Chapter Text
All the heat began at EN& Group, a high-end F&B conglomerate known for turning historic buildings into avant-garde dining experiences. EN& Group isn't just a company; it is the undisputed titan of the global luxury lifestyle industry.
EN& Group’s motto is“Experience is the only Currency”
They don’t just open restaurants; they create "Atmospheric Anchors" for cities. If an EN& Group establishment opens in a neighborhood, property values rise, and the waiting list is three months long before the doors even unlock.
And the group's core is split into two warring internal factions.
The Aesthetes led by Nicholas Wang. Consists of architects, stylists, and floral designers. They believe a dining is a gallery where food happens to be served. They are flamboyant, expensive, and temperamental.
The Engineers led by Byun Euijoo. Consists of logistics experts, sommeliers, and floor managers. They believe a dining is a high-performance engine. They are precise, disciplined, and obsessed with the Bottom Line.
Located in the heart of the city’s financial district, the EN& Group HQ is a 50-story glass monolith.
Floor 40—The Creative Floor. Smells like expensive sandalwood incense. Mood boards cover every wall. Nicholas’s office is at the end of the hall—all glass, looking down on the city like a throne room.
Floor 38—The Operations Floor. Smells like fresh espresso and ozone. The walls are covered in digital monitors tracking real-time inventory and staff performance. Euijoo’s office is open-concept, sitting right in the middle of his team, symbolizing his role as the Anchor.
Every EN& Group project has a specific DNA.
They love pairing "High" and "Low" (e.g., a fine-dining truffle bar inside a renovated subway station). The Staff Uniform designed by Nicholas, the staff wear minimalist, charcoal-grey tailored suits. Euijoo ensures they are made of stain-resistant, breathable fabric so the servers don’t pass out during a 12-hour shift.
Nicholas is the Head of Creative Concept, handling the interior architecture and visual branding. He is the man who decides the "soul" of a space. He picks the velvet for the booths, the precise Kelvin of the lighting, and the dress code for the staff.
Known as the High-Fashion Ice King. Co-workers admire his flawless style—he treats the office hallway like a Parisian runway—but they fear his critique. He doesn’t give feedback; he performs surgery on bad ideas. He is efficient, intimidatingly strong-willed, and carries a heavy, silent aura during the day.
As a person, he is polished, minimalist, and strictly professional. If a flower is out of place in a lobby, he’ll notice it before he even says "Good morning."
Euijoo is the Operations Team Leader, handling the operations and human capital. He is the man who makes the "soul" actually function. He manages the budgets, the supply chains, and the 200+ employees across five locations.
Known as the Golden Anchor. He is beloved for his calm, mature demeanor. While Nicholas is the storm, Euijoo is the harbor. He is the person everyone goes to when a crisis hits because he never raises his voice and always has a logical solution. He is neat, punctual, and seemingly unflappable.
As a person, he is the perfect gentleman. Soft-spoken but firm, with a "Team First" mentality that makes him the most respected leader in the building.
.
The big challenge is the company's success rests on these two pillars that refuse to stand in the same room for more than ten minutes.
The company is currently working on its biggest gamble yet; "The Sermon." It is a multi-level concept.
The Nave (Day). A bright, high-ceilinged cafe and bistro managed by Euijoo.
The Confessional (Night). A dark, velvet-heavy cocktail lounge designed by Nicholas.
The rivalry is at an all-time high because The Nave and The Confessional share a single glass wall. Nicholas wants the wall to be a one-way mirror so the drinkers can see the boring daytime people, while Euijoo thinks the reflection will ruin the morning coffee experience for his corporate clients.
The junior staff at EN& Group have a betting pool called the "Ice-Golden Ratio."
They bet on how many minutes Nicholas can talk about the emotional resonance of a chair before Euijoo interrupts with the cost-per-unit of said chair.
The current record is 4 minutes and 12 seconds.
.
The "Sermon Project" meetings have become the stuff of legend at EN& Group—mostly because they are less about business and more about psychological warfare. For the interns and subordinates caught in the crossfire, the 40th-floor elevator ride down to the 35th-floor general conference room is the most stressful three minutes of their day.
