “Well, you’re doing your best, right?”

“I guess.”

He smirks. “That’s all that matters. Besides, I’m the one doing my best for you.”

You roll your eyes, but the corner of your lips twitches at his teasing. “Of course, how could I forget?”

Chris chuckles, pleased with himself. “Exactly. So stop stressing. I’ve got you.”

You shift your weight from one foot to the other, still feeling the weight of your stress pressing down on you. “You know… you could’ve just texted me about the test instead of calling me to your office.”

Chris scoffs, shaking his head with a smirk. “Yeah, I could’ve.”

You wait for him to continue, but he just looks at you like you should already know the answer. When you don’t say anything, he leans forward slightly, voice dropping a little.

“But I wanted to see you.”

His words catch you completely off guard, and you freeze for a second, unsure how to respond. He watches you closely, amused by your reaction.

Your mouth opens, then closes. You clear your throat, trying to brush off the sudden shift in atmosphere. “Well… you’ve seen me now,” you mutter, avoiding his gaze.

Chris chuckles. “Yeah, I have.” He tilts his head. “And?”

“And what?”

He grins. “Feel better?”

You scoff. “No.”

Chris just laughs at your flat response, shaking his head. “Liar.”

He leans back in his chair, still smirking as he watches you squirm under his gaze. “I think you do feel better,” he teases. “You just don’t want to admit it.”

You roll your eyes, crossing your arms. “If I’m stressed, I’m stressed. Seeing you doesn’t magically fix that.”

He hums thoughtfully. “Maybe not, but I bet it helps a little.”

You scoff, looking away, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response. The part you hate the most is because he’s not entirely wrong. Despite everything weighing on you, there’s something about his presence—his confidence, his teasing, the way he acts like he’s got everything under control—that makes you feel just a little lighter.

And that annoys you.

-

The hotel lobby is dimly lit, elegant but not overly extravagant. You step through the entrance, scanning the space until your eyes land on Chris, who’s waiting near the elevators. He’s dressed casually but polished—dark slacks, a fitted shirt with the top two buttons undone, looking unfairly good as usual.

Just as you take a step toward him, your phone buzzes in your bag. You fish it out and sigh when you see Jane’s name flashing on the screen. Pressing the phone to your ear, you barely manage a greeting before she starts rambling.

“I swear, if they don’t approve this formula, I’m quitting,” she huffs. “I mean, not really, but you get what I mean. I haven’t slept properly in three days, and I think I’m running on caffeine and pure delusion at this point.”

You let out a small laugh, even though the stress in her voice weighs on you. “It’ll be fine, Jane. You worked hard on it.”

“That’s what people say before something blows up in their face,” she groans. “Anyway, where are you? I need to rant.”

Panic flickers in your chest. You glance around, as if she could somehow see you through the phone. “Uh… just out,” you say vaguely. “I’ll call you later, okay?”

She huffs again. “Fine. But if I have a breakdown, it’s on you.”

You chuckle. “Duly noted.” Ending the call, you sigh, but the stress clings to you, the tension knotting in your shoulders refusing to ease.

You take a deep breath and walk toward Chris, who straightens when he sees you. He starts to say something, but before he can get a word out, you grab his face and kiss him.

Chris barely has time to react when you press your lips to his, the kiss sudden and hurried, almost desperate. His hands instinctively settle on your waist, grounding you for the few fleeting seconds before you pull away.

Your lips are still parted as you mutter, “Why don’t we just skip dinner and head upstairs?”

Chris blinks, momentarily surprised by your forwardness. Then, slowly, a smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. “Someone’s eager tonight,” he muses, his voice low and teasing.

You huff, looking away. “I just—” You exhale sharply, rubbing your temple. “I'm just a little stressed.”

His expression softens slightly. “Ah.”

“It’s work. I'm stressed about work, and I just—I don’t know.” You sigh, shaking your head. “It’s like I can’t escape it.”

Chris tilts his head, studying you for a moment before his hand finds yours. “Then let’s go.”

You look at him questioningly.

He squeezes your hand. “Upstairs,” he clarifies. “Since that’s what you want.”

You nod, letting him lead you toward the elevators. As the doors close behind you, sealing you both away from the rest of the world, Chris turns to you, his grip tightening ever so slightly.

“Want me to help you take your mind off work?” he asks, his voice rich with suggestion.

You swallow, anticipation coiling in your stomach. “Yes.”

-

The hotel suite door barely shuts behind you before Chris pulls you in, his hands framing your face as his lips crash into yours. The kiss is deep, heated, and rushed—both of you hungry for each other. Your fingers clutch at his shirt, dragging him closer as you stumble toward the bed.

Chris’s hands slide down your back, finding the zipper of your dress and pulling it down in one swift motion. The fabric pools at your feet, leaving you in your lingerie as he lifts you effortlessly into his arms. You gasp, arms looping around his neck as he carries you to the bed, laying you down gently against the plush sheets.

He kneels above you, his dark eyes drinking you in before he reaches for the buttons of his shirt. One by one, he undoes them, his toned chest coming into view, and once the shirt is off, he tosses it aside without a second thought. Then, he leans in again, claiming your lips with his own, his body pressing against yours as the heat between you intensifies.

For a moment, the purpose of tonight is forgotten. There’s no product test, no work stress—just the two of you tangled together, lips moving in sync, hands wandering, breaths coming out in soft, desperate gasps.

Then, your fingers trail down his chest, lower and lower, until you feel the growing bulge beneath his pants. Chris groans softly against your lips, his body tensing slightly at your touch. That’s when reality crashes back into you.

You break the kiss slightly, your breaths mingling as you whisper, “Chris, the condom. In my bag.”

Chris hovers above you for a second, his eyes searching yours. Then, with a slow smirk, he leans in, brushing a teasing kiss against your lips before murmuring, “Yes, ma’am.”

He gets off the bed, heading toward where you left your bag, and as you watch him, heart racing, you can’t help but think—maybe this test is just an excuse now.

You watch as Chris retrieves the condom from your bag, his fingers expertly tearing open the wrapper. He steps out of his remaining clothes, his bare form illuminated by the dim hotel lighting. Your eyes are drawn downward, and despite having seen him before, the sheer size of him still makes your stomach flip. It’s intimidating—taunting, even—and the nerves creep up on you all over again.

Chris notices the way you tense, the way your thighs press together involuntarily. Rolling the condom over his length with practiced ease, he turns back to you, amusement flickering in his dark eyes.

“You need to relax,” he murmurs, his voice smooth yet edged with something deeper, something almost reassuring.

He crawls back onto the bed, hovering over you once more, his hands running along your sides as if to coax the tension out of your body. “You’re overthinking it,” he adds, pressing a soft kiss to your jaw, then another just below your ear.

Your breath hitches when his lips trail lower, down your neck, his touch slow and deliberate. It’s almost distracting enough to make you forget your nerves—almost. But when he settles between your legs, his gaze locking onto yours, the anticipation coils tightly in your stomach once more.

Chris smirks, tilting his head. “You trust me, don’t you?”

And the way he asks it—soft, teasing, but with a glimmer of something genuine—makes your heart skip.

His hands roam your body with a deliberate slowness, his fingertips tracing the curves of your waist, the dip of your stomach, the softness of your thighs. Each touch is meant to ease the tension out of you, to replace your nerves with something warmer, something deeper.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs against your skin, his lips pressing gentle kisses along your collarbone. “So soft… so perfect.”

His voice is a lull, smoothing over your anxiety like silk. He drags his mouth lower, his breath fanning across your skin as he continues whispering praises—how good you feel, how much he likes touching you, how you have no idea what you do to him.

You shudder beneath him, your body instinctively responding to his words, his touch. The tension in your muscles slowly unravels, and Chris pulls back just enough to take in the sight of you. His gaze sweeps over your bare form, dark and heavy with admiration. He doesn’t rush. He just looks.

“Gosh,” he breathes out, a slow grin forming on his lips. “I could look at you all night.”

The intensity in his eyes makes your breath catch, heat rising in your cheeks. He leans in again, his hands framing your face as he brushes his lips over yours.

“You okay now?” he asks, voice low, his forehead resting against yours.

And maybe it’s the way he’s holding you, or the way he’s looking at you like you’re something precious—but you find yourself nodding, your nerves fading into something else entirely.

Chris’s fingers trail down your body with deliberate slowness, his touch igniting warmth everywhere he grazes. His lips brush against your ear as his fingers tease along your inner thigh, his breath sending a shiver down your spine.

“You’re already trembling,” he murmurs, his voice laced with amusement and something deeper—something that makes your stomach tighten. “Are you nervous or just impatient?”

You don’t answer, not when his fingers finally slip between your legs, parting you with ease and easily finds your clit as it pulsates with each gentle rub. He does it for a long moment, waiting until you're wet enough for him to slip his two fingers inside you. A soft gasp escapes before you can stop it, and Chris hums in approval, pressing a lingering kiss just below your jaw.

“You always take me so well,” he whispers, his fingers moving in slow, calculated pumps that make your toes curl. “And you’re already clenching around me… How do you think you’ll handle me when I’m actually inside you?”

The words alone send heat rushing through you, but it’s the way he says them—low and coaxing, like he’s savoring every reaction you give him. You turn your face into his shoulder, gripping onto him as if grounding yourself, but Chris only chuckles.

“Don’t hide from me,” he coaxes, shifting so he can watch your face. “I want to see everything.”

He curls his fingers inside to get to your sensitive spot, his touch sending waves of pleasure coursing through you, and your breath stutters. Chris smiles against your cheek, his voice softer now, gentler.

“Just relax,” he murmurs. “Let me take care of you.”

Your body tightens around his fingers as the pleasure builds, your breath hitching with every precise movement of his hand. Chris watches you intently, his dark eyes flickering with something both possessive and admiring as he feels you getting closer.

"That's it," he whispers, his lips grazing your temple. "You’re so good for me."

His thumb circles your clit just right, and the tension in your body unravels all at once. A sharp cry slips from your lips as the pleasure crashes over you, leaving you trembling in his arms. Chris doesn’t stop right away—he works you through it, dragging out every last wave until you're gasping, your fingers digging into his shoulders for stability.

When you finally go limp against him, he presses a soft kiss to your cheek, his voice warm and full of praise. "So beautiful when you come around my fingers like that," he murmurs, his fingers slipping away only to trail soothingly along your thigh.

You barely have time to catch your breath before he leans in, his lips brushing against yours. "Think you’re ready for me now?" he asks, a teasing grin playing at his lips.

Despite his words, he gives you a moment to climb down your high, touching you, kissing you, keeping you heated just enough for the next one.

When he deems you're ready, he settles himself between your legs and take another moment to warm you up, sliding his cock between your folds, intentionally lubricating it with your essence.

The moment he starts to push his cock into your entrance, you whimper, your fingers gripping the sheets. He stills immediately, his brows furrowing.

“Still hurts?” he murmurs, his voice softer now, tinted with concern.

You shake your head instinctively, but he isn’t convinced. His large hands massage your hips soothingly, and for a moment, he just stays there, warm and solid against you. Then, as if making a decision, he leans down, pressing a kiss between your shoulder blades before murmuring against your skin, “There’s more than one way to do this.”

Before you can ask what he means, he shifts, gently guiding you onto your stomach. His hands coax your legs together, and then you feel it—his length settling between your thighs, snug and heavy. He lets out a low hum of approval as he starts a slow, deliberate movement, sliding his cock against you, the condom still doing its job.

“This works just fine for the test,” he says, a smirk evident in his voice. “No need for penetration.”

The new sensation sends a shiver through you. His body is warm against your back, his arms caging you in as he moves, taking his time. His above average cock allowing him to hit your clit for every time he thrusts forward. Every deliberate stroke of his tip on your clit has you squirming, and when he presses his lips to your ear, his breath hot, he whispers, “You feel so good like this… almost better than the real thing.”

His hands grip your waist, guiding you to match his rhythm, and before you know it, the tension in your body builds again. The sensation overwhelms you, and with one final push of pleasure, you come undone beneath him, trembling as the feeling washes over you. Chris lets out a low groan, his own release following moments after.

A smirk tugs at his lips as he leans down, pressing a lingering kiss to your shoulder. His arms wrap around you, holding you close as your breathing evens out, and for a fleeting moment, the weight of everything else disappears.

Chris lets out a content sigh, his grip on you loosening slightly as he shifts onto his side, still keeping you close. He presses a lazy kiss against the back of your shoulder before murmuring, “Well, I gotta say, the condom held up pretty well.”

You blink in confusion, still trying to come down from your high. “What?”

He chuckles, propping himself up on one elbow so he can look at you. “You know… the test? The whole reason we’re here?” His smirk deepens when you don’t respond right away. “Don’t tell me you forgot.”

Heat rushes to your face as you realize he’s right. You were so caught up in the moment, in him, that you completely forgot this was supposed to be about work. You scowl at his teasing tone, but Chris only grins wider.

“That’s cute,” he muses, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “You’re really slacking as a researcher, you know? Getting too distracted by your test subject.”

You groan, pushing at his chest, but he just laughs, rolling onto his back with a smug expression. “Don’t worry,” he says, stretching his arms over his head. “We can always run more tests. Just to be thorough.”

You roll your eyes, but deep down, you know you’re in trouble—because a part of you is already considering it.

Chris stretches his arms behind his head, still lounging in the bed with that smug expression. Then, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, he says, “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. Should we order some room service?”

You hesitate, still tangled in the sheets, still feeling the lingering heat between you. But the idea of food is tempting, and you nod. “Yeah… okay.”

Chris grins, reaching for the hotel’s menu on the nightstand. “Good. I was gonna order anyway, but I figured I’d be polite and ask.”

You scoff but let it slide, watching as he casually flips through the options. He orders for both of you without asking what you want, but somehow, he picks exactly what you would have chosen.

When the food arrives, the two of you settle onto the couch, eating in comfortable silence for a while. The tension from earlier has softened into something almost… normal. Like this is just another dinner, another night spent together. Then, as you poke at your plate, you find yourself speaking without really thinking. “Thanks, by the way.”

Chris glances up from his food. “For what?”

You shift slightly, feeling a little awkward. “For earlier. For not… pushing it when I said it hurt.”

Chris leans back, setting his fork down. He studies you for a moment before giving a small shrug. “I told you before, didn’t I? I wasn’t gonna do anything you weren’t ready for.”

You swallow, feeling something tighten in your chest.

Chris smirks, sensing the shift in your expression. “What? Surprised I’m a decent guy?”

You roll your eyes. “A little.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “You wound me.” But there’s something softer in his eyes now, something that makes you look away before he can read too much into your expression.

Chris doesn’t push. Instead, he just picks up his fork again, casually adding, “Guess that means we’ll just have to try again next time.”

Your stomach flips. “Next time?”

Chris just grins. “Unless you’re saying the test is complete?”

You don’t answer, and his smirk widens as he takes another bite of his food.

-

The morning sunlight filters through the hotel suite’s curtains as you fasten the last button of your blouse, trying to ignore the way Chris watches you from across the room. He’s standing by the dresser, rolling up the sleeves of his black shirt, looking far too put together for someone who spent the night in a hotel bed with you.

"You’re quiet this morning," he comments, slipping on his watch.

You smooth down the hem of your dress, keeping your eyes on your reflection in the mirror. "Just thinking about work."

He looks relaxed—too relaxed, considering the nature of your conversation.

"So," he says, tapping the fork against his thigh, "how are you planning to refine the product?"

You clear your throat, forcing yourself to focus. "I need to get more participant feedback, obviously. We’ve tested the fit, but durability and performance still need more trials."

Chris hums in acknowledgment, but there’s a knowing glint in his eyes. "And how do I rank as a participant?"

You shoot him a look, trying not to let the memory of the night’s events creep back into your mind. "You're… useful," you answer carefully.

He chuckles at that. "Just useful? After everything?"

You press your lips together, ignoring his teasing tone. "I mean it, Chris. But I need more participants for a thorough evaluation."

At that, his amusement fades slightly. He sits up straighter, turning toward you. "More participants, huh?"

You nod, scribbling something in your notebook to avoid looking at him. "It’s necessary for better data."

Chris is quiet for a moment, then he leans in, close enough that you can feel his warmth. "I get it," he says, voice softer now. "Just don’t forget who was here first."

You finally glance up at him, and the weight of his gaze makes your stomach flip. There’s something unreadable in his expression—not quite jealousy, but not far from it either.

You swallow. "Of course not."

A small smirk tugs at his lips, but he doesn’t push further. Instead, he nudges your knee with his. "So, should I clear my schedule for next weekend?"

You exhale, shaking your head. "I’ll let you know."

Chris grins, leaning back onto his elbows. "Can’t wait."

You roll your eyes, not indulging him with an answer. Instead, you head toward the door, but just as you reach for the handle, Chris beats you to it, leaning down slightly.

"Leaving without a goodbye?" he teases, voice low.

You glance at him, hesitating for half a second before sighing. "Goodbye, Chris."

As you walk down the quiet hotel corridor, your thoughts swirl between the pressure of finalizing your product and the undeniable truth that you still need more data. More tests.

You tighten your grip on your bag, exhaling sharply. That’s what this is about—work. Research. A product that needs to be perfected before it can move forward.

And yet, as you recall the way Chris looked at you before you left, the way he smirked at the idea of "more participants," a different kind of tension settles in your chest.

Finalizing your product soon is the goal. But a small, dangerous part of you wonders if maybe… just maybe… you’re not quite ready to be done with the testing phase.

-

As you're walking through the office hallway, your mind is still clouded with the remnants of the weekend—Chris’s touch, his whispered praises, the way he held you close even after everything was over. Every time you close your eyes, flashes of that night play in your head, making warmth creep up your neck. You shake your head, trying to snap yourself out of it as you step into your lab, determined to focus on work. But the moment you walk in, you freeze.

There’s a man already inside, leaning lazily against the counter, his posture relaxed yet confident, like he’s been waiting for you. The overhead lights cast sharp angles on his sharp jawline, his lips curled into a smirk that feels almost too self-assured. He straightens when he sees you, his eyes—dark, playful—sweeping over you in quiet amusement.

Then, with deliberate slowness, he steps forward. "Finally," he drawls, his voice smooth, almost teasing. "I was starting to think I had the wrong lab."

You blink, caught off guard. He doesn’t look like he belongs here—his presence too bold, too magnetic for the clinical atmosphere of your workspace. "I'm sorry but who are you?" you ask, wary.

He stops just a breath away, the distance between you charged with something you can’t quite place. Then, with a cocky tilt of his head, he offers his hand.

"Han Jisung," he introduces himself, his smirk widening as his fingers brush against yours. "Your new test participant."

Your stomach drops and for a second, all you can do is stare.

"Looks like we’ll be working pretty closely together," he adds, voice dripping with amusement. "I hope you're ready for me."

And just like that, your carefully maintained world tilts off its axis.

-

The second chapter of Cocky is available on my Patreon page. ✨

Support my writings by kindly reblog, comment or consider tipping me on my ko-fi!

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[dreamersparacosm]

Girl we need a smut blurb for them , im talking wild sex . I’ll take anything I know they’re both freaked out

well, well, well. you put two overachievers in a bed and what’s going to happen? magic, that’s what. or maybe he’ll just use your vibrator as part of your scheduled stress relief. whatever.

the price of desire — epilogue blurb 3!

prompt ; in which stress relief takes on a whole new definition.

warnings ; sex toy usage, fingering, jungkook cums in his pants

There are worse problems to have, you tell yourself.

Ever since you and Jungkook officially started dating, things have gotten a little… out of hand (and by “out of hand,” you mean fucking each other senseless across multiple continents.)

Obviously it started in New York and Seoul. Then it was Paris. You two dabbled in exhibitionism during a trip to Bali. Now it’s whatever remote, paparazzi-proof destinations your travel agent nervously books for you at 2 in the morning.

Hotels, apartments, rental cars, bathrooms you’re pretty sure were not designed to withstand the kind of behavior you’re inflicting on them. At this point, it’s becoming a global crisis. International security agencies may want to get involved.

It’s getting so frequent, so mind-numbingly good, that you’re starting to worry about yourself a little. Like, is it normal to see god every weekday?

Unclear.

But it is nice, really nice, to relieve that stress that weighs on you after a workday. (And god knows you have plenty of that to go around.)

Jungkook is, if nothing else, very committed to the cause. He takes care of you painfully well, as if it’s his full-time job and the only acceptable performance review is your legs shaking too hard to stand.

Case in point: you’re currently spread out across your bed in New York, lips swollen from a makeout, hair damp from the bath he ran for you, and he’s kneeling between your legs, big palms dragging slow strokes up and down your thighs.

It's a perfect Wednesday night, all safe and soft and steady until he drops his suggestion into the quiet.