Nicholas’s subordinates are easily spotted; they are the most well-dressed, most caffeinated, and most terrified people in the building.
They carry fabric swatches like holy relics. If Nicholas scoffs at a shade of Midnight Blue, they immediately delete it from their existence. They stand behind Nicholas, trying to look as high-fashion as possible while avoiding eye contact with the Operations team. They’ve learned that if they breathe too loudly, Nicholas might critique their auditory aesthetic.
Their Internal Motto is "Style over Substance, but please don't let Team Leader Euijoo see the bill."
In contrast, Euijoo’s team is the backbone of the company—practical, exhausted, and incredibly loyal to their Golden Leader.
They carry clipboards and tablets with red-and-green spreadsheets. They are the ones who have to explain to Nicholas that a gravity-defying chandelier isn't covered by the insurance policy. They stand in a protective formation around Euijoo. They admire how he remains calm while Nicholas is throwing a creative tantrum about the texture of the napkins.
Their Internal Motto is "Logic over Luxury, because someone has to pay the taxes."
.
The meeting for The Sermon just ended. Nicholas wanted the Confessional lounge to be entirely candle-lit. Euijoo pointed out that the smoke would ruin the $50,000 air filtration system in The Nave cafe.
The elevator ride after the meeting is breath-taking. Nicholas stands at the very front, staring at his own reflection in the polished chrome doors. He’s wearing a sheer black turtleneck and leather blazer. He looks like he’s about to start a cult. He says nothing, but the way he taps his rings against his phone sounds like a ticking time bomb.
Euijoo stands directly behind him, perfectly centered. His suit is un-creased, his hair is immaculate, and he is calmly scrolling through a logistical report. He is the picture of professional peace, which everyone knows is actually his way of winning the silence.
The subordinates have a secret group chat titled Sermon Survival. They track the Micro-Aggressions.
Does anyone count on how many times Nicholas-nim sighs when Euijoo-nim mentions the budget?
Does anyone know how many times Euijoo-nim taps his pen when Nicholas-nim uses the word ‘Ethereal’?
Did you see Nicholas-nim's face when Euijoo-nim mentioned the fire code?
Yeah. I think I saw his eye twitch. I’m staying late tonight; he’s definitely going to make us redesign the entire bar counter out of spite.
Did anyone see how the nervous intern accidentally coughs then earns a combo death stare from the leaders?
The staff thinks they are witnessing two people who hate each other. They have no idea that in six hours, these same two men will be sitting at the bar and causing another chaos.
-
The Sermon Project is nearing its grand opening, and tonight is the final Field Observation. Both Euijoo and Nicholas have told their respective teams they are going home early to rest. In reality, uncoordinately, they are both heading to the venue to see how the space breathes under the cover of night—not as employees, but as the apex predators they become after dark.
Away from the Ice King suits of the office, Nicholas sheds his masculine exterior. He arrives in a cropped, distressed leather jacket over a sheer lace bodysuit that leaves nothing to the imagination. His eyeliner is smudged and heavy, giving him a just-rolled-out-of-bed look that cost two hours to perfect. He isn't here to be respected; he’s here to be wanted and to judge everyone who isn't on his level.
In the same track, the Golden Boy tie is gone. Euijoo wears a silk, deep-V neck shirt tucked into impossibly high-waisted, tailored trousers that accentuate his shockingly thin waist. He still looks like a gentleman, but a dangerous one—the kind who speaks softly into your ear while his hand lingers a second too long on your hip. He carries a scent of expensive musk and vanilla that cuts through the smell of gin.
The club is loud, the bass vibrating through the velvet walls Nicholas designed. Nicholas is perched at the bar, nursing a dirty martini and looking at the crowd with a bored sneer. He’s already rejected three people with a simple, cold flick of his wrist.
Then, he sees him.
A man is standing near the VIP railing, looking out over the dance floor. From the back, the silhouette is lethal—the broad shoulders tapering down into that lethal, narrow waist.
Nicholas doesn't recognize him. He just sees a challenge. He slides off his stool, hips swaying with a provocative confidence, and sashays over. He leans against the railing right next to the stranger, blowing a cloud of smoke, or a heavy sigh, toward him.
"You look like you're waiting for someone to ruin your night," Nicholas drawls, his voice an octave lower, raspy and biting.
The stranger turns. The Casanova eyes meet the Bitch glare.
For five seconds, the world stops. The bass drops, but they don't hear it.
“Team Leader… Euijoo-ssi?” Nicholas’s Night persona falters for a split second, his eyes widening at the sight of Euijoo’s exposed collarbones and that sinful waistline.
Euijoo doesn't flinch. Instead, his gaze travels slowly—painfully slowly—from Nicholas’s lace-covered chest up to his heavily painted eyes. A slow, dark smirk spreads across Euijoo’s face. He doesn't look like the man who cares about fire codes anymore.
“And here I thought you only wore turtlenecks to hide a lack of personality, Nicholas-nim,” Euijoo purrs. He reaches out, his fingers grazing the lace over Nicholas’s heart. “I was wrong. You were just hiding... this.”
The alcohol is doing its work. The professional resentment from the morning's meeting acts as a high-octane fuel for the physical tension now.
Nicholas scoffs, leaning in until their noses almost touch, his bitchy attitude returning with a vengeance. "And you? The ‘Golden Anchor’ is actually a shark? Do your interns know you dress like a high-end heartbreaker, or do you only show off that waist for people you intend to destroy?"
Euijoo’s hand moves from the lace to the small of Nicholas’s back, pulling him a fraction of an inch closer. “The Bible says to love your enemy, Nicholas-nim. And right now... you’re the biggest enemy I’ve got.”
Nicholas grabs Euijoo by the silk lapels, his top instincts flaring even under the makeup. "Then stop talking about the Bible and show me how much you hate me."
.
The Confessional was designed for secrets, and in the deepest booth—shrouded by heavy, blood-red velvet—the two pillars of EN& Group finally collapsed into their true selves.
Nicholas practically shoves Euijoo into the plush seating, his movements a jagged mix of leather-clad aggression and drunken grace. He doesn’t sit next to Euijoo; he looms over him, one hand slamming against the backrest to pen him in.
"You see this?" Nicholas gestures wildly at the recessed gold lighting reflecting off the dark walls. His voice is a low, bitchy drawl, thick with the expensive bourbon they’d been knocking back. "The way the light hits the skin? That’s emotional resonance, Euijoo-ssi. That’s why the budget was $200k over. It makes everyone look like a god. Even a boring manager like you."
He leans in closer, his heavy eyeliner making his gaze look predatory. "I am a visionary. And you... you’re just the man with the calculator who tried to kill my masterpiece."
Euijoo doesn't flinch. In the dim, amber glow of the booth, his Golden Boy image has completely evaporated. He looks up at Nicholas, his silk shirt slipping slightly off one shoulder, revealing a sharp collarbone. He takes a slow, deliberate sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving Nicholas’s face.
Suddenly, Euijoo reaches up. His fingers don't push Nicholas away; they wrap firmly around Nicholas’s wrist, pulling him down until their lips are inches apart.
"Nicholas-nim," Euijoo purrs, his voice dropping into a dangerous, silky register that Nicholas has never heard in the office. "Look around. The sun is down. The spreadsheets are closed."
He lets his gaze travel slowly from Nicholas’s smudged eyes down to the sheer lace covering his chest, lingering there before returning to his eyes.
"I don't give a damn about the budget right now," Euijoo says, his thumb stroking the pulse point on Nicholas’s wrist. "And I’m certainly not going to spend my night talking about interior design with a man who looks this... attractive."
Euijoo’s free hand wanders, his palm flat against the leather of Nicholas’s jacket before sliding it down, framing his own shockingly narrow waist.
"At the office, you’re all sharp edges and cold stares," Euijoo whispers, a dark, knowing smirk playing on his lips. "But here? You’re dressed like a sin waiting to happen. You’re hunting, aren't you? Tell me, Nicholas-nim... was this alluring look meant for some random stranger, or were you secretly hoping your 'worst enemy' would be the one to find you?"