“Let me use the vibrator on you, baby.”

Your brain, already half-melted from the hour-long slow burn he’s been subjecting you to, scrambles for purchase.

You are not equipped for this on a Wednesday night. Especially not after a 14 hour workday, 2 back-to-back global strategy calls, and a last minute crisis involving a Calvin Klein store opening in Shanghai.

You open your mouth to respond, yet nothing makes its way out.

Jungkook smiles at you with amusement and reaches over to the nightstand like it’s the most casual thing in the world. As if he didn’t casually drop a bomb into the atmosphere of your previously scheduled stress-relief session.

With bulging eyes, you observe as he pulls open the drawer, rummages around for a second, and then holds up your light purple vibrator in his hands.

The device is small and sleek, manages to look mockingly innocent resting in his palm.

You stare at it, then at him, mouth working like a fish suddenly introduced to the concept of air.

"I—" You stutter eloquently.

He responds with that signature grin, the one that makes you want to throw a pillow at his face and climb him like a tree. "Come on, baby," he coaxes, "You said you were stressed. Think of this as... advanced relaxation techniques."

You narrow your eyes suspiciously. "This wasn't exactly what I meant by 'stress relief.'"

"What's the worst that could happen?" he asks innocently, setting the vibrator down beside you before leaning close to press a kiss against your inner knee. "You enjoy yourself too much?"

"The audacity," You roll your eyes, trying and failing to suppress the shiver his touch sends up your spine.

"It’s like.. a scientific experiment," he continues, trailing featherlight kisses up your thigh. "Testing the effects of a vibrator on stress."

"Did you just turn my vibrator into a science fair project?"

His laugh rumbles against your skin. "I'm innovative like that. Always thinking about my subject’s satisfaction."

"You’re not selling it," You sigh but there's no heat behind it.

"I'm persistent," he corrects, looking up at you with darkened eyes. "And also extremely dedicated to your wellbeing. Just say yes."

You can’t look at him. With his mess of black hair falling over his forehead, with his eyes displaying a glint of mischief and the stupid Calvin Klein white t-shirt that drives you crazy. He’s so fucking hot, and it brings you to the brink of temporary insanity. That’s how you got in this mess in the first place.

What you need to be doing is saying no. Set some kind of a boundary. Be a strong, independent woman who does not immediately fold at the suggestion of midweek sex toy experimentation.

You do none of those things. Rather, you sigh and flop back against the pillows, one arm flung dramatically over your eyes.

“Fine,” you mutter like he’s inconveniencing you. “Whatever. Just don’t break my toy.”

You hear him laugh, a rich velvety rumble that vibrates through you while the mattress dips beneath his weight as he repositions himself closer to your core.

Before you even take your next breath, he’s kissing up your thighs, hands stroking the backs of your knees, your calves, your hips.

The vibrator hums to life; it’s soft at first, a low sound and your stomach flips violently.

Curiosity compels you to emerge from behind your self-imposed blindfold just in time to witness his gaze fixed upon you. He is a hungry man, you’ll give him that much.

Which leads you to your next thought: you’re not even sure why you bothered putting on underwear after the bath. A small, defeated part of you wants to blame some lingering sense of dignity, some naive attempt at not being completely easy just because your boyfriend washed your hair like a Disney prince and kissed your shoulder after.

Whatever weak attempt at decency you made is long gone the second Jungkook hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties and starts dragging them down. Thumbs brushing over the dip of your hips like he’s memorizing every line, every secret part of you he already owns.

The cotton peels away from your thighs, and the cool air hits your core, makes you shiver. He works them down over your knees, then your ankles, tossing them somewhere behind him without a second thought.

You’re already squirming a little, hips shifting against the mattress, thighs clenching reflexively, but he just chuckles under his breath before reaching for the hem of your oversized T-shirt. (Technically his T-shirt. Technically yours now. He stopped fighting that battle months ago.)

Slowly, he pushes it up, bunching it around your waist, exposing the soft skin of your belly, the slick glistening between your legs that you’re trying very hard not to feel embarrassed about.

A single finger gets dragged between your folds, dipping into the mess he’s barely even touched you to create, and you can’t help the broken little gasp that escapes your mouth. “Oh—“

Jungkook lifts his hand and holds it up between you. Your slick clings to his finger. Shining in the soft light your lamp provides.

The bastard. How dare he provide proof of your demise.

He raises a brow smugly. “Already this wet, baby?” He teases.

You glare at him, or at least try, but it’s hard to summon the proper outrage when your body is practically vibrating with need.

“Shut the fuck up,” You grumble.

He laughs and settles himself back between your thighs. The toy hums softly beside you, still on the lowest setting and when he picks it up again, your stomach nearly exits your body.

He strokes the inside of your thigh with his free hand, “Ready?” He asks. Jungkook’s always been sure to consent; you do know he’s genuinely asking for permission.

You nod, frantic, willing to sell your soul if he would just please, please touch you already.

Oh god.

Oh fuck.

For the love of everything holy.

You jolt forward violently the second the vibrator touches your clit. Even on the lowest setting it’s too much, white-hot pleasure snapping up your spine and exploding behind your eyes.

“Fuck—” You gasp, whole body twitching, hands scrambling for something to hold onto.

A string of curse words falls out of your mouth before you can stop them, completely and deliriously out of your control.

Jungkook smiles, presses his palm flat against your thigh to pin you down. “You’re so sensitive tonight,” He notes, somewhat amused.

You might cry. God damn him for being so perfect to you that he’s holding a vibrator to you and not making comments about how “he could do it better.”

You settle for grabbing a fistful of the bedsheets and moaning helplessly when he adjusts the angle slightly, nudging the vibrator a little higher until your hips are jerking against the mattress.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, thumb rubbing slow circles into your thigh. “Let me take care of you.”

Alright, you’re not afraid to admit — maybe you didn’t care much for his definition of stress relief before.

But now? Now you need it more than anything.

You’re a mess; panting, moaning, hips twitching up and it’s still on the lowest setting.

You risk a glance down your body, and the sight nearly undoes you. Jungkook is watching you intensely, brows drawn, lip ring caught between his teeth, arms flexing where he’s bracing you open.

The look on his face alone could make you finish.

“Please,” you gasp. “M-More.”

He nods once, like he’s been waiting for you to ask. “Yeah, baby?” he’s clearly out of breath, thumb brushing over your thigh in grounding circles. “I got you.”

Jungkook clicks the vibrator up to the medium setting, and the second the stronger vibration hits your clit, your back arches clean off the bed, a cry ripping from your throat. There’s a hum that comes from low in his throat while he presses a kiss to your inner thigh.

“You’re so good for me,” He says against your skin. “So desperate already. Bet you could cum just like this, couldn’t you? Just from how good it feels?”

His tattooed fingers squeeze your flesh harder, holding you open, keeping you steady, and the way he’s looking at you makes you want to sob, truthfully.

Jungkook drags the vibrator in slow circles over your clit, keeping you teetering right on the edge before mercifully setting it down beside you. You barely have time to breathe before he’s spitting into his hand and sliding two fingers between your thighs.

The second he pushes them inside your entrance, you buck violently, a whine tearing out of your mouth. “F-fuck—”

You feel impossibly full already, walls clenching around the stretch, the slick sounds embarrassingly loud in the otherwise silent room.

Jungkook groans mostly to himself, head dropping forward to watch where he’s sinking into you.

“God, baby,” he exhales, curling his fingers in that way that makes your toes curl too. “You’re so fucking wet.“

You moan helplessly. Obviously, the man must be trying to kill you. A death wish of sorts. He works his fingers inside you, dragging them along that sweet spot that has you keening into the mattress before reaching over with his free hand to flick the vibratot back on.

He sets it to the highest setting — and holy mother — you nearly catapult off the bed. The intense, overwhelming buzz against your clit paired with the slow pump of his fingers inside you is absolutely lethal.

You choke on some form of a gasp, thighs jerking. All thoughts of work, stress, the world outside this room — gone. Obliterated.

Jungkook, flushed and sweaty, arm veins flexing with every stroke of his fingers, can’t take his eyes off the mess you’re making on your sheets beneath you.

Your thighs are trembling violently now, little spasms you can’t control. You try — god, you want it noted you do try — to keep your hips still, to hold off a little longer.

But the man is evidently on a mission. Fingers fucking into you deep and steady, the vibrator merciless against your clit, voice rougher than normal: “Cum for me, baby. I wanna see it. Wanna feel you cum all over my fingers. Please.”

You’re way past the point of rational thought. Spinning out. Every nerve ending burning hot under your skin.

“Fuck—” you sob. “Kook— I’m gonna— oh fuck, fuckfuck—”

Neither of you get to find out what you’re “gonna” before the orgasm tears through you viscerally, a full-body convulsion that has you crying out and grabbing onto his wrist.

Your toes curl involuntarily against the sheets while your thighs close around his head, stomach muscles clenching before your whole body lets itself fall into the pleasure.

For one disorienting moment, your vision actually blurs at the edges — a genuine blackout that some doctor could probably explain but you're certainly in no condition to contemplate — while somewhere in the distance you hear yourself gasping his name in a way that makes you grateful these walls are soundproof.

You’re panting when it finally ebbs, chest heaving, pussy clenching desperately around his fingers. Jungkook presses a kiss to your thigh again, slowly eases his fingers out and shuts off the vibrator that's become both your nemesis and savior in the span of minutes.

There’s a quiet that feels almost startling compared to your thundering heartbeat.

You’re floating somewhere, the bed seeming to perform a gentle carousel spin around you when he grabs your face gently with both hands and kisses you. You kiss him back automatically, pulling him closer by the front of his shirt.

Through the haze, you murmur against his mouth, “Take your sweatpants off. Wanna fuck you.”

He responds with a groan, pressing his forehead against yours. Insistently, you tug at the waistband, whining a little when he resists.

“Come on,” you mumble, still half-drunk off your orgasm. “I need you.”

He makes a choked sound and pulls back to look you in the eye. His body moves to lean against your headboard, and you scooch over to kiss down his neck while he tries to come up with whatever excuse he can.

And then comes the confession, tripping awkwardly from his lips. “I… uh…”

Your eyes narrow into spiteful little slits, pulling away from him.

He winces, a full-body cringe that would be adorable under other circumstances but currently only amplifies your confusion.

“I… I came already,” He confesses, so low you almost don’t catch it.

Jeon Jungkook? The Jeon Jungkook… came in his boxers like a teenage virgin.. from using your vibrator against you?

You blink repeatedly, brain attempting to process this unexpected plot twist.

“What?” You say dumbfounded.

He covers his face with one large hand in the universal gesture of mortification, ears betraying him by flushing a deep crimson even in the room's low light.

“You— you… came? Just from—?”

Your boyfriend groans, clearly exploring the possibility of spontaneous human combustion as a merciful escape route.

“You looked so good,” he murmurs into his palm. “I couldn’t— fuck, I tried to hold it—”

You stare at him for another second. Then, completely against your will, you burst out laughing. It spills out in waves that are equal parts exhaustion, affection, and perhaps a whisper of mockery, but your attempts to suppress it prove to be futile.

Jungkook glares at you weakly through his fingers.

“You’re an idiot,” you giggle, “My idiot.”

He grumbles something unintelligible while pulling you firmly against his chest, a transparent attempt to muffle your laughter and hide his reddening face but your giggles persist. At some point, you do take the opportunity he presents to nestle your face into the warm crook of his neck, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne, a chuckle exiting once every few minutes.

All things considered?

Not a bad way to spend a Wednesday night. Not bad at all.

masterlist + ask

[pankowcrumbs]

Over the Radio X Lando Norris

18+

Plot: You are Lando's new race engineer and the flirting is everything even though it's forbidden.

MasterList

F1 Masterlist

The headset felt heavier than usual.

It wasn’t the weight, obviously. It was the pressure. I’d just been promoted me, Y/N, twenty-five, notoriously chatty and chronically single to the role of Lando Norris’s race engineer. A job I’d secretly daydreamed about since joining McLaren as a junior engineer three years ago. Not just because I loved strategy or thrived in high-stakes environments.

But because Lando made work… dangerous in the best way.

We’d always had this flirty, electric thing between us laced through teasing in the paddock, lingering glances after debriefs, and him playfully tapping his pen against my shoulder when he thought I wasn’t paying attention. But I’d never let it go further. Too complicated. Too public. Too… risky.

And now?

Now I had a mic strapped to my head and a driver... that driver relying on my voice to guide him through every sector.

“Alright,” came his voice through the comms during FP1, low and casual, “I’m just going to say it I like hearing you in my ears.”

I rolled my eyes, cheeks already heating. “You’re supposed to like hearing me, Norris. I’m your engineer now.”

“I liked hearing you before you got the promotion.”

“Focus.”

He chuckled, the sound crackling slightly over the radio. “Can’t help it when you sound like that.”

“Like what?”

“Bossy.”

Jesus Christ.

I muted myself for a second just to let out a laugh. He was testing me already, barely ten minutes into the first session. I should’ve expected nothing less.

Back on comms, I cleared my throat. “Alright, let’s try the medium tyre run, please. Box now.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I swear he said it just to get a rise out of me.

By qualifying, he was in full performance mode razor-sharp on track, but his mouth still didn’t switch off completely.

“Tyres feel great,” he said mid-run. “Or maybe it’s your voice lulling me into a false sense of security.”

“Glad I can soothe your inner chaos.”

“Oh, you do. Might ask you to record bedtime stories next.”

“Eyes on the apex, Norris.”

“Yes, boss.”

I caught one of the mechanics chuckling nearby.

It didn’t help that we were the same age. Didn’t help that he looked at me like I wasn’t just a voice in his ear, but something he wanted and maybe always had.

Didn’t help that part of me… wanted it back.

Race day.

This was it.

Lando was starting P4, and I was trying not to throw up from nerves. We stood by the car before the formation lap, the crew swarming around us in a flurry of final checks and tyre warmers and last-second whispers.

He walked over to me, helmet in hand, curls slightly damp under his cap.

“You good?” he asked.

I nodded. “You?”

He grinned. “You’re in my ear today. I’ll be great.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You’re not allowed to flirt with me mid-race. We’ve got a championship to chase.”

“No promises,” he said, leaning in just enough for no one else to hear. “You make strategy sound sexy.”

He winked and walked off before I could swat him with my clipboard.

God help me.

“Radio check.”

“Loud and clear.”

The lights blinked off and the race began.

For the first few laps, everything was clinical. Tyre temps. Fuel delta. Turn eight oversteer.

But by lap twenty, he was settled and cocky again.

“Okay, love, talk to me.”

“Your pace is solid. Holding strong at P3.”

“Love that. Love you, too, but we’ll unpack that later.”

I flushed despite myself. “Lando”

“You sound flustered.”

“You sound overconfident.”

“I’ve got the world’s prettiest engineer in my ear. Hard not to be.”

I bit back a smile. “Focus on Leclerc. You’re gaining three-tenths in Sector 2.”

“Yes, boss. I like when you take charge.”

He was impossible.

And brilliant.

And absolutely relentless.

By lap 37, he was chasing P2, and we were in the thick of strategy calls. I tried to keep my voice even, professional, despite the sweat on my palms.

“Box this lap, confirm?”

“Confirmed.”

He flew into the pit lane. Tyres off, tyres on, and gone again textbook.

Back on track, I checked data. He was flying. We were flying.

Then came his voice, smug and smooth.

“You’re amazing at this.”

“Just doing my job.”

“I meant being sexy and strategic at the same time, but sure.”

I laughed couldn’t help it. He was unreal.

“And you’re dangerously close to being muted.”

“You’d miss me.”

“I really wouldn’t.”

“Liar.”

I was. A little.

Maybe more than a little.

By the final ten laps, he was in P2, battling for the lead. My heart was pounding as hard as his engine.

“Push now, Lando. You’ve got the grip. He’s vulnerable.”

“Copy. For you, I’ll push.”

“You’d better. Don’t make me come down there.”

“Oh, please do. You threatening me in person? Hot.”

I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly gave myself whiplash.

He overtook on Lap 59. Clean. Bold. Beautiful.

P1.

“YES!” I yelled, forgetting to mute. “You’ve done it!”

He was laughing in my ear. “Sounded like you just...”

“Don’t.”

“I’m just saying...”

“Drive the bloody car, Norris!”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He won.

He bloody won.

I barely remembered the cooldown lap, too overwhelmed with numbers, data, and his smug little voice in my ear.

“You were perfect,” he said, a bit breathless. “I don’t just mean the car.”

I didn’t reply.

I couldn’t. Not when my heart was beating that loud.

In parc fermé, I waited on the pit wall, still breathless as the crew jumped and cheered around me. He leapt out of the car, helmet off, curls damp with sweat, eyes scanning until he found me.

And then he ran.

Straight to me.

Lando didn’t hesitate just wrapped his arms around my waist, lifted me clean off the ground, and spun me like we were in some bloody film. I was laughing, flushed, and fully aware the world was watching.

“Lando!” I hissed, “Cameras!”

“Don’t care.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You love it.”

I didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

He looked at me all mischief and heat and said, “You realise this means I get to flirt every race now, right?”

I grinned despite myself.

“Only if you keep winning.”

“Deal.”

He pressed his forehead to mine.

“Guess we’re going to be unstoppable, then.”

It didn’t take long for the world to catch on.

The radio clips the ones where Lando called me love, where he shamelessly flirted mid-race, where I threatened to mute him while trying not to laugh went viral before we even packed up the garage.

The fans were obsessed.

I saw the edits first little videos stitched together on TikTok, set to romantic pop songs, captioned things like “find someone who talks to you the way Lando talks to Y/N” or “she’s his soft spot, I’m in tears”. There were screenshots of me on the pit wall, flushed and grinning like an idiot, side by side with photos of him beaming in the car.

#LandYN was trending by morning.

I nearly dropped my phone when I saw it.

“Bloody hell,” I muttered, scrolling through endless fan theories. They’re secretly dating. They’re in love. She’s his lucky charm.

One clip had already reached a million views it was a montage of our comms from the race, ending with Lando yelling “You were perfect!” over the radio.

My cheeks ached from smiling.

Still, I knew better than to get too carried away. It was fun, sure, but it was dangerous too. Teams didn’t love distractions. And even if part of me burned for him always had, if I was honest I wasn’t going to risk my career over a few flirty radio messages.

Or so I told myself.

That afternoon, we were ushered into the press tent for post-race interviews.

Lando was his usual charming, grinning self, hair still messy from the helmet, race suit tied around his waist, white McLaren tee clinging to him in all the right places.

I tried not to stare.

Tried harder not to think about how he’d lifted me off the ground in front of half the paddock hours earlier.

The reporters, of course, pounced almost immediately.

“So, Lando,” one of them called, “incredible win today. Do you think the new race engineer had anything to do with your performance?”

He smirked and flicked a glance at me where I was standing just off-camera.

“I mean…” He shrugged dramatically. “Have you heard her voice?”

The whole room laughed.

I buried my face in my clipboard.

“She keeps me calm,” he went on, grinning like the devil. “Keeps me focused. Also keeps me on my toes. Sometimes I listen just to hear her yell at me.”

Another ripple of laughter.

I shot him a glare over the top of my clipboard. He winked.

Another reporter jumped in, voice eager. “There’s a lot of talk online about how much chemistry you two have. Any truth to that?”

My stomach dropped.

This was it. This was the moment where he’d laugh it off, make a joke, move on.

But Lando paused.

His smile softened.

“I mean, it’s not fake,” he said simply. “We’re close. We trust each other a lot. Makes a difference when you’ve got someone you… y’know. Care about.”

I felt the heat climb up my neck, all the way to my ears.

The reporters caught it instantly, shouting follow-up questions, but Lando just grinned and gave a playful two-finger salute before ducking out of the interview area.

I didn’t breathe until he was gone.

Later, tucked away in the back of the motorhome, I cornered him.

“Are you insane?” I hissed, grabbing his wrist before he could escape. “Did you hear yourself?”

He looked at me, all wide eyes and fake innocence. “What?”

“‘Someone you care about’? Lando, they’re going to eat that up! The fans are already....!”

He cut me off by tugging me closer, voice low and teasing. “Why are you so panicked, love?”

“Because...” I sputtered. “Because it’s my job, and people are already making bloody fan fiction about us!”

His hand slid lazily down my arm, fingers brushing the inside of my wrist. It was maddening how casual he was, like my heart wasn’t currently trying to punch a hole through my ribs.

“Let them,” he murmured. “I’m not scared.”

“You should be. It’s a media circus out there.”

He leaned in, so close I could smell the lingering leather and soap on his skin.

“Y/N,” he said, smiling faintly, “I meant it.”