Nicholas’s breath hitches. The Bitch persona he build for the nighttime wants to snap back, but the dominant in him is reacting to the challenge in Euijoo’s eyes. The power dynamic is shifting—Euijoo may be the gentleman in this story, but at this moment, he is the one holding all the cards.
The shift in the booth is instantaneous. The air, already thick with the scent of expensive gin and Nicholas’s bitchy defiance, suddenly turns heavy with a different kind of tension—one that is pure, unfiltered dominance.
Nicholas drops the defensive sneer. His eyes darken, the smudged eyeliner now framing a gaze that is steady, focused, and predatory. He doesn't move away; instead, he crowds further into Euijoo’s space, his leather jacket creaking and completely sliding down the table as he leans his weight forward.
“You’re right,” Nicholas whispers, his voice dropping into a low, resonant baritone that vibrates against Euijoo’s chest. “The work talk is boring. And yes, I was hunting.”
He reaches out, his thumb catching Euijoo’s chin and forcing him to look up. “I’ve spent the whole night looking at the pathetic crowds in this club, and not a single soul was worth my time. Until I saw a man who looked like a gentleman but smelled like a disaster.”
Nicholas’s hand slides down, his rings cold against the warmth of Euijoo’s throat, before his palm settles firmly against the silk of Euijoo’s shirt, right over his heart.
“You want to talk about ‘loving your enemy’?” Nicholas’s smirk is no longer bitchy; it’s a challenge. “I think I’m starting to understand the scripture now.”
Nicholas’s other hand travels lower. He doesn't go for the drink or the table this time. His fingers hook into the belt loops of Euijoo’s high-waisted trousers, pulling the smaller man forward until their thighs flush together.
The contrast is lethal; Nicholas’s broad, leather-clad frame against Euijoo’s lithe, silk-wrapped silhouette.
“You’re very bold for a man who’s been playing the ‘Team Leader’ all day,” Nicholas drawls, his eyes dropping to where his hands are anchored. He lets his gaze linger on the sharp inward curve of Euijoo’s torso. “But let’s be honest, Euijoo-ssi. You can act the Casanova all you want, but this silhouette…”
He lets his fingers trail slowly along the narrowest part of Euijoo’s waist, squeezing just enough to make the silk bunch up.
“This waistline isn't built for leading,” Nicholas purrs, leaning into Euijoo’s ear so his breath hitches. “It’s built for being held. So, tell me, Golden Boy… which side are you really on when the lights go out?”
Euijoo’s breath catches, his back hitting the velvet cushion of the booth. The Casanova smirk is still there, but it’s wavering, replaced by a flush that has nothing to do with the alcohol. He looks up at Nicholas—the man he usually fights over spreadsheets—and sees the predator who is finally ready to take what he wants.
The air in the Confessional booth is now thick enough to choke on, vibrating with a tension that has nothing to do with the bass bleeding through the walls.
Euijoo feels the heat of Nicholas’s palm against his waist, the other man’s hot temperature is burning his deep desire as he crowds into his space. Even with his back pressed against the velvet, Euijoo doesn’t lose his composure. He tilts his head back, exposing the sharp line of his throat, and lets out a low, melodic chuckle that vibrates against Nicholas’s chest.
"A visionary to the end, aren't you, Nicholas-nim?" Euijoo purrs, his eyes half-lidded and dark with a challenge. He reaches up, his long fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of Nicholas’s neck, pulling him just a fraction closer until their lips brush with every word.
"You spend all day obsessed with the structure of things... and now you think you've mapped out mine." He lets his gaze drop to Nicholas’s mouth before snapping back up with a lethal, predatory glint. "If my waist is screaming to you, then you'd better be prepared for the noise. Don't disappoint me, Big boy. I’ve had a very long day of following your vision—I’d hate for the night to be any less... intense."
The Casanova mask doesn't shatter; it melts. As Nicholas growls and crashes his lips against Euijoo’s, the Team Leader finally lets go. The neat, methodical strategist disappears, replaced by a man who arches into the touch, his hands wandering from Nicholas’s hair to the broad set of his leather-clad shoulders.
For the next thirty minutes, the Confessional lives up to its name. In the shadowed corner of the booth, the rivalry is sanctified by fire.