I blinked up at him. “Meant what?”

“That I care about you.” His hand tightened slightly around my wrist, grounding me. “I don’t care who knows.”

My stomach flipped so hard I nearly stumbled.

“Lando…”

He tucked a piece of hair behind my ear, fingers grazing my cheek. “You think I’ve been flirting with you all this time just for fun?”

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

“No one else gets under my skin like you do,” he said, laughing under his breath. “No one else makes me want to win more, just to hear you call me perfect again.”

I didn’t mean to. Honestly, I didn’t.

But I surged up onto my toes and kissed him.

It was clumsy at first too fast, too desperate but then his hands were cupping my jaw, anchoring me, and he kissed me back like he’d been waiting for it forever.

When we finally broke apart, breathless and dizzy, he rested his forehead against mine.

“‘Bout bloody time,” he whispered.

I laughed, shaky and giddy.

“I’m still going to yell at you over the radio,” I warned.

He grinned. “Good. Gets me going.”

I smacked his chest, and he caught my hand, threading our fingers together like he had no intention of letting go.

The motorhome door rattled somewhere behind us. Someone calling for him, for debriefs or photos or something equally less important than this.

He didn’t move.

Neither did I.

“C’mon, love,” he said softly. “Let’s give them something real to ship.”

We didn’t even make it a full twenty-four hours before the team called us in.

It was Zak who asked for the meeting polite but firm and as soon as I walked into the glass-walled conference room and saw Lando slouched in a chair with that sheepish, boyish grin, I knew we were in trouble.

My stomach twisted.

Zak didn’t exactly tell us off he’s too clever for that but the message was clear.

"You two have great chemistry," he said, steepling his fingers under his chin, "and it's good for morale. Good for the fans too. We're not here to kill the vibe."

Lando nodded along, looking for all the world like a naughty schoolboy.

"But," Zak continued, voice harder now, "there's a line. Banter’s fine. Flirting, fine. It stays on the radio. That’s it. No relationships. No... fraternising. You know how it looks otherwise conflicts of interest. Favouritism."

I felt my heart sink to the soles of my shoes.

"If anything beyond the job happens," Zak said, tone grave, "I'm sorry, Y/N, but you'd have to go. We can't have that. It's non-negotiable."

The words hung between us like a guillotine.

I swallowed, forcing myself to nod. "Understood."

"Understood," Lando echoed, though his voice was quieter.

Zak smiled, all business again. "Good. We trust you. Carry on."

The meeting ended without further fuss, but I felt hollow as I followed Lando out into the corridor, the fluorescent lights buzzing above us like a wasp.

I was two steps from escaping when he grabbed my hand and dragged me, fast and urgent, into his driver's room.

The door shut with a soft thud.

"Lando" I started, but he spun to face me, blue eyes bright and burning.

"We just have to be careful," he said quickly, crowding into my space, voice low. "That's all. We can work this out."

I stared at him like he'd gone mad. "Are you insane?" My voice cracked. "I can't risk my job. I love this job, Lando."

"I know," he said, hands finding my hips like magnets, grounding me. "I know, love, I swear. I’d never let anything happen to you."

I shook my head, heart hammering. "One wrong move, and they’ll sack me. I’m not risking my career for..."

"For us?" he finished, smile tilted, heartbreakingly soft. "Not even a little?"

I glared at him, but it had no heat. God, he was dangerous when he wanted something. Sweet talker. Charming bastard.

He took my silence as an opportunity, nosing gently along my temple, voice a whisper against my hair.

"Secret meetings," he murmured. "After long race days. Hotel rooms. Locked doors."

I shivered.

"No one has to know," he coaxed. "We'll be smart. We'll be so bloody careful, they'll never suspect a thing."

I bit my lip, torn between every instinct screaming be sensible and the way his hands curved around me like I was already his.

"You’re asking a lot," I whispered.

"I’m asking for a chance," he said simply. "For us."

He pressed his forehead to mine, and for a long second, we just breathed each other in. Him and me and the impossible thing growing wild between us.

I was so tired of fighting it.

Of pretending.

One night. One chance. Maybe that was all it would be maybe it would end in heartbreak but right then, with his thumb stroking slow circles into my hip, I didn’t care.

"Fine," I breathed, caving, heart racing. "But careful, Norris. I mean it."

His grin was a flash of sunshine.

"Careful's my middle name," he teased, then leaned in and kissed me, slow and sweet and reverent, like we had all the time in the world.

God help me, I was already addicted.

Another race day. Another chance to push the boundary without crossing it.

I was clipped into my headset, the familiar weight of it comforting as I stood on the pit wall, heart thundering in rhythm with the engines.

Lando’s voice crackled over the radio.

"You miss me yet?" he teased during formation lap, the lightness in his voice making me smile against the back of my hand.

"Focus, Norris," I said, keeping my tone prim, but the smile was audible, and we both knew it.

"Hard to focus when you sound that pretty," he quipped back, low enough that only I would catch the meaning behind the words.

I heard the collective swoon of the fans in my mind. They’d catch the exchange they always did snipping, editing, posting. #LandoYN was trending every bloody week.

The race itself was chaos late rain, tight corners, pit strategy coming down to seconds but God, he drove like a man possessed.

Each time I gave him a call, he responded instantly, trusting me, trusting us.

On the final lap, I told him, "Bring her home, Lando."

His laughter was breathless over the comms. "Anything for you, love."

And when he crossed the line first, victorious, the roar from the team around me was deafening.

I barely remembered throwing my arms up, screaming with the others, heart exploding with pride until I caught sight of him in parc fermé, helmet off, curls wild, grinning like the sun itself.

He found my eyes across the chaos and winked a quick, cocky, secret little thing that made my stomach swoop.

The media circus after was worse than ever.

"So, Lando," one of the interviewers said slyly, mic shoved in his face. "Your radio with your race engineer... getting pretty famous. Fans are shipping it, mate."

He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck, cheeks pink.

"Yeah, well..." His eyes flicked to me, lingering a second too long. "Some people just... bring out the best in you, don’t they?"

The crowd erupted.

My whole face burned.

Bloody hell, Lando.

Zak would have kittens.

But secretly, deep down, it thrilled me how he didn’t hide it. How he let it show.

Later that night, long after the champagne showers and the debriefs, after the media had cleared out and the garage was dark and still, I found myself outside his hotel room door, heart hammering.

I hesitated for a full thirty seconds before knocking.

It swung open almost immediately.

He stood there, hair still damp from a shower, barefoot, wearing nothing but grey joggers slung indecently low on his hips.

"Hi," he said, voice rough from the day, from the screaming, from the adrenaline.

"Hi," I whispered.

Before I could lose my nerve, he reached out, grabbed my hand, and tugged me inside.

The door shut with a soft click behind me, cutting us off from the world.

We barely made it two steps before he had me pressed up against the wall, mouth on mine.

There was nothing polite about it.

It was hungry.

Months of tension, stolen glances, secret touches it all snapped free like an elastic band stretched too far.

His hands skimmed up my thighs, grabbing beneath the hem of my dress, squeezing like he couldn’t get enough.

I gasped against his mouth, and he swallowed it greedily, pressing closer until I could feel the hard line of him against my belly.

"God, I’ve wanted this," he groaned, lips trailing along my jaw, my throat. "Wanted you."

His hands were everywhere sliding under my dress, dragging the zipper down with one quick, impatient tug.

I wriggled out of it, letting it puddle at my feet, standing there in nothing but a scrap of lace and my heels, breathing hard.

Lando stepped back, eyes dark, devouring the sight of me.

"Fucking beautiful," he muttered, voice wrecked.

He dipped down, kissing my shoulder, my collarbone, trailing lower.

I tangled my fingers in his hair, gasping when he mouthed at the tops of my breasts, teasing with slow, maddening patience.

When he dropped to his knees, I thought I might collapse.

"Lando" I choked out, but he only grinned up at me, wicked.

"Let me take care of you, love," he murmured.

And then his mouth was on me hot, clever, relentless.

He hooked my leg over his shoulder, hands gripping my hips like a lifeline, holding me steady as he licked into me with devastating skill.

I buried my fingers in his curls, tugging helplessly as pleasure coiled tight and hot in my belly.

It didn’t take long I was wound too tight, too desperate and when I came, it was with a cry muffled against the back of my hand, thighs trembling around his head.

He kissed his way back up my body, nipping and soothing, whispering praises against my skin.

When he finally lifted me arms strong, careful and carried me to the bed, I didn’t resist.

I didn’t even think.

I just held onto him, heart racing, trusting him to catch me.

And he did.

All night long.

[luvvyouforever]

omg loved the emily breeding, can you do a emily x pregnant reader and she’s like feral

the solution - emily prentiss x pregnant!reader

synopsis: your baby is being stubborn. emily knows just the trick. content: nsfw mdni 18+, smut, pregnancy sex, strap penetration, mentions of pregnancy labor, some insecurities, fingering + oral author's note: came up with this idea then thought of your request! enjoy <3

nine months ago, you were sure that you had never been happier than when your pregnancy test came up positive and you got to surprise emily with the news. you had been trying for a long time, the ivf process being fickle, but once it happened, the apartment was a flurry of crib building, name choosing, and baby proofing.

now, nine months later, you want nothing more than to be done with pregnancy. you were overdue by an entire week and it was miserable. you felt big, you waddled like a penguin, and everything hurt all the time. but nothing was working. you tried spicy food, walking up and down the curb, yoga, nothing.

emily knew you were struggling. you could see it in the way her face developed the smallest pout when you groaned getting off the couch or winced at another false contraction. she had took some research into her own hands, finding strategies that weren't so common. it even included a call to jj who had informed emily how she induced her own labor.

emily balked at the news, but her shock was quickly replaced with excitement as she thought this could really work. having been on parental leave for a few days now, she was able to spend late nights with you again. all she had to do was convince you, and you could never really say no to her.

your day had been another day full of unsuccessful labor inductions. you had dates delivered to the apartment and ate those with nothing. you made the teas that people online raved about with nothing. when another round of labor yoga videos on youtube didn't work, it became too much.

emily heard sniffles on the couch from where she was in the kitchen cooking dinner. it was then followed by a sob and she took the food off of the heat and ran over to where you were sitting.

"pretty girl," she cooed. her hands cupped your cheeks, thumbs wiping away the tears that had started to fall from your eyes. "what's going on?"

her voice did little to soothe you. if anything, her comforting presence only brought on more tears. you took a deep breath, trying to calm the sobs racking your body. "nothing is working," you said shakily. "i don't want to have to get them to induce my labor. i wanted to do it. it's my job."

emily tsked and sat next to you on the couch. gently, she tugged your body close to hers and ran her hands along the expanse of your back. she thought about her next words carefully, then tilted your chin up to meet her eyes. "i have another idea that we haven't tried yet, baby."

your ears perked up, but you worked hard not to get your hopes up. you sniffled and asked, "yeah?"

emily shuffled so her body faced yours completely. "we don't have to do it if you don't want to. but jj said it worked for her when henry was being stubborn." you nodded, encouraging her to continue. "sex is supposed to be on the best methods of labor induction."

her cheeks flared a little bit at her bluntness and yours did too. you had read about it, truthfully, but you didn't think emily would want to, or that it would even be comfortable in the first place. in fact, since your bump had gotten a little too big to get off the bed easily, you and emily hadn't done much of anything.

"i...are you sure? i haven't been able to shave in a while and i've got bad cellulite and i probably need another bath-"

emily hushed you immediately. "are you kidding, baby?" she asked, as if your words attacked her personally. she moved in closer to you, one hand resting on your bump, the other caging you in to the couch. "you have never looked more beautiful than you do right now, carrying my baby, all glowing and gorgeous."

your cheeks flared intensely and despite your previous statements, your thighs rubbed together. emily leant down more, placing a tender kiss on your lips. when she pulled away, you followed as best you could, seeking more affection.

"let's get you to the bedroom, yeah?" her voice was sultry, dropped down a few octaves. you nodded, biting your lip. her strong arms helped you off the couch to your feet and she led you through the apartment, passed the nursery, and into your bedroom. she eased you down onto the bed, then crawled on top of you, stripping her top as she did so.

your mouth watered at the sight before you. since she had been home all day, emily hadn't been wearing a bra underneath her top. your hands flew to her chest and your eyes met her intense gaze.

emily's knee spread your legs apart and took purchase between them. with the slightest push, you whined, having had no contact in a long time. her lips connected with yours again, this time messier and more passionate. her desire was leaking through every one of her touches.

when she pulled away, her pupils were blown wide, her chest heaving with deep breaths. "you are so beautiful," she said, her words accentuated with another push of her knee. "i didn't think i'd get that possessive seeing your belly full 'cause of me but i am." technically, it was true. she had provided the eggs for the pregnancy.

you moaned at her words, feeling hot and needy under gaze and touch. "'m all yours, emily," you whispered, hands still groping at her chest. she smiled and pulled you forward, whisking off your top.

her hands flew to your bump and breasts, rubbing and squeezing with nothing but adoration in her eyes. her lips met your jaw, then your neck, planting open mouthed kisses on your delicate skin. slowly, she moved down to your chest where her lips and teeth gently dragged along your hypersensitive body. you gasped when her lips met your bare bump where she took extra time kissing your stretch marks, something she knew you were insecure about.

then, her fingers hooked into the waistline of your pants and she looked up to your eyes with a silent question. when you nodded, she smiled and lifted your legs, pulling down your pants and underwear with them.

"emily!" you squeaked when your lips suddenly made contact with your sensitive clit. you could feel her smirk against your skin. in seconds, her tongue was diving between your folds, sending the most crude noises echoing around the bedroom. you moaned loudly, head falling back against the pillow.

your entire body felt alight, whether that was because of the pregnancy or because you hadn't had an orgasm in so long, you weren't sure. emily's ministrations felt heavenly, if a little overstimulating. you didn't want her to stop though. her tongue circled your clit in a way that had your hole clenching around nothing.

slowly, emily inserted one of her slender fingers inside of you, curling upwards to your sweet spot that had you whining. "please, em...more," you choked out between moans. her tongue continued its assault as a second finger met your insides, curling up again with the other. a knot that had been building in your tummy threatened to snap and with several long licks up your clit, it broke. "fuck!" you shouted. emily greedily cleaned up everything that seeped out of you, none of which was your water breaking.

you groaned, feeling good, but only slightly disappointed that quite a powerful orgasm didn't work. but emily wasn't ready to stop. before you could speak, she stood up from the bed, slipping off her pants, leaving her in only underwear. you had done this dance many times and once you saw her heading for the dresser, you knew what she was pulling out from the bottom drawer.

in a daze, you watched emily step into her familiar harness then saunter over to you, smirking the whole way. "you thought we were done, sweet girl?" she teased. she lined her body up between your thighs, the dildo teasing your entrance. "baby, everyone knows penetration works the best."

with her teasing words, she slid into you, not requiring lubrication from the way her earlier actions riled you up. her frame bent over yours the most she could, one of her hands holding your hip. the other gripping your hand.

"missed this so much," she whispered, and you knew she was being honest because you missed it too. "been wanting to fill you up again so bad."

she moved her hips forward and backward, the dildo pushing in to you in a way that had you moaning with every thrust. you wouldn't last long, you were sure of it. every drag against your g-spot felt heavenly. emily patiently increased the speed of her thrusts, not wishing to hurt you, but wanting to make you feel good. she was deliberate with every movement, eyeing the way your body responded to her.

"my pretty girl," she cooed at a particularly loud whimper. "been loving seeing you with your pretty bump. walking around with you, everyone knowing your mine." she dipped low, lips hovering above your ear. "so fucking sexy all bred f'me."

it was as if a switch was flipped and her words sent you reeling again. you looked into her eyes, a pleading look begging for more. who was she to deny your pleasure when you needed it most? her thrusts grew deeper and faster, hips snapping against your own. your moans bounced around the walls of the room, egging her on further.

everything came at once. first, it was your legs shaking furiously from the pleasure racking your body. then it was more of emily's filthy words entering your brain, sending you down further into pleasure, and then when her hand moved from your hip to circle your clit, you came with a garbled moan of her name.

a few seconds passed and emily felt more wet than usual. she slowly eased out of you and that was when you felt it. "holy shit," emily whispered, eyeing the mess. "your water broke."

you broke through your orgasmic daze and leaned your head up. "are you serious?" you asked. that was when you felt a strong contraction that caused you to groan. emily sprung into action, first dampening a warm cloth in the bathroom to clean you up. then, she found the clothes that had been laid out for a week and a half, bringing them over to you to help you change. she then put on her own clothes and looked at you with a wide smile.

"go time, sweet girl," she said, planting a sweet kiss on your forehead. she'd have to thank jj later for the recommendation.

[furioussheepluminary]

𝐈𝐧 𝐌𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞 𝐞𝐭 𝐋𝐞𝐠𝐞

Pairing: manager!jisung x intern!afab!reader, enemies to lovers, law firm, the slow burn

synopsis: in mind and law. You tackle the new momentum of your job, something you've mentally and physically prepared for. But emotionally? It's not what you had in mind

warnings: suggestive, angst, law, lots of law, jisung is sarcastic, tension, mention of Changbin, plot, one Korean word (translations), time skips

a/n: 16k+ words, fellas. if you dare to have extra eyes for errors no you motherfucking dont. I loved this a lot.

You were born on the wrong side of the skyline. A place where ambition was considered arrogance, and dreams were just things people couldn’t afford. Your father was a mechanic—soft-spoken, hands always coated in grease, and eyes full of pride when you read under the streetlamp because the power went out again. Your mother, a former literature teacher turned night shift waitress, fed you stories instead of lullabies. They taught you that intellect was armor. That silence wasn’t submission, but strategy. That being underestimated was a weapon.

You weren’t the loudest girl in school—but you were dangerous on paper. Top of every class. Knew how to smile at teachers just enough to get what you needed, but never too much to owe them anything. You worked part-time at a bookstore just to read for free. When other kids were partying, you were drafting essays for scholarship competitions at 2AM with shaking hands and coffee-stained sleeves. You didn’t get into university by luck. You got in because you bled for it.

It was Riversley Law University, one of the most prestigious and soul-crushing programs in the country. Everyone whispered about the competition. The gatekeeping. The legacy students who’d never even touched a student loan form. You applied anyway. With one glowing recommendation from a retired judge, you’d once tutored on legal tech for free. With an application essay so raw it made the admissions board cry. With test scores so perfect they thought they were fake until you walked into the interview and quoted obscure 14th-century civil codes like they were bedtime stories.

You got in. Full ride. No one knew how. They thought you were connected. Rich. Sponsored.

You let them think what they wanted.

The top firms came recruiting like vultures during your final year. But Daejin & Grey? They didn’t do job fairs. They didn’t post openings. They hand-picked. And one day, a letter arrived. Real envelope. Black wax seal. No email. No call.

“You’re invited to an exclusive selection round. No details will be repeated. Bring your brain, your backbone, and black ink.”

Turns out, you were one of six students in the entire nation selected to compete for one internship spot. The selection process was insane—contracts in languages you barely knew, impossible moral dilemmas, interrogation-style interviews. People dropped out. Cried. Snapped. You didn’t. You passed. And you became the girl no one saw coming. The intern with fire in her veins and no family name behind her just you. Alone. Hungry. Unshakable.

Jisung was born into brilliance… and burden.

His mother was a top criminal defense lawyer known as “The Viper” in the courtroom—sharp heels, sharper tongue. His father, an occult historian and philosopher who lectured on forbidden languages and secret societies. He grew up in a glass penthouse where success was oxygen and weakness were punishable by silence. Jisung was 17 when Daejin & Grey found him. He had just won an underground student legal warfare competition (an invite-only thing where prodigies go to destroy each other’s arguments in mock trials that felt more like mind combat). He didn’t even enter; someone forged his application. He just showed up… and obliterated future politicians, heirs, and scholars. A week later, a man in an obsidian coat approached his mother during one of her high-profile court cases. Whispered something in her ear. She signed a contract on the back of a napkin. Jisung was summoned. They didn’t interview him. They tested him. Gave him an unsolvable case and watched him create a loophole in 24 hours.

They mentored him in secret. Fed him real cases under the table. Made him sign a blood clause at 19. By 24, he was the youngest partner in the firm’s history. He was the youngest to ever win a national law debate. A certified genius with a smirk that could convince CEOs to sign away their souls and maybe they did. People admired him. Feared him. Worshipped him. But they didn’t know him.

Because Jisung? Jisung was never taught love. He was taught leverage.

Daejin & Grey Law Firm wasn’t founded. It was forged out of war, silence, and unspeakable deals.