Nicholas’s heavy, dominant movements against Euijoo’s lithe, yielding elegance. Nicholas’s smudged eyeliner meeting the salt of sweat. The Bitch persona has turned into a desperate, hungry possessiveness, while the Casanova has become a breathless, responsive wreck.
Every touch is a rebuttal to an office argument; every kiss is a silent apology for a vetoed budget.
Thirty minutes later, the booth is a mess of tangled limbs and heavy breathing. Nicholas pulls back just an inch, his thumb dragging across Euijoo’s swollen lower lip. His own breathing is ragged, his chest heaving under the sheer lace of his bodysuit.
He looks at Euijoo—hair mussed, silk shirt ruined, and that narrow waist flushed from where Nicholas’s hands have been anchored. The "Sermon" project was meant to be public, but what Nicholas wants to do next requires an audience of zero.
"We're leaving," Nicholas rasps, his voice completely wrecked. He stands up, not letting go of Euijoo’s hand, pulling him upright. "This place is mine, but the walls are too thin. I want you somewhere where I don't have to worry about the 'fire code' when things get out of hand."
Euijoo stands, leaning momentarily against Nicholas for support, a dazed but triumphant smirk on his face. He adjusts his trousers—the high waist still emphasizing the silhouette that started this fire.
"Lead the way, Nicholas-nim," Euijoo whispers, his voice a sultry thread. "I'm officially off the clock."
.
The transition from the velvet-drenched Confessional to Nicholas’s penthouse is like stepping into a cold, beautiful fever dream. The space is a monochrome sanctuary of brushed steel, floor-to-ceiling glass, and low-slung Italian furniture. It is exactly like Nicholas; intimidating, expensive, and perfectly curated.
As the elevator doors slide open directly into the living area, Euijoo—ever the Operations lead—can’t help but scan the room. His eyes linger on the sharp lines of the architecture and the way the city lights bleed through the glass, reflecting off the polished concrete floors.
"Your 'emotional resonance' is remarkably consistent, Nicholas-nim," Euijoo breathes, his voice still raspy from their time in the booth. He lets his hand trail over a marble countertop, his fingers tracing the cold stone. "It’s a miracle you ever leave this place to deal with my 'boring' spreadsheets."
Nicholas doesn't answer with words. He’s already at the sleek, minimalist bar, pouring two heavy measures of a rare, peat-heavy Scotch. He walks over, his leather jacket discarded on a $10,000 chair, leaving him in just the sheer lace bodysuit. He hands a glass to Euijoo, his fingers lingering against the other man's.
"Drink," Nicholas commands, his eyes dark. "I want you completely undone before we reach the bedroom."
The bedroom is even more minimalist—a massive platform bed draped in charcoal silk, facing the sprawling skyline. Nicholas leads him in, the heavy scent of the Scotch mixing with the expensive cologne and the lingering smell of the club.
As they settle onto the edge of the bed, the alcohol fuels a new level of Enemy honesty.
"You spend all day trying to contain me, Team leader. Putting me in a box. Vetoing my soul. But look at you now..." He reaches out, his thumb dragging across Euijoo’s collarbone, pushing the silk shirt further down. "The 'Golden Anchor' is drifting. You're a mess, and I’m the one who made you."
Euijoo leans back on his elbows, the silk of his shirt bunching up to reveal the sharp, enticing curve of his waist. He looks up at Nicholas with a hazy, challenging smirk. "You didn't make me, Nicholas-nim. You just finally gave me a reason to stop pretending. You think you're the only one with 'vision'? I saw this coming the moment you walked into the first board meeting. I just wanted to see if you were brave enough to actually take what you wanted."
Nicholas growls, the sound primal and low. He sets his glass aside and crawls over Euijoo, his knees pinning the Team Lead to the silk sheets. He isn't being gentle; he’s asserting every bit of the dominance he’s been suppressed into keeping professional for months.
He grabs Euijoo’s wrists, pinning them above his head with one hand. With the other, he traces the line of Euijoo’s trousers. "You talk too much for someone whose body is doing all the surrendering," Nicholas whispers.