The firm traces back over 80 years, born during the post-war reconstruction era. Two men, Ha Daejin—a radical, silver-tongued lawyer who defended war criminals—and Theodore Grey, a disgraced British solicitor exiled for running a covert empire of offshore finance and blackmail, met in Seoul under unusual circumstances. Both were brilliant, both had nothing left to lose, and both were addicted to power. Together, they built Daejin & Grey as more than a firm. It became a sanctuary for those too cunning for politics, too dangerous for the courts, too ambitious for morality. It handles clients that other firms fear from criminal syndicates, foreign diplomats, to weaponized corporations. It's not just law, it’s chess. And they always win.

Rumor has it: The firm has a vault with contracts that could collapse governments. There's a floor you can only access if your name is etched in obsidian. No one leaves Daejin & Grey. You’re either promoted… or erased.

---

You stood in the towering glass lobby of Daejin & Grey, your heels echoing on the polished marble like tiny declarations of war. The receptionist didn’t even look up. Her access badge was silver. Everyone else’s was black. You felt the heat of judgment from passing associates, the subtle way people scanned your thrifted yet sharply styled outfit. You knew you didn’t look like money. But your mind? That was priceless.

An older woman with tightly coiled hair and stilettos sharp enough to stab came striding toward you.

“Intern. Y/N. You’re late,” she said. You weren’t.

“Follow. No questions.”

You moved through what felt like a museum of silence and danger—glass-walled rooms, people whispering in three languages, floors that required fingerprint scans. And then the library.

My God, the library.

Blackwood shelves. Ancient tomes. One door labeled RESTRICTED: Contractual Souls Only.

You swallowed. This wasn’t law school anymore. This was the underworld in heels.

Han Jisung entered from the rooftop.

The chopper dropped him five minutes behind schedule, and he hated being late—especially today, when a new batch of interns were supposed to arrive. He hated interns. Eager. Sweaty. Trying to impress him with quotes from Nietzsche.

He adjusted his ring, black obsidian with a serpent curling up his middle finger and rolled his neck before descending. His assistant, Jinhee, tried to brief him. He waved her off.

“Did they assign me one of the interns?”

“Not officially, but the chairman requested one observe your methods—”

“No.”

“But sir—”

“I said no.”

He walked into his office. 47th floor. The air smelled like power and espresso. His desk was cluttered with folders, red-stamped files, and one curious black envelope marked:

“Observe her. She doesn’t belong—but she might change everything.”

He frowned. Tossed it aside. He didn’t believe in fate.

---

Jisung and Y/N walked the same hall that morning. Opposite directions. Didn’t notice each other—yet. Y/N was being led through the Hall of Legal Legends, where portraits of past partners hung like silent judges. She paused in front of one particularly cold-looking man.

“That’s Ha Daejin,” the tour guide said. “He once freed a serial killer because he didn’t believe in prison. Said the law should be feared, not followed.” Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like a villain.” The guide smirked. “You’ll hear more of that.”

Meanwhile, Jisung turned a corner, passed a group of interns. Didn’t look at them—except for a second. One girl. Silver badge. Holding a leather-bound notebook like it was a weapon. Unfazed by the architecture. Sharp eyes. He paused for half a second. Blinked. Then walked on.

She felt it. That glance. That storm. They didn’t know each other yet.

---

The conference room at Daejin & Grey was less a meeting space and more a statement. A massive oval table of obsidian-black glass stretched across the room like the eye of some mythic beast. The lighting was deliberately dim—soft golden strips along the ceiling—making everyone’s expressions unreadable, dangerous. It smelled of polished leather, old money, and cold ambition. Interns filed in one by one silent, shoulders squared, eyes darting. You were among them, notebook pressed to your side, trying not to flinch at the weight of legacy pressing on you. All of you were being watched. Every step, every breath, being measured.

You took a seat at the far end, instinctively positioning yourself with your back to the wall. Never the center. Always the observer. The doors opened again and this time, the room actually paused.

In came Mr. Grey.

No one knows his first name. Not really. Just Grey. He walked with a cane not because he needed to, but because he liked the sound of it on marble. A silver three-piece suit, perfectly tailored, skin pale like stone, and a face so unreadable it could’ve been carved.

“Ladies. Gentlemen. Sharks in training,” he said, his voice laced with silk and venom. “Welcome to Daejin & Grey.”

“You are not here to learn. You’re here to prove you can survive. We will not teach you to be great. We will simply see if you already are. If you are not—” he gestured lazily toward the wide floor-to-ceiling windows, “—there is the door, and down there is your future. Bleak. Insignificant.”

Someone gulped. You did not. “From now on,” Grey continued, “you do not breathe without purpose. You do not blink without calculation. And if you ever speak in this room without reason…”

He smiled. Sharp and slow. “I will end your career before it begins.” He stepped back. “Now, allow me to introduce one of our youngest and most... unorthodox partners.”

The doors slammed open again.

Han Jisung strode in with the kind of lazy confidence that screamed I own this room. No tie. Shirt collar undone just enough. A black ring catching the dim light. His hair was slightly tousled, like he’d just walked out of a midnight negotiation and won. He didn’t look at anyone. He just leaned against the edge of the table, one hand in his pocket.

“Interns,” he said. His voice was casual, disinterested. “Congrats on making it this far. I assume most of you will disappoint me.” Some people chuckled nervously.

He scanned the room—quick sweep. And then, their eyes met.

You didn’t blink. Neither did he.

It wasn’t recognition. It wasn’t fate. It was challenge. His gaze said, Don’t try me.

Yours said, I already am.

Something shifted. Jisung turned back to Grey. “Can I go?”

Grey raised an amused brow. “You just got here.” Jisung shrugged, pushing off the table. “I’ve seen enough.” But he paused by the door. Tilted his head. Glanced over his shoulder not at the group. Just at her.

One second.

Two.

Then he left.

And you? You smelled the war before it began.

After Jisung made his dramatic exit, Mr. Grey waved a gloved hand, summoning the woman standing beside the projection screen. That was Ms. Park, the Head of Public Relations a woman whose smile was sharper than her Louboutins.

She took the lead. “Here at Daejin & Grey,” she began, “we operate on six principles. Discipline. Foresight. Loyalty. Discretion. Precision. And finally—ruthlessness.”

A nervous laugh rippled across the room. She didn’t smile. “That wasn’t a joke.”

The next forty-five minutes were a blur of corporate philosophies and non-negotiable ethics. Every new intern had to memorize the internal PR structure, the crisis protocols, and the company’s “zero tolerance” policy for emotional decisions. Everything had a script. Even your heartbeat.

You took notes like your life depended on it. Because it did. But the more the PowerPoint clicked forward, the more you felt the weight of your blouse clinging to her skin not from nerves, but from expectation. From the knowing glance Grey had shot her earlier. He knew.

The interns were finally dismissed for a break, filing out toward the executive café like a herd of wolves pretending to be sheep. The space was insane, sleek glass, gold accents, and meals plated like art. Even the salad looked like it had a stock portfolio.

You picked at a caprese toast, more out of habit than hunger.

Jisung wasn’t there. Of course not. He probably had his meals flown in, signed with blood, and served with jazz. You sipped your drink, but your mind wandered. Back to that look. The unreadable glance between you and Jisung. Like a challenge had been accepted without a single word exchanged.

Just as you were returning your tray, a shadow passed over you.

“Miss Y/L/N.”

That voice. Smooth as obsidian. You turned. Mr. Grey. He didn’t beckon. He just turned, and you followed. You stepped into a smaller conference lounge less intimidating, more personal. Warm-toned wood, a velvet chaise. Only the elite got invited here, you were sure of it.

Grey didn’t sit. He stood by the window, cane in hand, observing the city skyline.

“Well?” he said without turning. “What’s the verdict?”

You hesitated. “I… I think I’m scared. But I’m also excited.”

He glanced at you now. Just slightly. “Good. Fear without eagerness is cowardice. Eagerness without fear is arrogance. We don’t need either.”

You nodded slowly. “I’ll try not to let you down.” Grey turned to face you fully now. His expression softened—barely—but it was there. A flicker. Almost paternal. “I know where you came from,” he said.

You froze. He continued, “Not everyone here was raised on champagne and legacy. Some of us crawled into this place with blood on our hands and fire in our eyes. You belong here, Y/N. But you’ll need armor.”

“I’ll build it,” you whispered, voice steady.

Grey nodded, satisfied. But then he tilted his head, curious. “You looked at Han Jisung today.” A pause. You raised a brow, unashamed. “He looked first.” That earned the ghost of a chuckle.

“You want to know about him?” Grey asked.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to. Grey tapped his cane twice on the floor. “Han Jisung is a prodigy. Recruited after flipping the legal department of a rival firm upside down as a client. Took the bar just to prove he could. Now he leads special projects and high-risk negotiations. Untouchable. Brilliant. Reckless.”

You absorbed the information like wine. Grey’s tone turned sharp again. “He does not play well with others. And he doesn’t train interns.”

You met his gaze. “Noted.” Grey smirked. “Good girl.”

---

The door clicked shut behind you.

Your apartment was quiet. Small, but personal. Walls filled with original sketches, abstract prints, pinned timelines, articles with handwritten notes in the margins. A vision board sat in the corner with the word “Grey-level” in capital gold foil across the top. You kicked off your heels and unpinned your hair, letting the curls fall as you moved like clockwork—smooth, efficient, methodical. Laptop open. Lights dimmed. Jazz humming low in the background.

Search: Han Jisung | Daejin & Grey

The results? Not much. Of course not. Grey’s people erased footprints before they were even made. But you was raised to dig deeper than the surface. And you did.

You found mentions of his name in trade journals, coded phrases like “unexpected turnaround,” “miracle negotiation,” and “the golden ghost.” Not a single photo. But a whisper here, a quote there.

Then, an old university blog.

“The Boy Who Sued a Corporation and Won.”

You clicked. A grainy screenshot showed a boy with a snapback on backwards, standing outside a courthouse. Young. Angry. Smirking like he knew too much for someone his age.

Summary:

Age 19. Filed a class action suit against a powerful music label for contract exploitation. Represented himself in preliminary hearings. Won the case and took a settlement. Disappeared from public eye for three years. Resurfaced… at Daejin & Grey.

You sat back, the gears in your mind turning. “So he’s that type,” you murmured.

Anger-driven. Genius-fed. Doesn't like to lose. Hides behind sarcasm because it's safer than vulnerability. You bookmarked the article. Then looked out the window at the glowing city. A little smile curved on your lips.

“This’ll be fun.”

And with that, you shut your laptop and poured yourself a glass of red a silent toast to a storm you knew was coming.

---

The routine had set in fast.

Early mornings. Sharp tailoring. Neutral tones and cool metal accents. You walked the marble floors like you’d owned them in another life, heels tapping like a metronome against the low murmurs of ambition. Daejin & Grey was a world built on precision and aesthetics—every glass panel, every steel fixture, every whisper of silk or leather had its place. You adapted like water in a crystal decanter.

You learned fast, spoke clearly, and listened sharper. You made yourself invaluable to your department, your reports were always early, always clean, always with that extra insight that made supervisors raise their brows and take notes. You didn’t speak unnecessarily in meetings, but when you did, the room always turned.

But Jisung?

Ghosted in and out. Rarely at your floor. Always with his tie loose, mouth set in a line of amusement or disapproval, never in between.

You caught glimpses. Like shadows in polished windows. And every single time your eyes met; it was electric. Subtle, but raw. Sometimes it was across the coffee machine, him leaning against the wall with a smirk as you stirred your drink without sugar. Sometimes in passing through the 8th floor where the high-stakes clients had rooms like hotel lobbies and meetings that reeked of old money and moral grey zones. And sometimes, just a glance across the conference table, where he sat sideways, his leg crossed, chewing the tip of a pen like he knew you were looking.

And she always was.

The blinds were half-drawn, letting in only slanted light that painted the dark wood floor in broken stripes. Mr. Grey sat behind his massive obsidian desk, signature cup of jet-black coffee steaming near his right hand, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose as he skimmed a tablet. His navy tie was undone, a telltale sign he’d been in meetings since dawn. Jisung stood by the window, posture casual, arms crossed, dressed in a soft black turtleneck and slacks that looked far too expensive for how uninterested he seemed. His hair was slightly tousled—he’d run his hand through it a few too many times. Typical.

“I told you, Grey. I don’t like babysitting,” he said, eyes fixed on the skyline. “There’s enough on my plate. Lee’s merger alone is—”

“This isn’t babysitting.” Grey didn’t even look up. “It’s exposure. Real-world pressure. She needs to be in the field, and you…” He finally glanced up, eyes sharp. “You need to get out of that damn ivory tower you’ve built around yourself.”

Jisung scoffed. “Nice motivational speech. You should sell it with the company’s scented candle line.”

“I’m serious, Han.” Grey slid a file folder across the desk. “Y/N. She’s sharp. Observant. A little quiet. Good instincts, but not molded yet. Reminds me of someone else I hired years ago.”

“Oh, please don’t say—”

“You,” Grey cut him off dryly.

Jisung rolled his eyes and walked over, taking the file with reluctance. He cracked it open, the name Y/N typed neatly on the top corner. There was a small square photo paperclipped to the first page. His eyes flicked over it briefly. She looked poised. Quietly powerful. The kind of face that looked like it’d seen a lot, but wouldn’t tell you unless you earned it.

He didn’t say anything.

“You’ll meet her at the conference,” Grey added, sipping his coffee. “I told her she’d be perfect for this. Don’t make me a liar.”

Jisung closed the folder with a snap and ran a hand through his hair. “What time?”

“Eleven. Don’t be late.”

“I’m always late.”

“I’ll dock your paycheck.”

“Charming,” he muttered, tucking the folder under his arm. “She better be worth the hassle.”

“She is,” Grey said, finality in his tone. “And maybe… just maybe, she’s the type to make you think again, Jisung.” Han Jisung didn’t answer. He just walked out, file in hand, wondering why the hell this girl was already starting to live in the back of his mind.

It was a Thursday.

You remembered because you wore the wide-legged gray slacks you saved for “power move” days. A quarterly strategy conference was underway, where junior analysts, interns, and mid-level associates were gathered to observe the department leads speak on major upcoming cases. Mr. Grey sat at the head of the room, calm, in control, sleek in that navy suit with no tie.

Then came the part no one expected: live assignments.

“Some of you will be handling case shadows,” Grey said, clasping his hands. “And some of you will be leading minor client packages. Let’s make things interesting.”

Papers were passed.

Your folder landed with a soft thunk. You opened it. A name. A file. A logo. A red tab labeled

Priority Confidential.

Below it:

Supervisor – Han Jisung

Your blood stilled. Just as you looked up, you saw him lean on the doorframe at the back of the room, arms crossed, sleeves rolled, silver watch catching the light. He tilted his head slightly as your eyes met, mouth tugging in that slow, you ready for this? smirk.

“Y/N,” Mr. Grey called from the head of the table. “You’ll be reporting directly to Jisung. He’ll catch you up on the brief by end of day. Congratulations.” You swallowed, spine straight. “Understood, sir.” Jisung gave you a two-finger salute. The room kept moving.

But you? You were already calculating. Preparing. Bracing for impact. Because something told you this assignment was going to be everything you wanted… and everything you weren’t ready for.

You stood outside the glass wall of Jisung’s office, heels clicking softly against the polished concrete floor. Your reflection blinked back at you, sharp, composed, lips pressed into a line so thin it could cut glass. The folder in your hand had bite marks on the corner where you’d chewed it while overthinking. Not that you’d ever admit it.

You exhaled once. Twice. Then knocked.

“Come in.”

The voice was casual, distracted. You entered.

Jisung was leaning back in his chair, black sleeves rolled to his elbows, a pen lazily twirling between his fingers. His office smelled like cedar and fresh ink, the lighting warm but sterile like someone had tried to make it welcoming but gave up halfway through. Like him, maybe.

His eyes flicked up briefly. Then back down to the paper on his desk. “Y/N, right?”

“Yes.” You shut the door softly behind her. “You’re my supervisor on the K-Tech acquisition case.”

“Mmh,” Jisung hummed, still reading. “That’s what Grey says.” You didn’t sit until he gestured vaguely toward the chair in front of him barely looking up. His posture was everything you’d expect from someone with way too much power and too little patience: cocky, distant, infuriatingly relaxed.

You hated it.

“I’ve already gone through the case summary,” you said, placing the folder neatly on his desk. “I’ve highlighted the inconsistencies in the subsidiary’s financials. There’s—”

“—a shell company in Taipei laundering R&D funds,” he finished without missing a beat, still not looking at you. “Yeah. Noted that three weeks ago.”

You paused. Tilted your head. “Then why is it still unresolved?” That made him look up.

Slowly. Like a cat flicking its tail, unbothered but aware. His gaze was sharp, dark, and laced with something unreadable. Maybe amusement. Maybe boredom. Maybe both.

“Grey told me to loop you in,” he said, leaning back, fingers steepled. “Not give you the steering wheel.”

“I’m not here to steer,” you shot back, tone cool. “I’m here to work. But if you’d rather I sit in the corner and watch you twirl pens, I can pencil that in too.” There was a beat of silence.

Then,

“Cute,” Jisung said, a slow smirk curling at his lips. “You’ve got teeth.” You sat back in her chair, arms crossing. “And you’ve got ego. Big one. I’m surprised it fits in here with all the air you take up.” He actually laughed. A quiet, surprised sound, like you’d caught him off-guard and he didn’t hate it.

“Most interns are too scared to say half that.”

“I’m not most interns,” she said simply.

His gaze lingered. Too long.

You didn’t flinch. Didn't blink. You was dangerous, he realized. Not in the way of lawsuits or incompetence—but in the way your eyes cut right through his performance, the way your presence didn’t flinch under pressure. He’d seen plenty of people fold under his disinterest. But not you.

And the thing was, he liked it. God, he liked it way too much.

“Fine,” he said, voice dropping a note lower. “Let’s get this straight. You bring me something smart, I’ll listen. You waste my time; I’ll make you regret it.”

Your lips twitched into something dangerously close to a smile. “You won’t scare me off, Han.” He leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “Good. Wouldn’t be fun if I did.” The room felt smaller. Warmer. Something thick and charged buzzed in the silence between you. Then he grabbed your folder and opened it, eyes scanning fast. You watched him, arms still folded, legs crossed, a flicker of fire in her gaze.

“I need full employee logs for the Taipei branch,” Jisung said, tapping his pen against the folder. “Also, see if you can get internal memos from the last quarter. Anything involving the budget committee.”

“Got it,” You replied, standing smoothly.

You reached for the folder, fingers brushing the edge of his desk like it owed you something. Confident. Effortless. And just as she turned on her heel to leave—

—he looked.

He hadn’t meant to. Not really. It just—happened.

The way your skirt hugged your hips, the subtle sway as you walked like every step was calculated, fluid, commanding the air around her. Jisung blinked, his jaw clenching a little too tightly.

Fuck.

He looked away fast. Sat back. Ran a hand down his face like it’d erase the ten seconds of weakness he just experienced.

“She’s your intern, man,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head, already annoyed with himself. “Get a grip.” But the image lingered. Along with the snarky little grin you gave him earlier the fire in your voice, the nerve.

He didn’t know whether he wanted to argue with you or—

Nope.

He shut the thought down. Immediately. He grabbed a random paper off his desk and stared at it like it was the holy gospel.

It wasn’t. It was a receipt for pens. Still, anything to distract himself. Because damn it, you were going to be a problem. And a hot one at that.

---

You leaned your head against the window, the cool glass pressing gently into your temple as your car hummed along the road, lights of the city beginning to dim behind you. Your phone was plugged into the AUX, and the low, rhythmic voice of RM filled the car like an ocean tide.

His voice always settled her nerves. Heavy thoughts dissolved into gentle weightlessness as you watched neighborhoods blur past concrete melting into trees, the air growing less polluted, the traffic thinning. Your week had already been a blur: Daejin’s pressure cooker energy, the barbed words exchanged with Jisung, the way he looked at you today like you were both a problem and a puzzle—

And still, he stared. Like he couldn’t decide whether to fight you or fold.

You scoffed softly to yourself and turned up the volume. You weren’t going to think about him right now. Not when your heart softened the closer you got to home.

The car crunched against the gravel driveway, your headlights sweeping over the familiar brick front and small white porch your dad had painted a decade ago. The house stood modest, cozy—just big enough to hold love and struggle in equal measure. You stepped out, heels in hand, dress blazer folded over your arm. The night air smelled like coming rain and hibiscus soap, your mom’s favorite. You climbed the steps two at a time and opened the door.

Inside, your father was seated by the small living room window, a blanket over his lap, the TV on low. Your mother was in the kitchen, humming to herself and peeling fruit, and Mr. Tae—her parents’ long-time caregiver—stood nearby folding laundry.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Mr. Tae greeted first, smiling warmly as he turned around.

“Hi,” you whispered, setting your bag down. Your voice dropped into something gentle, reverent. “How’ve they been today?”

“Good. Your mom’s been on her feet most of the day—she’s stubborn as always. Your dad’s been quieter. Tired. But good.” You smiled softly and nodded. You walked over to your dad first, knelt beside him, and gently placed a kiss on his cheek. He didn’t say much—just smiled at you with kind, weary eyes and touched your hair the way he used to when she was little.

Your mom came over next, wrapping you in a warm hug that still somehow smelled like love and cornbread.

“How’s the new job?” her mom asked, brushing a strand of hair from your face. You gave a half-laugh. “Complicated. Intense. Full of egos and deadlines. But I’m hanging in.”

“You always do,” your mom replied, patting your hand. “You’re our miracle, remember?” You sat with them for a while. Ate some fruit. Let yourself be their daughter instead of a rising corporate intern or legal assistant. Let yourself exhale.

Because when you walked back into Daejin the next morning…you’d need that fire again.

---

The door clicked shut behind him.

Jisung leaned against it for a moment, keys still in his hand, the silence of the apartment washing over him like warm static. No city horns here. No coworkers. No Grey. No you. He exhaled slowly, dropping his bag by the door and kicking off his shoes with mechanical grace. The space was minimal, sleek—clean lines and dark accents. Black couch, polished concrete floor, deep green plants that he tried not to forget to water.

It looked like someone with taste lived here. It felt like a hotel room someone never fully unpacked in. He peeled off his blazer, draped it over the bar stool, and walked straight to the kitchen—grabbing a water bottle and a leftover half sandwich from the fridge. Gourmet. Chef Han at it again.

The light of his laptop blinked softly from the corner of the living room.

He ignored it. Instead, he wandered to the window, bottle in hand, and stared down at the city glowing like an artificial galaxy beneath him.

Another day of everything and nothing. He’d barely slept this week. Work had been brutal. Interns had been annoying.

Well…one intern.

His jaw twitched slightly at the memory of you walking out of his office, confident as hell, throwing shade and facts like you was born in a courtroom. That mouth on you—sharp. Quick.

Too damn smart for her own good. Too damn hot for his peace of mind.

He took a long sip of water, then grabbed his phone. Your file was still open in his emails. He didn’t mean to reread it. He did anyway. Background: modest. Grades: impressive. Demeanor: biting. Expression? Always looked like she was two seconds from either kissing you or ending your entire bloodline.

And that skirt?

Jesus.

He dropped the phone face down on the kitchen island.

This wasn’t good. This wasn’t ideal. He hated supervising for a reason—he didn’t like people clinging to him, watching him, depending on him. Especially not people who stirred up whatever this was. But you were different. Not in some romanticized, poetic way. No, more like…threateningly competent with legs for days and an attitude that gave him a headache and a half-chub at the same time. He groaned, running both hands through his hair before sinking onto the couch.

“God, Grey, why her?” he muttered aloud, throwing his head back dramatically.

No answer, of course. Just the sound of Seoul vibrating behind his window.

The weight of your stare still burned behind his eyes.

He knew this was going to get messy. He just didn’t know how soon.

But one thing was for sure, you were going to ruin him if he wasn’t careful. And part of him?

Didn’t want to be.

The food he had ordered just arrived, a warm burst of garlic and spice filling the cool silence of the apartment. Jisung set the cartons down on the island, unwrapping the napkins with the kind of robotic precision you pick up when you’ve eaten alone too many nights in a row. Spicy pork bulgogi, kimchi, rice, a small bottle of soju he didn’t ask for but the restaurant always tossed it in when they recognized his name on the order.

Perks of being Han Jisung.

He had just opened the chopsticks when his phone buzzed.

Dad

Incoming call.

Jisung stared at the screen for a second too long, jaw tightening. His thumb hovered, not because he didn’t want to answer, but because he already knew how this conversation would go. Still, he accepted the call and pressed it to his ear.

“Yeah?”

A deep voice crackled through the line, rough and low like worn leather.

“You sound tired.”

“I am,” Jisung replied simply, stabbing into his rice. “Been a long week.”

“Hm. You’re still working with Grey?”

“Still am.”

A pause. The silence between them said more than words could. His father had always had this way of making small talk feel like an interrogation.

“He’s using you.”

Jisung scoffed, mouth full. “Grey doesn’t use people. He recruits weapons.”

“Exactly.”

He didn’t answer. He chewed slowly, staring at the television that wasn’t even on.

“You still think you’re doing something different than me?” his father asked.

“Yeah,” Jisung said flatly. “Because I don’t destroy people for sport.”

Another pause. This time heavier.

“You sound just like your mother when you say shit like that.”

Jisung’s stomach twisted. He took another bite, mostly to shut himself up.

“You supervising someone?” his dad continued, like nothing had just happened.

Jisung rolled his eyes. “Why do you care?”

“Because I know what that means. You don’t let people close. If Grey’s making you, it’s not for nothing.”

Jisung hesitated, his mind flickering to you, the fire-eyed intern with the mouth that didn’t quit and the brain to match. The way you stood her ground, talked back, made his blood rush like he was seventeen again.

“She’s…interesting,” he finally muttered.

“She hot?”

“Jesus, Dad.”

“What? You said interesting. That’s code.” Jisung pinched the bridge of his nose. “She’s smart. Loud. Got a mouth on her.”

“So, you hate her.”

“…Something like that.”

There was a hum of amusement through the phone. For once, not a scoff or scold. Just understanding. A scary kind. “Watch yourself,” his father warned. “Grey doesn’t push you unless he’s trying to teach you something. Or test you. Or both.”

“I’m not new to this.”

“You’re new to her.” Jisung froze for a second, chopsticks suspended in the air.

“I gotta go,” he said, clearing his throat. “Food’s getting cold.”

“Call your mother.”

“I will.”

“Jisung.”

“What.”

“Don’t ruin it before it starts.”

Click.

The line went dead. Jisung sat there for a second, staring at the phone like it might say more. Then he set it down, picked up his food again, and muttered under his breath,

“…She’s still just an intern.”

But for some reason, he didn’t believe it.

Jisung was never the golden boy. Not in the traditional sense.

He wasn’t the loudest, or the most obedient, or the one who stayed out of trouble. But he was the sharpest. Razor-witted, eyes always ten steps ahead, and a tongue that could cut through hypocrisy like glass. From a young age, he was used to watching people argue from the staircase—his father, tall and thunderous, always in some perfectly pressed suit, barking down at his mother like she was one of the many subordinates who feared him.

His father, Han Joon-won, was a underground kingpin. Notorious in South Korea’s legal underworld for getting even the dirtiest white-collar criminals off scot-free. even though he was just a professor, he made his name not by defending the innocent, but by twisting narratives so well, the guilty walked out smiling.

His mother, on the other hand, Min So-ra, had been a viper in her work but the soul of the house.  Jisung had grown up watching them clash. Not over love—they hadn’t had that in years—but over principles. Over Jisung.

“He’s not going to be your legacy, Joon-won.”

“No. He’s going to be my evolution.”

When Jisung was 16, his mother left. Just packed her bags one night, kissed his forehead, and disappeared into a train station fog with nothing but her passport and a spine of steel.

She didn’t fight for custody. She didn’t drag him through courts. She just said, “I trust you to choose who you want to become.” And that ruined him more than any custody battle ever could.

When he was 20 and fresh out of university—with the kind of transcripts people framed—Jisung had offers lined up. Corporate firms, legal think tanks, political gigs. But none of it felt… earned. It felt like a train his father had put him on long ago, and the tracks were already built for him.

Daejin wasn’t a regular firm. It wasn’t even fully public. It was a private legal-intelligence consulting group, used by billionaires and politicians when the government couldn’t be trusted. Rumors said they helped broker backdoor treaties and helped dismantle crime rings from the inside. Jisung had accepted. Not because he trusted Grey, not because his mother signed behind his back, but because it felt like the first decision that was his.

He’d finished the bulgogi, the soju still cold beside his elbow, untouched. A silence lingered too long in the space around him—the kind that scratched at his ears. So, he picked up his phone again and scrolled to “엄마”. mom

He hadn’t called in weeks. She picked up on the second ring.

“Sung-ah.”

His chest clenched. Her voice hadn’t changed. Soft, calm, always like the air after a thunderstorm.

“Hey,” he said, a little hoarse. “You free?”

“For you? Always.”

He smiled softly, letting his head fall back against the couch.

“I got assigned someone today.”

“At work?”

“Yeah. Intern. I’m her supervisor.”

“And how do you feel about that?” He paused. How did he feel?

“She’s… interesting,” he muttered.

“That’s not a feeling, baby.”

He chuckled, rubbing his forehead. “She’s annoying. And smart. And looks at me like she’s trying to read my blood type.”

“So, she’s not scared of you.”

“No. And that’s the problem.”

“Or the point.”

Silence passed between them again, but this time it felt full. Safe. “Don’t let your father live in your mirror,” she said softly. “Not when there’s still light in your eyes.”

He closed his eyes. Let her words sink in.

“Thanks, Mom.”

“Call more often. I like hearing you wrestle with your own stubbornness.”

He smiled, biting back the wave of emotion building in his chest.

“I will.”

Click.

The line ended, and Jisung sat there for a long time phone on his chest, soju uncapped. Thinking about you, about the case, about whether this internship of yours was the beginning of your legacy...

…or the unraveling of his.

---

The lights in War Room A were low but moody designed that way to make people feel like the truth mattered more in the dark. Glass boards lined the walls, already filled with cryptic arrows and pin-dotted strings from other ongoing cases. The table was long, cold steel, with matte black folders laid out like they were handling national security instead of corporate lawsuits. Y/N walked in clutching her notepad, lips set in a calm line, her heels tapping softly against the grey tile. Her nerves simmered under the surface, but her expression stayed focused, professional. The room had a tension to it like the oxygen had been filtered for people who played chess with lives.

Jisung was already there, sleeves rolled to the forearms, silver watch glinting under the ceiling light. His jaw looked sharper this morning tighter. He didn’t look up when she entered.

Just said, “You’re late.”

“I’m early,” she replied smoothly, glancing at the wall clock—9:02.

He looked up then. Eyes dragging from her face to the file in her hand, then back. “Right. Two minutes early. Congratulations, you want a cookie?”

“Only if it’s got sarcasm chips in it.”

A ghost of a smirk flicked at the corner of his lips. But it vanished before it could get comfortable. “Sit,” he muttered, motioning to the seat beside him. As she sat, more of the upper-tier team began filing in. Analysts. Consultants. A lead from the surveillance branch. Everyone looked polished and exhausted, like they hadn’t slept more than three hours in days. The weight of high-profile work wore heavy on everyone here and Y/N felt it. Like iron in her bones.

Grey entered last. Of course.

Wearing an all-black turtleneck and long grey coat, he looked more like a grieving poet than the head of a high-level legal-intelligence firm. But the room straightened when he walked in. His presence commanded without barking.

He didn’t speak until he’d set his black coffee down.

“This is the KraneTech litigation,” he began. “Thirty-two million dollars’ worth of hush money misfiled as marketing budget. A whistleblower’s coming forward. We’re handling the internal case, prepping for external liability.”

He glanced around the table, then locked eyes with Y/N.

“This will be Y/N’s first live case. She’s under Han.” Jisung sighed through his nose. Loud enough for her to hear it. Not loud enough to get called out.

“Everyone, give her the floor.”

Y/N blinked. “Wait—”

“You have 90 seconds,” Grey added casually. “What’s your understanding of the case from the file you read yesterday?”

Shit.

She straightened. “KraneTech misappropriated marketing funds to pay off silence regarding potential internal abuse and fraudulent operations. The whistleblower is anonymous for now but has indicated they have documentation and digital logs.”

The room watched her like hawks. She continued. “There’s a timeline gap between February and April 2023 where no financial statements match the campaign budgets. That’s likely when the payouts happened. There’s also a legal scrub done during April that feels… strategic. Like they were anticipating investigation.”

Grey leaned back, considering. “Interesting.”

She held her breath. Then, he nodded once. “You’ll shadow Han. You have two days to prove you can handle the next phase of the audit alone.”

He turned to Jisung. “She’s yours. Try not to murder each other.”

Jisung’s jaw ticked.

Grey left with most of the others. The moment the room was half empty, Jisung stood and walked toward the glass board at the front of the room. Y/N followed, silent, watching him as he clicked a button and the case projection flickered to life.

He didn’t look at her as he said, “You’re not bad.”

“Was that… a compliment?”

“Don’t get cocky.”

“I’m writing it down anyway.”

“You do that.”

They stood side by side now, looking at the digital board—emails, blurred invoices, personnel profiles. “What’s your plan?” he asked.

She crossed her arms. “Trace the digital logins. Identify the cleaner who did the scrub in April. Follow the emails that were archived after the fact. There’s always metadata.”

“Metadata and luck.” He paused. “You might actually survive here.”

“I don’t need to survive,” she muttered. “I plan to win.” He turned his head just slightly, watching her profile as her eyes stayed on the board. It annoyed him. How pretty she looked when she was focused. How cocky she sounded when she didn’t even know the half of what Daejin really did behind closed doors.

“You’re stubborn,” he said.

“I adapt.”

“That’s worse.”

She smirked without turning to him. “Maybe you’re just slow.” He blinked. God, she was insufferable. And kinda hot.

He cleared his throat. “Meeting’s over. Get what you need. I’ll send you internal files by noon.” She nodded, then turned to leave the room.

His eyes dropped instinctively—for a second—to the sway of her hips, her skirt hugging just enough.

He looked away instantly, jaw clenched.

“Fucking hell…” he whispered under his breath.

The office they used was colder than necessary. The kind of cold that kept you awake and working, courtesy of Daejin’s air conditioning set to “keep them alert or kill them trying.” The space was sleek, functional, and minimal: two large desks facing opposite walls, a shared table in the center stacked with files, highlighters, redacted papers, and two half-drunk cups of espresso.

Y/N had shed her blazer somewhere around 9AM. Now in a simple white shirt with the sleeves folded to her elbows, her fingers flew over her keyboard, the blue glow of her screen reflecting off her glasses. She was in full problem-solver mode, lip caught between her teeth, brows furrowed in that way Jisung had, unfortunately, noticed more than once.

Jisung sat across from her, slightly reclined, eyes darting between an evidence board and the KraneTech whistleblower’s anonymized file. He was chewing the tip of a pen, annoyed that it was yielding nothing new. His own desk was chaos with purpose: files, sticky notes, USB drives, all organized in his uniquely ‘smart but unhinged’ way.

Silence passed between them—not uncomfortable. Just focused.

“You notice this?” Y/N asked suddenly, flipping her laptop to face him.

Jisung stood and leaned over, arms braced on either side of her chair as he scanned her screen. Her perfume—something light and sweet—hit him too quickly. He pulled back a little.

She pointed. “The logs from the scrub session in April? Someone tried to delete twice. Different time stamps. But only one was executed.” His eyes scanned fast. Sharp. “Good catch. That means they weren’t working alone. One initiated. One canceled. Which means—”

“Which means the second person might’ve backed out,” she finished. Their eyes met. A beat of satisfaction passed between them.

She looked smug. He hated that he liked it. He straightened and returned to his desk without comment. “Cross-check the list of digital IDs with those on the financial audits,” he added, already typing again. “There’s a chance the person who canceled left a trail out of guilt. I’ll trace the IP from the meta headers.”

“On it,” she replied.

Hours passed. Coffee refilled. Notes scribbled. The room thickened with brainpower and caffeine fumes. By 12:17 PM, her stomach growled audibly. She froze. Jisung glanced up, cocked a brow. “You gonna eat or let your stomach file a complaint to HR?”

“I’ll grab something later—”

“You’ve been saying that for four hours,” he cut in, pulling out his phone. A few taps. “Lunch will be here in ten.”

“You didn’t have to—”

“I chose to. Which means now you’re going to eat, intern.” His tone was teasing but firm. “Take a break. Let your frontal lobe reset before it fries.” She gave him a look, soft but stubborn. “You didn’t have to—”

“If you say that one more time, I’m ordering dinner too and making you eat it in front of the entire board.”

She blinked. He smirked.

“And that’s not an empty threat.”

Ten minutes later, lunch arrived—grilled chicken wraps, sweet potato fries, and iced black tea. Jisung slid one over to her, then turned back to his desk like it meant nothing. Y/N stared at the food. Then him.

“You’re not eating?”

“Later,” he muttered. “I want to finish this trace.”

“You sure? I can share.” He shot her a sideways look. “Don’t tempt me.” Her cheeks flushed, but she masked it with a sarcastic chuckle, “Relax, Han. It’s not a marriage proposal. It’s just fries.” He smirked, but didn’t respond, back to his files, eyes scanning deep.

Y/N finally took a bite.

And—damn it—it was really good.

For the next half hour, they worked in silence again. Separate desks. Separate minds. But the same rhythm. The same obsession. The same unspoken energy. Enemies? No. Allies with fire in the air? Absolutely.

And neither of them realized it yet…

…but this was how chemistry always began at Daejin.

The city outside had long gone quiet. Seoul’s skyline twinkled through the window, streetlights casting streaks of orange and silver across the tiled floor. The office was quieter now—no whirring printers or urgent footsteps. Just two exhausted minds submerged in data, theories, and the kind of mental endurance that only legal warfare demanded.

Y/N sat cross-legged in her chair, one earbud in, hair messily pinned up with a pen poking through it. Her screen was a swirl of digital records, duplicated entries, firewall logs, she was squinting now, moving files around like puzzle pieces in her mind. A cold cup of coffee sat beside her, untouched for the last hour. Her knee bounced unconsciously, the adrenaline refusing to die down even though her body begged for sleep.

Then—she paused.

Froze.

Brows lifted slowly, lips parting. Her fingers darted over the keys, pulling up the original access logs from April’s double-deletion. She’d been chasing a ghost for hours, but there it was, plain as day: a duplicated ID signature tied to two different employee databases. The same person had registered under two different teams. Fake alias.

“Oh my God,” she whispered, breathless.

She snatched the file from the table where Jisung had left it earlier—his own scribbled notes, dots connected, theories half-built. The answer had been under both their noses the whole time.

“Jisung!” she called out instinctively, spinning her chair around, face bright with excitement and a little disbelief.

But when she turned—

He wasn’t responding.

Slouched in his chair, arms draped lazily across the desk, Jisung’s head had dropped sideways. His laptop screen still flickered, casting soft light over his peaceful expression. One hand was still holding onto the same file she now clutched, his notes stopped mid-sentence.

She blinked, then smiled. The moment softened her. There was something intimate about seeing someone brilliant in their most unguarded state. She stepped closer, voice low. “Guess we cracked it… both of us. Not bad for an overachiever and a half-asleep grump.”

No reply. Just a soft rise and fall of his chest. A slight twitch of his lips, like he was dreaming—maybe about work, maybe something far less exhausting. She shook her head fondly, knelt beside him, and tapped his arm gently.

“Hey, genius. Sleeping on the job now?”

Jisung stirred. Eyes slowly opened, bleary and unfocused at first. His lashes fluttered and his brows knitted as he squinted.

“Shit—did I pass out?” he muttered, sitting up too fast.

“Yeah,” she chuckled. “Right in the middle of your future law firm commercial. ‘Han Jisung: brilliant, relentless, occasionally unconscious.’”

He ran a hand down his face, groaning. “Fuck. I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine,” she said quickly, voice firmer now. “Don’t apologize.” He looked at her, confused, still blinking the sleep out of his eyes. “You need to go home,” she said softly, but there was command in it. “You look like you’ve been tired for years, not just tonight.”

“Y/N—”

“Don’t argue.” She reached for his laptop and closed it. “I’ll clean up here, write up a preliminary. I’ll shoot you a copy before morning.”

He hesitated, still groggy, but caught in her unwavering gaze. Her voice was gentle, but it left no room for negotiation.

“…You always like bossing people around?” he mumbled, standing slowly.

“Only when they’re being stupidly self-destructive. Karma, really.”

That earned a small smirk. He slung his bag over his shoulder, but before he left, he paused at the doorway. She was already turning back to her laptop, immersed again.

“Thanks,” he said, voice quieter. She didn’t look up.

“Go home, Han.” He lingered for one more second, eyes tracing her silhouette under the cool light of the monitor.

And then he was gone.

---

Han Jisung’s apartment was all clean lines and controlled chaos. A half-folded hoodie hung off a kitchen chair, vinyl records were stacked by the turntable in no real order, and the scent of his cologne lingered in the hallway like a memory too stubborn to leave. He was buttoning up his dress shirt, sleeves still rolled to the elbow, his hair damp and messy from a rushed shower.

He grabbed his phone from the counter just as it buzzed.

New Email: Preliminary Draft — Case #1782

Sender: Y/N [yn.daejin.legal@corp.kr]

He blinked, brows furrowing.

Already?

He opened it, skimming fast at first—but then slowing.

Thorough. Organized. Insightful. She hadn’t just pieced together the data. She’d cross-referenced employee signatures, restructured their timeline, and even color-coded the suspects in the margin.

“…Damn,” he muttered, under his breath.

Then another ping.

Text from Y/N:

Morning. I might come in a little late today—just wanted to give a heads-up. Will join as soon as I’m done. Thanks again for last night. Hope you got decent sleep.

He stared at the message a moment longer than necessary, lips twitching into something that wasn’t quite a smirk but definitely wasn’t neutral. His fingers hovered above the keyboard—he started to type, paused, erased, then just tossed the phone on the bed.

“Tch,” he muttered, grabbing his blazer. “Why is she so annoyingly good at this…”

And still, as he grabbed his bag and locked the door behind him, the corner of his mouth wouldn’t stop lifting.

He walked into the morning rush of Seoul, suit crisp, heart slightly off-beat, and thoughts already spiraling back to the girl who’d made him a little more tired… and a lot more intrigued.

—

The room hummed with pre-trial tension. A long, oval table dominated the center—sleek, black wood polished to a mirror shine. Screens displayed the case name, stacks of legal documents fanned out in front of each assigned seat, water bottles untouched beside stiff black folders. Jisung sat near the end, one ankle lazily crossed over the other, arms folded, eyes flicking between the time on his watch and the door.

9:05. You was five minutes late. Not a big deal.

But it made his left eye twitch.

He was about to tap his pen against the desk when the door finally swung open.

You stepped in—hair pulled back in a high, slick ponytail, glasses perched delicately on your nose. That outfit? Deadly. A gray pinstriped shirt peeking from beneath a black cropped cardigan, slacks hugging your hips in a way that made Jisung’s train of thought flatline for two full seconds. He sat up straighter unconsciously.

You looked... put-together. Smart. Sharp. And not trying too hard. Your eyes met his and—there it was again—that same flicker of tension. Familiar, unspoken. But you walked over calmly, confidence in your steps, setting down your laptop and notes beside his before leaning in slightly and whispering, “Did you read the preliminary?”

He gave you a slow blink.

“Yeah.”

“Did I mess anything up? I—I rushed the tail end and didn’t double check that section with the warehouse codes.”

Jisung’s brows rose. You were nervous.

He leaned in slightly, voice low and smooth. “No, you didn’t mess up. It’s tight. You caught things even I didn’t at first glance.” You narrowed your eyes at him skeptically, biting back a smile. “You’re being sarcastic.”

Jisung tilted his head. “I’m actually not. Don’t get used to it though.”

You chuckled softly and straightened your back, trying to hide the little breath of pride you exhaled. The compliment, sarcastic or not, buzzed in your chest. Just then, the door opened again and Grey strolled in, black suit, no tie, coffee in hand, and that ever-serious gleam in his eyes.

“Alright,” he called out. “Let’s get this started. We’ve got five days before trial and no time to fumble.”

The room fell silent instantly, shuffling to attention. Jisung caught your glance from the corner of his eye as you both turned to face the screen. You were in this. Present. Awake. Ready. And damn if he wasn’t a little impressed. And a little more in trouble than he thought. Grey stood at the head of the table, setting down his coffee and clapping his hands once to get everyone locked in.

“Let’s keep it clean, focused, and brutal,” he said, eyes sweeping over the team. “We’ve got motive, but the jury’s going to need a narrative they can eat with a spoon. What’s the angle?”

There was a beat of silence before you cleared her throat gently.

“We start with the financial discrepancies in the subsidiary accounts,” you said, clicking your laptop and flipping the screen to show a clean graph. “Every quarter leading up to the embezzlement charge, there’s a small spike in activity—same offshore account, different shell companies.”

Grey raised a brow, mildly impressed. “And the evidence chain?”

“Verified. We have authenticated statements, plus a testimony lined up from the former assistant—she’s agreed to testify under condition of anonymity.”

Jisung leaned back in his chair, clicking his pen against his thigh. “It’s a good start. But it’s not enough to prove intent. The defense will call it mismanagement or incompetence. We need to tie the money trail to motive.” Grey nodded slowly and gestured. “Han?”

Jisung leaned forward, fingers steepled. “So, we hit them where it hurts—optics. The accused transferred funds under the guise of ‘consultancy fees’ to a company owned by his college roommate. We subpoenaed his travel history—it matches up with four ‘retreats’ that happen to line up with the largest deposits. Add in emails recovered from the IT sweep…”

He tapped his file. “There’s one that says—and I quote—‘just make sure they don’t notice until Q3.’ That’s intent, with a side of cocky.” Your eyes flicked over to him. “And we link that to the board vote he forced through last September? That’s when he got majority control.”

Jisung glanced sideways at you and gave a little nod. “Exactly.” Grey folded his arms. “So, what’s the sequence of presentation?”

You raised a hand slightly, already halfway flipping pages. “We open with the paper trail—the clean, technical breakdown. It builds credibility. Then Jisung drives the intent point home with the emails and personal ties. By the time we present the witness, the jury already suspects him. Her testimony just confirms it.”

Jisung looked at you. Really looked. “We build the wall first, then drop the hammer.”

You didn’t smile, but your lips twitched in mutual understanding. “Exactly.” Grey looked between them for a moment before nodding, pleased. “Good. Tag team it. Han, you handle cross. YN, you prep the witness and the opening presentation. You’ve got three days. I want a mock run-through by Thursday.”

Everyone else began gathering their things and filtering out, but YN and Jisung lingered, documents still splayed across the table like a living crime scene. You gathered your notes silently, then paused.

“You’re not bad at this,” you said lightly, not looking at him.

Jisung let out a soft scoff. “You’re pretty decent yourself. For someone who doesn’t shut up.”

“Maybe if you weren’t always so smug, I’d have less to say.” He shot you a lazy smirk, grabbing his folder. “Nah. You’d still talk. It’s the only way you function.” You raised a brow, grabbing her coffee as she stood. “Just be ready Thursday, counselor.”

“Oh, I will be,” he murmured, half to himself as you walked off ahead of him. His eyes dropped to the sway of-

Focus, Han. Not now.

The case was a web. But with you, he realized it wasn’t just untangling it. It was figuring out who was pulling the strings alongside him. And for once, it didn’t feel like he was doing it alone.

Prep for the Mock Trial

The fluorescent lights in your shared office buzzed quietly as papers rustled and two cups of coffee sat cooling, forgotten. The clock ticked past 9:00 PM, but neither of you had noticed the time. You were seated cross-legged in one of the chairs, balancing your laptop on your knees, voice low but focused as you ran through your opening statement draft. Jisung was pacing slowly with a pen in his mouth and a highlighter tucked behind one ear, eyes darting from paper to whiteboard. Every now and then, he’d mumble something or make a noise of disapproval under his breath.

“You skipped over the offshore transfer in August,” he said suddenly, cutting into her flow like a scalpel. “What?” you blinked, scrolling up. “No, I didn’t—”

“You did. You jumped from July to September like August didn’t exist. That transfer ties into the witness’ credibility. If you miss that in court, we lose the entire momentum.”

“I said August,” you insisted, your tone sharp now. “You must’ve zoned out again.” Jisung rolled his eyes, dragging a hand through his hair. “I don’t zone out; I just actually pay attention.” That landed a little harder than he expected.

Your fingers froze on the trackpad. “Are you seriously implying I don’t pay attention to my own case?”

“I’m implying,” he said coolly, “that maybe if you stopped treating this like a performance and started treating it like law, you wouldn’t miss simple stuff.” Your mouth parted, stunned. “Excuse me?”

“You’re great at talking, Y/N, no doubt. But law isn’t about sounding smart. It’s about being right. And sometimes, you skip details because you’re so busy trying to be the smartest person in the room.”

The air went ice cold.

“Wow,” you said, standing up slowly, voice lower than before. “You know, I get it. You’re used to being the genius. The golden boy. So, God forbid someone comes in and actually keeps up.” Jisung’s mouth opened, then shut. His jaw flexed.

“I didn’t say that—”

“But you think it. And maybe you’re right. Maybe I do care about how I come across—because I have to. Because unlike you, I don’t have a safety net. I don’t have parents who could afford law school. I don’t have a family name. I earned my place here.”

“You think I didn’t?”

“No,” you snapped, “I think you didn’t have to fight tooth and nail just to be seen. I think you have no idea what it’s like to have people doubt your intelligence the second you walk in because you don’t come from the right background.”

He looked like he wanted to fight that but then he muttered it, barely audible:

“Maybe if you weren’t so defensive all the damn time, people wouldn’t doubt you.” Your eyes widened slowly. That one hit like a punch to the ribs.

“You know what?” you said quietly. “Screw this.”

You grabbed your laptop and shoved it into your bag with trembling hands. He stepped forward instinctively, guilt rushing in like a wave, but you cut him off with just one glance, eyes glassy and betrayed.

“Don’t,” she warned.

“Y/N, I—”

“You don’t get to apologize.” The door clicked behind you as you walked out, leaving only silence and the buzzing light.

Jisung stood there for a long time, the weight of his words pressing down hard. He knew he messed up. And he knew sorry wasn’t going to cut it.

---

The atmosphere in the trial room was different.

Tense. Unspoken.

The team sat behind the long table facing the mock jury box. Grey was seated like a hawk, sharp-eyed and still. Jisung was at the end of the table, posture impeccable, face unreadable. His tie was perfect, hair neat, but his fingers tapped nervously under the desk. You walked in five minutes before the session started.

You were pristine with pressed slacks, a sleek ponytail, silver-rimmed glasses. The same woman from the steps that morning. Cool, composed, unreadable.

You didn’t look at him.

You didn’t even hesitate. Grey gave a curt nod as the session began. “Let’s run it like it’s real. Y/N, opening.” You stood, the room holding its breath.

And as you spoke—calm, clear, devastatingly precise—Jisung could feel the growing tension in his chest. You were flawless. Unshakable.

And she wasn’t looking at him.

The mock courtroom buzzed with a synthetic energy, the kind that stemmed from performance but mimicked the high-stakes atmosphere of a real trial. Every step, every statement was under scrutiny. Professors and legal consultants sat with clipboards, eyes flickering between the two leads of the case.

You hadn't glanced at Jisung once. Not during his opening statement, which was admittedly impressive but a touch rushed. Not when they passed each other the exhibit binder. Not even when he tapped your arm to hand over his notes on the cross. You took them without a word.

Your expression remained neutral, every movement calculated.

Jisung was unraveling. Internally. On the outside, he maintained the illusion of calm, jotting things down, nodding here and there, but underneath, it was pure chaos. He’d stolen a few glances. Your eyes were deadset on the witness, your jaw sharp, mouth pursed in thought. And each time you succeeded, each time the jury murmured in appreciation, he should’ve felt pride.

Instead, he felt the hollow throb of regret.

You stood for cross-examination, heels clacking against the floor with commanding rhythm.

“Mr. Wexler, you mentioned that the email correspondence between you and the defendant occurred ‘frequently’ throughout Q3, correct?”

“Yes.”

You tilted her head, sharp. “Can you define ‘frequently’?”

“Uh… maybe twice a week?”

“Twice a week,” you echoed, eyes flicking to the projector. “Then can you explain why there are only four emails logged between July and September?”

The room shifted. The witness stammered. Jisung smiled. Instinctively, he turned to share that moment with you.

You didn’t even twitch. Didn’t acknowledge the success. Didn’t give him the usual side-smirk you shared when a point landed. Nothing.

You sat, fingers interlaced calmly. Cold. Professional. Grey leaned in slightly toward Jisung, whispering just loud enough: “She’s sharper today.”

Jisung forced a grin. “Yeah. She is.”

What Grey didn’t know was why she was sharper. Pain had a funny way of refining focus. And you were in no mood to forgive and forget. Especially not mid-trial.

As everyone gathered near the board, unpacking the session, you contributed where necessary, objective and direct. When Jisung asked you if you needed his notes for the rebuttal? You turned to Grey and said, “Could you pass me the updated printout?”

When he brought up a shared strategy they’d discussed last night?

“Actually, I revised that this morning. I’ll use mine.”

Every time he tried to breach the space between you — professional or personal — you slid past him like smoke. Unbothered. It was killing him.

---

Jisung finally caught you at the vending machine, alone. No audience. No Grey.

“Y/N—”

“I don’t want to talk to you right now.”

Your tone was low but heavy. He opened his mouth. Closed it.

“Okay,” he finally said.

You didn’t even turn. Just grabbed your drink and walked away, leaving him standing there with his apology still stuck in his throat.

The Actual Courtroom Trial – Day One

Location: Seoul District Court, 9:15 AM.

The courtroom was charged. Polished wood gleamed under harsh lighting, papers rustled like whispers, and every cough, click, and sigh echoed like it mattered. The gallery was half-filled with press, executives, and sharp-eyed legal interns hungry for drama. Y/N sat at the plaintiff’s table, expression blank, body composed like a trained performer. Her braids were pinned in a clean updo, her suit crisply tailored, gray with a deep navy undershirt that matched the cold glint in her eyes. Jisung, sitting beside her, looked the part too, fitted black suit, no tie, top button undone. Hands loosely folded over his notes; brows furrowed. He’d barely said a word to her since the mock trial.

She hadn’t said a word back. And now wasn’t the time to fix anything. Because the judge walked in.

“All rise.”

Everyone stood.

“Court is now in session in the matter of Daejin Tech vs. KraneTech and Min Hyunsoo.”

The judge, an older man with sharp eyes behind square glasses, glanced down at his docket. “Opening statements?”

Grey stood first. “Your Honor, we intend to prove that not only did the defendant willfully breach contract, but in doing so, they manipulated internal reporting systems to inflate data and secure funding under false pretenses.” He glanced down at Jisung, who gave the most subtle nod. Grey continued: “We will show you emails, witness statements, and system logs that confirm deliberate falsification, with direct involvement from Mr. Min.”

It was clean. Sharp. Confident.

The defense countered with a calm but vague approach — denying nothing directly, playing the ‘miscommunication between departments’ angle.

Classic. But weak.

Witness Examination — Day Two

By now, the courtroom had warmed up. The crowd had grown. Legal press had started posting snippets, curious about the two Daejin lawyers making waves. Jisung took the floor this time. His steps were slow, measured. The court reporter’s keys tapped steadily as he approached the witness: a former financial analyst who’d been fired six months prior.

“You mentioned seeing irregularities in the data, correct?”

“Yes.”

Jisung leaned against the podium, casual but precise. “And you reported it?”

“I tried. But the internal review team—”

“Objection. Hearsay.”

“Withdrawn,” Jisung said easily, before shifting pace. “So you saw something. And you did…nothing?” The witness shifted. “I was told it wasn’t my place.”

“By whom?”

The man hesitated. “Let the record show the witness is taking a long pause,” Jisung added calmly, then looked to the jury. “Sometimes silence tells us more than words.”

The gallery buzzed. Y/N didn’t look at him. But her pen stopped moving for half a second. Just a twitch. Their next witness was the IT manager. Now it was Y/N’s turn. She stood tall, calm, with a file in hand as she stepped to the center. Her voice? Smooth and precise.

“You were in charge of all server logs for KraneTech?”

“Yes.”

“You have access to login timestamps, message histories, cloud storage?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She clicked a remote. The screen lit up behind her. “Can you explain this file name?” she asked, pointing to a suspicious folder — ’dev_recalibrationsQ3_v2’.

“It’s not one I authorized.”

“Yet it came from your department.”

“It did.”

“Then who accessed it?”

The man hesitated. Y/N didn’t blink. “I’ll save you the trouble,” she said, clicking again. “The IP address matches the defendant’s personal office system. And the login code was hardwired to his biometric key.”

Gasps.

“Would you still say you weren’t aware of any tampering?” she asked quietly. He swallowed. “No, ma’am.” Her face was emotionless as she turned back to the judge. “No further questions.”

Recess

Grey gave both Y/N and Jisung subtle nods of approval, but neither of them smiled. They weren’t talking. Not outside the courtroom. Not even in the prep room. They passed each other case files like strangers forced to cooperate. They presented united fronts like seasoned partners. But underneath?

It was a cold war.

Final Courtroom Verdict — Seoul District Court

Day Six, 3:45 PM

The courtroom was still. Not the kind of silence that came from boredom or fatigue, no, this one crackled. Anticipation hung heavy like fog, wrapping around every person in the room. Phones had been tucked away. The press wasn’t even live-tweeting anymore. Everyone was waiting. Jisung sat tall, his hands resting loosely on his lap. He didn’t look at Y/N. Not once. She looked straight ahead, lips barely parted, a pen clutched tightly in her right hand not writing, not fidgeting. Just holding. Her back was straight. Her jaw was steel.

The judge cleared his throat. “I have reviewed the evidence, testimonies, and expert analysis provided throughout this trial.”

A pause. “And while the defense attempted to establish a chain of miscommunication, this court finds that the fraud was deliberate, premeditated, and tied directly to Mr. Min Hyunsoo.”

A murmur swept through the gallery.

“I hereby rule in favor of the plaintiff, Daejin Tech.”

Boom. Just like that. Case closed. Grey let out the smallest exhale. A pleased smile tugged at the edge of his lips. “Well done,” he said under his breath. But his gaze wasn’t on Jisung. It was on Y/N.

They stood. They bowed. The courtroom emptied slowly, reluctantly — like no one really wanted to miss what came next.

But Y/N didn’t stay. She packed up her documents methodically, not bothering to make eye contact with anyone. The moment the courtroom cleared, she slipped into the hallway, heels echoing sharply against the marble floor. Her suit jacket clung perfectly, hair neat, gaze fixed forward.

Until,

“Y/N,” Jisung called from behind her.

She didn’t stop. Not until he caught up and stepped in front of her, blocking her path just outside the conference room doors. The hall was mostly empty, voices muffled behind glass and oak.

“I just—” He paused, jaw clenching. “I need to apologize. What I said that night, I wasn’t thinking—”

“Don’t.” Her voice was quiet but cutting. She looked up at him, not angry just… disappointed. Like she'd seen a side of him she wished she hadn’t.

“I shouldn’t have let myself get comfortable with you,” she said, slowly. “That was my mistake.”

Jisung’s mouth parted, but nothing came out.

“And I’m sorry for assuming I could be safe around you and still… be myself.” Her eyes dropped for just a second, then came back up, colder. “Won’t happen again.”

“YN/…” His brows furrowed, the guilt in his expression unmistakable. “Don’t do that.”

But she was already pulling herself back together. Tightening the line in her shoulders. Drawing the wall back up, brick by goddamn brick. “I’ll see you at work, sir,” she said, stepping past him.

That one word — sir — sliced clean and cruel. Not professional. Not respectful. Just distant.

And then she was gone. Leaving Jisung standing in the hall, stunned silent, holding onto an apology that had come too late.

---

The house smelled like warm rice and thyme-simmered chicken, that comforting kind of scent that wrapped around your bones and said you’re safe here. You sat at the edge of the couch, curled up under your mom’s old woven blanket. Your mother had already bombarded you with a second helping of food you didn’t ask for, and your dad had just settled beside her with a cold glass of malt.

“So,” her mom said gently, “how’d the case go?”

You exhaled slowly, letting your body sink into the soft curve of the couch. “We won,” you murmured, voice small but proud. Your mom grinned and reached out to squeeze her hand. “I’m so proud of you, baby. All those sleepless nights, hm?”

“Barely slept at all,” You chuckled softly. Your dad leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. “And this Jisung guy? Your supervisor?” Your lips tightened slightly. “He was… fine.”

“You say that like he set your desk on fire,” your mom said with a teasing smirk. You smiled faintly but didn’t elaborate. Just twisted the edge of the blanket between your fingers. Your dad raised a brow, the way he always did when he was scanning for more beneath the surface. “Something happen?”

There was a long pause before you gave a small nod. “He said something… personal. During a fight. It just… I don’t know. Hit too close.” Your mom’s eyes darkened slightly. “What did he say?”

“Nothing worth repeating,” you muttered.

Your dad studied you for a moment longer, then sat back with a deep sigh, that thoughtful dad sigh that only ever came before life advice that could level you. “You know,” he said slowly, “sometimes we say stupid things when we care too much and don’t know how to say it.”

You blinked. “He doesn’t care—”

“He does. That’s why he pissed you off so easily. And why you’re still hurt.” You looked at him then, eyes tired. He met your gaze with a small, knowing smile.

“I’ve said some cruel things to your mother before. Words that hurt deep, even if I didn’t mean them. Sometimes men get scared, or flustered, and instead of admitting it… we shoot. And the first thing in the line of fire is usually the person closest.”

Your mom nodded softly from beside you. “Forgiveness doesn’t make you weak, darling. It means you’re strong enough to love past someone’s worst day.” You exhaled through your nose, leaning your head on your dad’s shoulder. You didn’t say anything but the weight in your chest loosened just a little.

—

The office lights were dimmed to a low glow, but Jisung hadn’t moved. His suit jacket lay draped over the couch, his shirt sleeves rolled up, tie undone. He stared at the report on his desk, not really reading it. His fingers tapped mindlessly against the table.

There was no music. No celebration. Just silence and a gnawing ache behind his eyes.

He couldn’t stop replaying the way she said sir.

He’d earned that. He deserved that. But it still stung like hell. The door creaked open, and Grey strolled in with two takeaway cups in hand. “You’re still here?” he asked, incredulous. “Jesus, Sungie — we just won our most high-profile case this quarter.”

Jisung didn’t look up. Grey set one cup on his desk. “Why aren’t you home getting drunk and screaming into a karaoke mic with Changbin?”

Silence.

Grey’s gaze narrowed as he pulled up a chair. “This is about her, isn’t it?”

Still no answer. “I shouldn’t’ve made you supervise her,” Grey said eventually. “You hate team-ups. I knew that.” Jisung finally shifted, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s not it.” Grey’s brow lifted. “Then what is?”

Silence again but heavier this time. More telling.

Grey leaned back, mouth twitching. “You fought, didn’t you?”

Jisung didn’t confirm it, but he didn’t have to. Grey sighed, shaking his head. “She’s smart. And she keeps you on your toes. And she makes you care when you’re trying not to.”

“Grey…” Jisung muttered, tone low and warning.

“Don’t worry, I’m not gonna lecture you. I’m just saying, maybe don’t be a dumbass.” He stood, finishing his coffee. “Go home, Jisung. This office doesn’t need your brooding. And she sure as hell doesn’t need more silence from you.”

He clapped him on the shoulder once not hard, not playful. Just grounding. Then he walked out.

And Jisung sat alone again.

But this time… he picked up his phone. And he stared at her name. For a very, very long time.

…One Week Later…

The clack of heels against marble, the hum of printers, the sharp scent of espresso drifting from the break room work carried on like the world hadn’t cracked open just days ago.

Y/N walked in every morning exactly at 8:50. Not too early. Not too late. Her hair pinned neatly, makeup clean and sharp. Professional. Untouchable.

Jisung noticed. He always did. But he kept his eyes on his screen when she passed his office. He pretended not to glance up when her laugh rang out from across the hall quieter now, but still there.

They only spoke when absolutely necessary.

And those conversations?

Clinical. Precise.

Like cutting stitches with cold hands.

Jisung stepped in to the meeting room with a file in hand, the tie he forgot to tighten swinging slightly as he moved. Y/N was already seated at the end of the table, flipping through a document.

“Update on the Barlow merger,” she said without looking up.

He slid into the seat across from her. “I… yeah. I got your notes.” A pause. “They were good. Really… good.” She nodded, still not looking at him.

The silence stretched like plastic wrap thin and suffocating. Jisung tapped the corner of his folder. “YN, I—”

She turned a page.

He swallowed. “About last week—”

“Jisung,” she said gently but firmly, still not lifting her eyes. “Let’s keep it about work.”

He nodded. Slowly. The tightness in his chest returned like a tide. “Right. Just work.” He left first.

---

The doors slid open. She was already inside.

He hesitated just for a second. But it was enough. She saw it.

“Getting in?” she asked quietly.

He stepped in. They stood in opposite corners, the silence buzzing with everything unsaid. As the doors closed, he risked a glance. Her arms were crossed. Eyes forward.

“I didn’t mean it,” he muttered.

She blinked. “What?”

“That night,” he said, a little louder now. “What I said. I didn’t mean it. Any of it.”

Her eyes flicked to him, unreadable. “I know.” That should’ve been comforting.

But it wasn’t. “Then why won’t you look at me?” She exhaled. “Because I’m trying to keep my distance.”

The elevator dinged. She stepped out without turning back.

---

Grey glanced up from his desk when Jisung walked in looking like a man who’d just been hit with a lawsuit and a love confession at the same time.

“She talked to me,” Jisung said, tossing himself into a chair.

“Progress?”

“I think it was worse than silence.”

Grey hummed, closing his laptop. “You wanna know the worst kind of heartbreak?” Jisung rubbed his temple. “I already feel it, so go ahead.”

“When you realize they don’t hate you,” Grey said, “they just don’t trust you anymore.”

Jisung didn’t respond. Grey leaned back. “So, you’ve got two options. One — give up. Let her slip away because it’s easier than fighting. Or two — work your ass off to prove her heart’s safe with you again.”

Jisung looked up slowly. “And if she never gives me that chance?”

Grey cracked a small smile. “Then you better make damn sure she knows you would’ve taken it.”

---

The knock was soft, but firm.

Grey didn’t even look up from his screen. “Come in, Y/N.”

She pushed the door open, the crisp scent of bergamot tea and wood polish instantly familiar. The blinds were cracked just enough for the golden evening light to spill in, catching the silver in Grey’s cufflinks. “You wanted to see me?” she asked, stepping in and shutting the door behind her.

He finally looked up tired eyes, lips pursed, tie slightly loosened like he’d been too busy to care today. Or maybe, too weighed down.

“I hate doing this,” he muttered, leaning back in his chair. “Truly, passionately, hate it. But apparently, I’ve become the damn emotional chaperone in this firm.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “I’m sorry… for what, exactly?”

Grey rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You and Han Jisung. You haven’t spoken more than four sentences unless it’s about legal briefs or witness statements in two weeks. And that boy—” he paused, exhaling deeply, “—he’s not okay.” Her throat tightened just slightly, but she kept her face still. “We’re being professional.”

“You’re being frosty,” Grey deadpanned. “And he’s being distant because he thinks he deserves it. But the truth is, Y/N…” He paused. “He’s breaking. Quietly. Slowly. And I’ve only seen him like this once — first year. He tried so hard to prove himself and failed a case that cost an innocent man jail time. I walked into the office and he was just… sitting there in the dark.”

YN swallowed. She hated the visual of that, Jisung, the firecracker of their courtroom, looking that dim. That alone hurt.

“He hasn’t said anything,” she said carefully.

“Because he doesn’t know how to,” Grey said. “Because people like Jisung? They weren’t taught love like you were.”

She looked at him. Really looked.

Grey leaned forward. “His parents didn’t raise him with softness. His father only calls to scold or guilt-trip, and his mother left him to fight those battles alone. Every emotion he’s got, every ounce of passion or fear or pride, he channels into work because it’s the one place he can control. He doesn’t fall for people easily, YN. But when he does, it’s… heavy. Terrifying.”

“I didn’t know,” she whispered, heart twisting.

“Of course you didn’t,” Grey said gently. “He doesn’t let people know. But I do. I’ve seen it. I see it now. He’s in love with you, Y/N. Has been for a while.”

Her breath caught. She blinked. “No… he’s not. He’s just… regretful.”

“Regret doesn’t make someone stare at your desk like it’s a missing limb,” Grey said sharply. “Regret doesn’t make him pause at your office door and walk away ten times in a day. That’s love. Unsaid. Unshaped. But it’s there.”

She sat back in the chair, the leather cool against her skin as her mind tried to wrap around the weight of Grey’s words. The idea that Jisung — chaotic, brilliant, frustrating Jisung — loved her was something she hadn’t let herself entertain. Not really.

“You’re scared too,” Grey said quietly, watching her expression change. “But I’m telling you now… either talk to him, or you both keep walking around like ghosts. And you’ll regret it far more than that night.”

Y/N didn’t speak for a long time.

But when she left his office, her fingers hovered near her phone.

---

The quiet of your apartment felt louder than usual. No music. No background show running just for noise. Just the low hum of the fridge, and her pacing footsteps against the hardwood floor.

You stood by the window, your phone in hand, thumb hovering over Jisung’s contact like it weighed ten pounds. Grey’s words were still spinning in your head, colliding with the memory of Jisung’s tired eyes, his hands pausing at her office door, the things he never said.

You pressed Call before she could overthink it again. The phone didn’t even get to the second ring.

“Hello?” His voice came fast, sharp, almost breathless. “Y/N? Hey. Hi—are you okay? Did something happen? I—I was just—Are you okay?”

You blinked at the window, lips twitching despite herself. “Hey, Jisung.”

“Hey,” he breathed, like your voice hit him like air after drowning. There was a pause. Then he continued, voice softer, still a little shaky:

“Sorry. Sorry. I didn’t think you’d… I mean, I hoped you would. I just—God, it’s good to hear you.”

Your chest squeezed at that. “I just wanted to check on you,” you said gently. “How are you?”

Another pause. A breath.

“I’m okay. I mean—work’s fine. Everything’s… fine. I’m just—” He stopped himself, then laughed under his breath, awkward and raw. “I’ve been better.”

“Yeah,” you whispered, heart aching. “Me too.”

You could hear his breath slow just slightly, like the ice between them cracked not broken yet, but thinned. “I wanted to ask,” she continued, voice steady now, “if I could see you. Tomorrow. In your office. Just us. If that’s okay.”

Jisung didn’t even hesitate. “Yes,” he said immediately. Then softer. “Yeah. Please. Anytime. I’ll be there.”

“Okay,” she said, a tiny smile ghosting her lips. “Tomorrow, then.”

“Tomorrow.”

There was another silence, but this one was warm. Almost comforting. And when they hung up, both of them stared at their ceilings for a long, long time. Waiting. Ready to try again.

---

The sun had barely settled into the sky when you stood at the threshold of Jisung’s office, your heart thudding harder with every breath. You weren’t nervous at least, you told yourself you weren’t. You were just… bracing yourself. For a conversation overdue. For feelings neither of you had signed up for. Your hand hovered over the handle, fingers curling in, then releasing. The hallway was quiet at this hour. No distractions. No excuses. Just you, a closed door, and the man you hadn’t stopped thinking about.

You finally knocked, three soft taps. Polite. Almost unsure.

“Come in,” his voice called through almost instantly, like he’d been sitting there waiting.

When you opened the door, the first thing you noticed was how he looked up fast, like he’d been facing the door the whole time. His hair was a little messy, eyes tired but alert, like he hadn’t really slept even though it was a new day. His tie was loose. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up just enough to show his forearms.

Your heart did a little tumble you didn’t appreciate.

“Hey,” you said quietly, stepping in. He stood up halfway. “Hey.”

And for a second, neither of you knew what to say. It was like the air between you was stitched together with tension and apologies that couldn’t be said in passing. Jisung cleared his throat. “Do you want to sit?” he asked, nodding to the two chairs by the coffee table near his desk. The sunlight was spilling in through the blinds, casting soft stripes of light over everything. You nodded and took a seat, smoothing down your skirt. He sat across from her, elbows on his knees, like he was ready to leap forward—or run.

“I wanted to talk,” you started, eyes locked on him.

“I know,” he said quickly. “I mean—I’m glad you did. I’ve been trying to figure out how to…” He trailed off, sighed, then ran a hand through his hair. “God, I’ve messed things up, haven’t I?”

“Not entirely,” you said softly. He looked up at you like that single sentence kept him from drowning. You licked your lips. “I talked to Grey.”

His brow lifted slightly. “Oh.”

“He told me things. About you. About how you grew up. About how… hard it is for you to get close to people.” Jisung shifted. The slight flinch in his posture wasn’t lost on you. “I didn’t come here to push you,” you said gently. “I came here because I needed to hear you. Not your file. Not Grey. You.”

He exhaled, almost crumbling.

“You scare me,” he muttered suddenly.

You blinked. “What?”

“You do. You walk in like you’re on fire and you don’t even notice the way the room bends around you. You don’t flinch when I’m cold. You challenge me. You see through me like no one ever has and I—I hate it because it’s terrifying and I love it because it’s you.”

You sat frozen for a breath. Then another. Your lips parted, stunned. “I didn’t mean what I said that night,” he said, voice lower now. “I knew I crossed the line the second I saw your face fall. I’ve been trying to figure out how to say I’m sorry ever since.”

You nodded once. “You did hurt me.”

“I know.”

“But I also didn’t let you explain.” Jisung stared at you for a long time, then whispered, “You didn’t deserve any of it.”

“I know,” she said back. Another moment passed. And then you reached for the coffee cup sitting cold on the table between them, lifted it to your lips, and made a face. “Jesus. How long has this been sitting here?”

He huffed a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Don’t drink that.”

“So, we agree it’s toxic waste?”

He nodded. “100%.” A beat. Then she smiled barely. But it was there. And Jisung? He smiled too, but his was full, slow, blooming like it had been dying to stretch across his face again.

“I still owe you lunch,” he said.

“And I still owe you a win,” youreplied.

They weren’t fixed. But they were trying.

Han Jisung’s hands have never felt so useless. He’d just begun to feel like the ground beneath them was leveling out, like he could speak to you again without hating himself. And then you had to look at him like that, half-curious, half-devilish. Like you were planning something dangerous, and he was helpless to stop it.

You sat forward, your eyes locked on him, voice honeyed but sharp.

“So… why didn’t you tell me?” you asked casually, like you weren’t about to unravel him.

Jisung blinked. “Tell you what?”

“That you have feelings for me.” His brain blue-screened. Full-on system failure. “I—uh—w-what? Feelings? Me?” You tilted your head, clearly amused. “Grey sort of told me yesterday.”

“Grey told—?!” he choked. “That—traitor—”

“Why didn’t you just say something?” you asked again, eyes twinkling. He fidgeted in his seat like it was suddenly too small for him. “Because! You’re—you. And I’m me. And this wasn’t supposed to happen. I’m your—supervisor,” he stressed, as if that helped.

“That never stopped you from bossing me around in meetings,” you teased.

He groaned. “Don’t say it like that, I already feel like I’ve committed emotional HR violations.” You leaned back, lips pressing together to hide your laugh. And then, slowly, you stood. Jisung watched you, wary. “What are you doing?”

You circled his desk like a cat, stopping behind his chair. “Wait,” you said, a grin tugging at your lips, “are you flustered right now?”

“I’m not—!” he squeaked, voice cracking slightly. “I am composed, thank you.”

“Flustered. About me,” you sang, enjoying this far too much. “Han Jisung has a crush on his intern…”

“You’re impossible,” he muttered under his breath, cheeks flushing even deeper.

“As if you aren’t too,” he shot back suddenly, the words slipping out before he could stop them. And it hit you like a slap of heat. Your smile faltered for half a second. You blinked. “What did you just say?”

Jisung’s lips parted, like he wanted to take it back but he didn’t. His eyes flickered to yours, wide and honest.

“Don’t act like it’s just me.”

A silence fell between them, heavy and buzzing. And then—God help them both—you leaned forward, bracing your hands on the arms of his chair. Close enough to see the stubble on his jaw. Close enough to feel his breath hitch.

You tilted your head. “You talk too much.”

Then, without warning, you kissed him.

Soft. Bold. Quick. But the second your lips pressed to his, your brain short-circuited with a thousand alarms. What did I just do? Your heart slammed against your ribs, panic bubbling up before you even pulled back.

“I—” you breathed, stepping back fast, “I shouldn’t have—”

But you didn’t get the chance to finish. Jisung was already out of his chair. And then his hands were on your waist, pulling you in, and his lips were back on yours, urgent this time. Messy. Real. Like he’d been waiting for this moment since the first time you argued with him.

You melted into it until you were both breathless and laughing against each other’s mouths.

“You totally overstepped,” he whispered, grinning. You rolled her eyes. “You literally chased me.” He smirked, still breathless. “And I’d do it again.”

One kiss turned into two. Then three. Then neither of you could remember who started what anymore. Jisung’s hands were frantic, like he couldn’t decide where to touch you first. Your waist? Your jaw? Your hips? He settled for all of them, one after the other, pulling you impossibly closer between kisses that left you both gasping.

You weren’t helping—at all. You were smirking against his lips, fingers sliding under the collar of his shirt as you murmured, “You know, for someone so professional in meetings… you’re kinda desperate right now.” Jisung pulled back just enough to look at you, mouth parted in shock. “Wh—” His voice cracked. “That’s not fair—!”

“Awww,” you teased, dragging your finger down the center of his chest, “did I hurt your feelings?”

“Yes!” he whined, genuinely, breath stuttering. “Why are you bullying me right now?”

“Because you’re easy,” you grinned, grabbing the end of his tie and giving it a little tug. “And cute when you pout.” Jisung muttered something incoherent—probably a curse—before he gave up entirely and kissed you again, this time deeper, one hand firm at the small of your back while the other traveled down, fingers skimming the edge of her thighs. You let out a sharp inhale when he hoisted you up onto his desk like you weighed nothing. Papers crumpled beneath you, a pen went clattering to the floor, and you couldn’t bring yourself to care because his hands God, his hands were trailing up your legs with reverence and want all rolled into one shaky exhale.

He was looking at you like he didn’t know whether to worship you or unravel you.

“You’re trouble,” he whispered against her skin.

“I learned from the best,” you shot back, already popping open the first button of his shirt. “Mr. Han.”

“Oh my God—” He was dizzy. Fully, utterly gone for you. His tie was undone, shirt halfway open, and your lips were ghosting along the edge of his collarbone like you wanted to memorize the taste of him.

And then—

RIIINGGGG—!!

The desk phone blared.

The two of you froze.

Jisung groaned. “No. No, no, no.” You snorted, forehead falling to his shoulder in disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I’m about to unplug that thing for life,” he mumbled into your neck. “Shouldn’t you pick it up?” you teased.

“I should sue it for emotional damage.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“You kissed me and now I’m ruined—of course I’m dramatic!”

The phone kept ringing. Reluctantly, breath still uneven, Jisung reached around you for the receiver, muttering a soft, “Don’t move,” like you were going to evaporate if he looked away for too long. He cleared his throat before answering voice still wrecked, like he’d just sprinted up a dozen flights of stairs.

“Y-Yeah, Han speaking…”

There was a pause. You watched his expression shift from annoyed to concerned, his brows furrowing, jaw tightening.

“Mhm. Okay—okay. Yeah. I’ll be right there.”

He hung up and sighed like he just aged ten years in thirty seconds. You tilted your head. “That didn’t sound like a lunch reservation.” Jisung winced. “It’s not. That was about the Parker brief—something blew up with the client and I need to help clean it before it spirals. They’re asking for me personally.”

He stepped closer, brushing your hair back gently. “I swear to God, if I didn’t have to go—”

“You’d what?” you teased, lips quirking. He grinned, leaning in to kiss you one more time, slow and deliberate. “I’d definitely get fired.”

You laughed against his mouth and pulled back. “So dramatic.”

“I mean it,” he said, his tone suddenly sincere. “But I am going to make it up to you tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“Dinner. Just you and me. No work. No Grey. No emergencies. Just us.” Your brows raised. “Is this a bribe, Mr. Han?”

“This is me asking you on a date, finally,” he said, smirking. “And lowkey bribing you.”

“You’re lucky I like food,” you said, hopping off the desk as he helped her down. “Lucky you like me,” he mumbled under his breath.

You caught that. You both smiled. As you adjusted your blouse and smoothed your skirt, you stepped over to him and fixed his tie with practiced ease, eyes focused on the knot like it was the most delicate task in the world. Then you slid a finger down the center of his shirt, giving one button an extra pat.

“There,” you murmured. “Ready for war.”

“I was gonna say court,” he chuckled, “but same energy.” You turned to leave, heels clicking against the polished floor. And of course, his eyes dropped immediately to your hips. And stayed there. Shamelessly. You didn’t even have to look back to know. You paused at the door, turned slowly, and caught him red-handed, gaze glued to you like he was trying to memorize every step you took.

“So, you were staring,” you said, one brow arched in challenge.

Jisung blinked, caught like a guilty puppy. “I—I was just—I mean, technically, you’re walking in my office so it’s my job to supervise…”

“Supervise my ass?” He grinned. “Exactly.”

“God, you’re insufferable.”

“And yet, you’re still showing up for dinner.”

“Only because I want dessert.”

“Ohhh my God.”

You winked and walked out, leaving Jisung running a hand through his hair, muttering, “She’s gonna destroy me,” with the biggest lovestruck smile on his face.

Waw....our flustered boy always comes out in the end huh? 🥰

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[itsnesss]

𝐚𝐥𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐞 | lando norris × fem!reader

summary | you try to stay professional, but every glance from lando makes it harder to ignore what’s between you—especially now that the world is starting to notice too

warnings | slow burn, mutual pining, workplace tension, flirting with the line between professional and personal, angst, romantic buildup

word count | 2.0 k

🖇️ more ln4 🖇️ f1 masterlist

Working in Formula 1 had always been a clear goal. You had achieved it. Not as an engineer, nor as a mechanic. Not as a journalist or promoter. Your role was more complicated: to be the manager of one of the most popular, talented, and temperamental drivers on the current grid: Lando Norris.

You knew from the start it wouldn’t be easy. His history with previous managers was shorter than a qualifying lap. But you accepted the challenge. You studied him. His races, his interviews, his social media. You knew how his competitive mind worked, how he dealt with his sharp humor and that arrogant smile he used as a shield.

What you didn’t expect was that first encounter.

He greeted you in the private hospitality room, phone in hand, feet on the table. He didn’t even bother to stand up.

“Are you the new one?” he asked without looking up.

“The new one who will probably last more than three weeks, yes,” you responded, confident, firm.

That was the first time he looked at you. His eyebrows raised in interest and surprise. The analysis was quick, calculating.

“We’ll see,” he said, slowly lowering his feet.

The first few days were a trial by fire. Every plan you proposed, he twisted. Every interview you scheduled, he answered with sarcasm or showed up late. It was clear he enjoyed testing your limits. He wanted to see when you’d break.

But you didn’t.

One night, after an especially tense meeting with sponsors, you confronted him directly. Not in an aggressive tone, but with enough firmness to catch him off guard.

“If you’re looking for me to give up, you’ll be waiting a long time. I didn’t come here to beg you. I’m here to help you do your job better. If you’re not interested, just tell me now, and I’ll leave you to sabotage yourself.”

He held your gaze. Something tensed in his jaw, but he didn’t say anything. He just nodded and turned his back. That night, however, he responded to your email with the corrected schedule. The next morning, he showed up on time.

And that was the beginning of something different.

As the weeks went by, the dynamic changed. He didn’t become friendly, at least not immediately. But he started listening to you. He began to share details with you that he didn’t share with anyone. The type of tires he felt most insecure about. His discomfort with the team’s simulator. The anxiety before a rainy qualifying.

It was like he was slowly taking off his armor. Not completely, but just enough to let you in. Not much. Just a little.

Then came Austria.

The weekend had been tough since Friday. Balance issues, strategy errors, and he was on the verge of emotional collapse. After failing to make it out of Q2, he locked himself in his paddock room. No one dared speak to him. No one, except you.

You walked in without asking for permission.

“Don’t come here with a motivational speech, please,” he grumbled without looking at you.

“I didn’t come for that,” you replied, throwing him a bottle of water. “I came to tell you that tomorrow you have interviews starting at 8:30. If you don’t show up, I’ll make sure they wake you up with a siren in your room.”

He turned slowly, with a half-smile that was tired.

“You’re more ruthless than my engineer.”

“Because he only has to deal with you on the track. I deal with you everywhere.”

And for the first time, he laughed. A real laugh. Short, dry… but sincere.

It was the first time you saw him as human.

The races continued, and with them, the routine that you had already memorized: waking up early, meetings with sponsors, managing interviews, checking social media, dealing with journalists, handling complaints from the technical team, and, of course, keeping Lando focused. Or as focused as Lando could be.

It wasn’t easy. Sometimes, it was exhausting.

But you had earned his respect.

And more than that.

It was subtle. He never said it directly, but you could feel it. In the way he listened to your advice without arguing. In how he waited for your reactions every time he made a joke in front of the cameras. In the way that, even though he had an entire communication team at his disposal, he only responded to you in messages.

One night in Japan, after a long day of testing, you found him sitting alone in the simulation room. The bluish light from the monitor illuminated his face, his jaw tense, his eyes tired.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you said, leaning against the doorframe.

“Neither should you,” he replied, not moving.

“I have an excuse. They pay me to make you work fewer hours.”

“And you still don’t manage to.”

You approached and sat down next to him. Silence settled between you two, comfortable. The kind of silence that wasn’t awkward, but necessary.

“I can’t lose again,” he murmured, almost to himself.

You looked at him. It wasn’t arrogance. It wasn’t external pressure. It was personal. It was that need to prove he could. That he deserved to be where he was.

“You’re not going to lose,” you said softly.

He turned his head to look at you, with that intense gaze you knew so well. He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t joking. He was just looking at you as if you were the only steady thing in his world that was spinning too fast.

“How do you know?”

“Because I can’t afford to lose either,” you replied.

A moment. Just that. A slightly longer blink. A slower breath. His fingers brushed against yours, by accident. Or maybe not. But neither of you pulled away.

Then, he stood up. Grabbed his jacket. Looked at you again.

“Come to the box tomorrow morning. I want to go over the sprint laps with you.”

“You trust my technical opinion that much now?”

He smiled. Tired, but genuine.

“I trust you, period.”

And he left.

After that, something changed. Not radically. But it was there. In the way he looked for you with his eyes as soon as he got out of the car. In how he defended you in front of the bosses when they criticized your methods. In the way you no longer just worked… but shared things. Opinions, jokes, silences. All with that underlying tension neither of you dared mention.

One day, in the Zandvoort paddock, a photographer from the team took a picture of you while you adjusted his cap before he went to an interview. It was nothing. Just a simple image.

But when it was published, the comments didn't take long to appear.

“New romance at McLaren?”

“The chemistry between Lando and his manager is undeniable.”

“Is it just us, or does that look say more than it should?”

You saw it at the end of the day. He had already seen it too. And he was waiting for you, leaning against the courtesy car, arms crossed.

“Did you read the comments too?” he asked, as if it didn’t matter.

“Yes. But I’m more interested in knowing if you’re going to go out and deny them,” you said, keeping your professional tone.

“And what if I don’t want to?”

The silence returned. This time, it wasn’t comfortable. It was sharp, tense, full of possibilities.

“It wouldn’t be smart,” you replied in the end. “You know what a mistake like that could cost us.”

Lando lowered his gaze. Then he nodded.

“Fine. I’ll do it tomorrow. As always, you’re right.”

But before getting into the car, he stopped and looked at you again.

“What if it wasn’t a mistake?”

And he left.

And you... were left frozen.

The Italian Grand Prix came in the midst of a wave of chaos. The teams were scrambling to adjust the cars after a disastrous practice session, and the atmosphere in the paddock was electric. The glances passed quickly, the mechanics were working frantically, and Lando… Lando was in his world, focused on the only thing that mattered to him: making the car perfect.

But you couldn’t stop thinking about what he had said. About what he hadn’t said. That question, thrown without intention, but with weight.

“What if it wasn’t a mistake?”

The answer still floated between the two of you. You didn’t name it. You didn’t mention it. But it was there.

In the briefing, Lando kept joking with his engineer, as if nothing had changed. But every time his eyes met yours, there was something else. Something you didn’t know how to handle. As if the air was charged with electricity, and both of you were trying not to touch.

After qualifying, there was no denying what was between you anymore. It had been his first podium of the season. The car had been perfectly tuned thanks to your work, and the post-race interviews were a mix of euphoria and exhaustion.

When it was all over, you found him in the hospitality, drinking water, tired but satisfied.

“Are you going to sleep, or keep joking about strategy on social media?” you asked, crossing your arms.

He looked at you with a tired smile. The same smile he only showed when he was genuinely relaxed, without the façade of a driver.

“Probably both.” He approached slowly, as if he couldn’t help it. “What about you? Are you going to keep doing last-minute corrections or take some time to rest?”

You turned away, not knowing how to respond. The closeness between you two wasn’t uncomfortable anymore, but it wasn’t comfortable either. It was friction, a tension that had become so natural that neither of you knew how to let go of it.

“The last thing I need is rest,” you said without looking at him. “I have to review all the race data.”

“Why do you keep taking on more work than necessary?” he asked softly, stepping a little closer. “If someone sees you, they’ll think it’s you who’s racing.”

You didn’t know if it was a joke or a truth disguised as humor, but the tone in which he said it made you fall silent. Lando, in his entirety, was seeing beyond the surface.

At that moment, one of the mechanics passed by the hallway, calling his attention. He turned, gave you one last look, and said:

“I’ll see you later, okay? I need to go over a few things with the team.”

When he left, you couldn’t help but let out a sigh. It was hard to find the balance between the professional and what you were feeling. Every interaction, every word, felt loaded with more than what was at stake.

The night came with more tension than you expected. Although the lights in the paddock were already turning off, you were still working on your laptop, adjusting the last details for sponsor presentations. There was a lot of work to do.

Suddenly, you heard a soft knock on the door.

It was him. Lando.

“Can I steal a minute?” he asked, half leaning against the doorframe, hands in the pockets of his jacket.

You looked at him. It wasn’t that you were expecting him. But at the same time, you were. You knew he couldn’t stay away from something he didn’t know how to handle for long.

“Sure,” you replied, without taking your eyes off the screen. You didn’t want him to think you were waiting for him.

He walked slowly and leaned on the table in front of you. He didn’t say anything for a second, just watched the rhythm of your fingers on the keyboard.

“Are you sure everything’s okay?” he asked casually, but there was something in his voice. Something that made you look at him.

“Everything’s fine,” you answered, keeping your voice neutral.

“Don’t lie to me,” he said, this time with more intensity. The look he gave you was deeper, more unsettling. “I know when something’s wrong. And I’m not stupid, I know what happened in Italy. What you told me.”

You fell silent, staring at the screen but seeing nothing. You couldn’t look into his eyes now, because if you did, you knew that what both of you had been avoiding would come to light.

“It doesn’t matter,” you replied, finally. Your voice sounded firmer than you felt.

He leaned forward, eyes locked on you. That same intensity as before.

“I can’t ignore it. I don’t want to ignore it.”

You finally looked at him, and there he was, closer than ever. No more words were needed. None were necessary.

The answer, it seemed, was in the gestures. In the accidental brushing of his hand on the table. In the closeness that neither of you knew how to avoid anymore.

The door clicked softly as Lando left the room.

But in that brief moment, you knew things had changed. They had stopped being what they were. The line you had been maintaining was gone. You didn’t know what to do with this new reality. But you couldn’t deny it either.

[dandelionsresilience]

Good News - July 22-28

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1. Four new cheetah cubs born in Saudi Arabia after 40 years of extinction

“[T]he discovery of mummified cheetahs in caves […] which ranged in age from 4,000 to as recent as 120 years, proved that the animals […] once called [Saudi Arabia] home. The realisation kick-started the country’s Cheetah Conservation Program to bring back the cats to their historic Arabian range. […] Dr Mohammed Qurban, CEO of the NCW, said: […] “This motivates us to continue our efforts to restore and reintroduce cheetahs, guided by an integrated strategy designed in accordance with best international practices.””

2. In sub-Saharan Africa, ‘forgotten’ foods could boost climate resilience, nutrition

“[A study published in PNAS] examined “forgotten” crops that may help make sub-Saharan food systems more resilient, and more nutritious, as climate change makes it harder to grow [current staple crops.] [… The study identified 138 indigenous] food crops that were “relatively underresearched, underutilized, or underpromoted in an African context,” but which have the nutrient content and growing stability to support healthy diets and local economies in the region. […] In Eswatini, van Zonneveld and the World Vegetable Center are working with schools to introduce hardy, underutilized vegetables to their gardens, which have typically only grown beans and maize.”

3. Here's how $4 billion in government money is being spent to reduce climate pollution

“[New Orleans was awarded] nearly $50 million to help pay for installing solar on low to middle income homes [… and] plans to green up underserved areas with trees and build out its lackluster bike lane system to provide an alternative to cars. […] In Utah, $75 million will fund several measures from expanding electric vehicles to reducing methane emissions from oil and gas production. [… A] coalition of states led by North Carolina will look to store carbon in lands used for agriculture as well as natural places like wetlands, with more than $400 million. [… This funding is] “providing investments in communities, new jobs, cost savings for everyday Americans, improved air quality, … better health outcomes.””

4. From doom scrolling to hope scrolling: this week’s big Democratic vibe shift

“[Democrats] have been on an emotional rollercoaster for the past few weeks: from grim determination as Biden fought to hang on to his push for a second term, to outright exuberance after he stepped aside and Harris launched her campaign. […] In less than a week, the Harris campaign raised record-breaking sums and signed up more than 100,000 new volunteers[….] This honeymoon phase will end, said Democratic strategist Guy Cecil, warning the election will be a close race, despite this newfound exuberance in his party. [… But v]oters are saying they are excited to vote for Harris and not just against Trump. That’s new.”

5. Biodegradable luminescent polymers show promise for reducing electronic waste

“[A team of scientists discovered that a certain] chemical enables the recycling of [luminescent polymers] while maintaining high light-emitting functions. […] At the end of life, this new polymer can be degraded under either mild acidic conditions (near the pH of stomach acid) or relatively low heat treatment (> 410 F). The resulting materials can be isolated and remade into new materials for future applications. […] The researchers predict this new polymer can be applied to existing technologies, such as displays and medical imaging, and enable new applications […] such as cell phones and computer screens with continued testing.”

6. World’s Biggest Dam Removal Project to Open 420 Miles of Salmon Habitat this Fall

“Reconnecting the river will help salmon and steelhead populations survive a warming climate and [natural disasters….] In the long term, dam removal will significantly improve water quality in the Klamath. “Algae problems in the reservoirs behind the dams were so bad that the water was dangerous for contact […] and not drinkable,” says Fluvial Geomorphologist Brian Cluer. [… The project] will begin to reverse decades of habitat degradation, allow threatened salmon species to be resilient in the face of climate change, and restore tribal connections to their traditional food source.”

7. Biden-Harris Administration Awards $45.1 Million to Expand Mental Health and Substance Use Services Across the Lifespan

““Be it fostering wellness in young people, caring for the unhoused, facilitating treatment and more, this funding directly supports the needs of our neighbors,” said HHS Secretary Xavier Becerra. [The funding also supports] recovery and reentry services to adults in the criminal justice system who have a substance use disorder[… and clinics which] serve anyone who asks for help for mental health or substance use, regardless of their ability to pay.”

8. The World’s Rarest Crow Will Soon Fly Free on Maui

“[… In] the latest attempt to establish a wild crow population, biologists will investigate if this species can thrive on Maui, an island where it may have never lived before. Translocations outside of a species’ known historical range are rare in conservation work, but for a bird on the brink of extinction, it’s a necessary experiment: Scientists believe the crows will be safer from predators in a new locale—a main reason that past reintroduction attempts failed. […] As the release date approaches, the crows have already undergone extensive preparation for life in the wild. […] “We try to give them the respect that you would give if you were caring for someone’s elder.””

9. An optimist’s guide to the EV battery mining challenge

““Battery minerals have a tremendous benefit over oil, and that’s that you can reuse them.” [… T]he report’s authors found there’s evidence to suggest that [improvements in technology] and recycling have already helped limit demand for battery minerals in spite of this rapid growth — and that further improvements can reduce it even more. [… They] envision a scenario in which new mining for battery materials can basically stop by 2050, as battery recycling meets demand. In this fully realized circular battery economy, the world must extract a total of 125 million tons of battery minerals — a sum that, while hefty, is actually 17 times smaller than the oil currently harvested every year to fuel road transport.”

10. Peekaboo! A baby tree kangaroo debuts at the Bronx Zoo

“The tiny Matschie’s tree kangaroo […] was the third of its kind born at the Bronx Zoo since 2008. [… A] Bronx Zoo spokesperson said that the kangaroo's birth was significant for the network of zoos that aims to preserve genetic diversity among endangered animals. "It's a small population and because of that births are not very common," said Jessica Moody, curator of primates and small mammals at the Bronx Zoo[, …] adding that baby tree kangaroos are “possibly one of the cutest animals to have ever lived. They look like stuffed animals, it's amazing.””

July 15-21 news here | (all credit for images and written material can be found at the source linked; I don’t claim credit for anything but curating.)

[searchingforserendipity25]

exorcising my list of unwritten conclave concepts from a few weeks ago i haven't written much since, in case the list is all there ends up coming out of it or anyone wants to welcome any of them into a good home:

cardinal lawrence and sister agnes won each other’s respect and trust during ratzinger’s papacy (liberals who leak church scandals to the justice system and the press stick together). everyone lowkey thinks they are having an affair. they are not, but they do keep sneaking into corners to gossip during the conclave. leaning fully into the reading of sister agnes as the late pope’s intelligence expert. incredibly jaded vatican spy. aldo is not jealous. benitez finds lawrence with the yellow canary eating from his hand and going back to his side after short flights, and has a number of franciscan emotions about it. the whole thing would ideally be about their friendship, different views and thoughts on power, what it looks like, what it ought to look like. responsibility, and doubt. also: how horrible it is the only non smokers in an european workplace.

(does this change anything materially? possibly the adeyemi and trembley situation is revealed much sooner with lawrence and sister agnes working together earlier and sharing intel, which in its turn makes him seem more competent and aggressive in taking down competitors, ergo more votes, ergo more influence? maybe bellini supports him more overtly earlier idk.) 

cardinal lawrence is dead. as a matter of fact, cardinal lawrence has been dead for a few days after the pope dies; unlike the pope, he keeps coming back to do his job. the curia covers up his death, because the dean of the college of cardinals is a ghost who apparently hated his job enough that is it his very literal purgatory is both hard to explain, and bad for the press. the fate of his unliving soul is very much at risk when steering the conclave, which is, uh, fun. cardinal tedesco's vape smoke now strongly smells of sulfur to him, which is probably not satanic in origin but then again might be. people keep voting on him and their belief in him corresponds directly to how much he can interact with the world, which is a very straightforward way to test one’s moral limits and otherwise a great torment. the one silver lining is that he can walk through walls and scoop out corrupt dealing easily, and no one can really tell he is dead. well, barely anyone. cardinal benítez and his ability to walk easily between the liminal spaces and certainties of the world is an outlier, and should not be counted.

dean lawrence keeps getting kidnapped, poisoned, blackmailed and otherwise threatened. this is an unfortunate if occasional part of being the vatican’s manager of two increasingly liberal and unorthodox papacies. it is considerably less fine and unfortunately far too normal for innocent xiv, who has a non-zero number of experiences with friends being kidnapped, poisoned, blackmailed and otherwise threatened. 

bellini/lawrence full on established relationship nonsense. as in, they have been together for thirty years and counting. conclave rewrite?? 

innocent xiv’s phone messages get leaked. innocent xiv’s phone messages consist of selfies with turtles sent to various friends and family, a good deal of memes in the santa marta groupchat, and daily jokes, complaints and affectionate messages to dean lawrence. the media has thoughts. aldo bellini, newly in charge of the papal media strategy, also has thoughts. and prayers.

a glimpse at all the people that Did vote for benítez from the start, and how much his work is or is not known outside the hermetic sphere of the vatican. he's kind of famous in religious activist circle probably! he has fans! he has a wide network of people he regularly approaches for information, resources, mutual aid and donations to his clinics and dioceses! he keeps dropping insane facts about horrifying personal experiences with unnerving serenity!

vincent benítez soft doms cardinal lawrence into taking a rest during the conclave. this incidents turns into a habit and gains new dimensions, as per the forthcoming changes in job status

pope john has an ongoing crisis of faith and also a gigantic imposter's syndrome. unrelatedly, pope john would really really really rather vincent benítez did not die in kabul and/or cause a diplomatic disaster. how convenient, then, that he is now a benevolent religious dictator who can arrange (read: wholesale invent) a number of postings and duties only benítez can accomplish. if anyone ask, this is a long-delayed move on part o the church to develop a deeper connection to on-the-ground aid organization. this can’t possibly last forever, though, can it? 

friar lawrence has shed all politics and chosen an abbey who keeps a vow of silence. friar lawrence is genuinely having a lovely time of things in his little abbey post canon. for like, uh, two months? friar lawrence keeps accidentally gaining more and more influence. manager-guy who cannot not manage. six months in he’s in charge of shelters and social associations. one year on, and he’d be archbishop again, if he were not aggressively trying to clamber down the church hierarchical rung. his friend, innocent xiv, who went from being a non-entity to one of the most famous men in the world, is sympathetic but also thinks this is very very funny. epistolary fic?? email epistolary? there is a little cat in a friar's habit and this is the most important part.

possibly related: cardinal lawrence comes back from his enforced sabbatical in a peaceful retreat freckled, healthier and smiling. people have thoughts on this, and emotions also. 

turtle pov of benitez/lawrence. literally: turtle pov. is the turtle an angel?? unclear if the turtle is an angel.

cardinal tedesco must die au.