He leans down, biting softly at the junction where Euijoo’s neck meets his shoulder, relishing the way the Casanova let's out a sharp, genuine gasp.
"I'm going to ruin every 'neat' thing about you tonight," Nicholas promises, his eyes locking onto Euijoo’s. "When you walk into the office tomorrow, I want you to look at those spreadsheets and only think about how your 'enemy' held you down in this room."
Euijoo arches his back, his narrow waist lifting off the bed in a silent, desperate plea. "Then stop talking, Nicholas-nim," he gasps, his Casanova mask completely gone, leaving only the prey who has been waiting for this exact moment of ruin. "Show me the 'vision' you’ve been hiding."
The minimalist silence of the penthouse is shattered by the sound of glass meeting the bedside table and the heavy, rhythmic creak of the platform bed. The alcohol has stripped away the last of their professional lacquer, leaving only the raw, magnetic friction of two enemies finally colliding.
Nicholas is a storm of leather and lace. He strips his bodysuit away, his broad, muscled frame hovering over Euijoo like a shadow. He doesn't just touch; he marks. His hands, calloused and steady, find their way back to that lethal, narrow waist, his fingers digging into the soft skin above Euijoo’s hip bones.
"Look at me," Nicholas commands, his voice a guttural rasp. He pins Euijoo’s wrists with one hand, his weight pressing the Golden Boy deep into the charcoal silk. "I don't want to hear 'Nicholas-nim.' I don't want to hear 'Head of Creative.' That man is dead until 9 AM."
Euijoo, usually the picture of composure, is a wreck of tangled silk and flushed skin. His legs are hooked around Nicholas’s waist, pulling Nicholas closer with a desperate, uncharacteristic strength. He tosses his head back, his throat arched, his chest heaving.
"Then... don't call me 'Team Leader,'" Euijoo gasps, his Casanova silkiness replaced by a raw, breathless plea. "Call me by my name, you bastard. Prove you actually have me."
Nicholas doesn't hesitate. As he drives forward, asserting a dominance that is both heavy and precise, he leans down to bite the sensitive skin of Euijoo’s earlobe.
"Euijoo-yaa," Nicholas growls, the name a prayer and a threat all at once. "Euijoo-yaa. Look what you’re doing to me. Look how you’re taking all of this."
The submissive in Euijoo responds with a sharp, high-pitched cry that echoes against the floor-to-ceiling glass. He reaches up, his fingers clawing at Nicholas’s back, leaving frantic red marks across the Visionary's skin. The honorifics are gone, burnt away by the friction of their bodies.
"Nicholas!" Euijoo screams, his eyes blown wide, staring up at the man who has spent months being his professional rival. "Nico, more... please."
The sound of his name, stripped of all corporate rank and spoken in a tone of pure, unadulterated pleasure, sends Nicholas over the edge. He isn't the Ice King anymore; he’s a man possessed. He moves with a rhythmic, punishing intensity that makes Euijoo arch his back until his spine nearly leaves the bed, his narrow waist trembling under Nicholas’s palms.
In the heat of the moment, the Bitch and the Casanova are nowhere to be found. There is only the frantic heartbeat of two men who have hated each other’s ideas so much because they desired each other’s bodies more.
As they reach the peak, the room fills with the sound of their names being shouted into the dark—no titles, no roles, just "Nicholas!" and "Euijoo!" crashing together in a final, explosive surrender.
They collapse into the charcoal sheets, the city lights outside still indifferent to the fact that the two most powerful pillars of EN& Group have just completely dismantled each other.
-
The 9 AM Reset at the Obsidian Tower is a sacred ritual of forced perfection. But this morning, the gears of the EN& Group machine are grinding with a noticeable friction.
7:00 AM
Nicholas wakes up to a room that is too bright and too quiet. The charcoal silk sheets are cold on one side. Euijoo is gone, leaving nothing behind but a lingering scent of expensive musk and a perfectly folded hand towel on the nightstand. It’s the ultimate Professional exit—clean, efficient, and hauntingly empty.
9:30 AM
The office is buzzing about the final "Sermon" walkthrough, but the two leads are struggling.
Nicholas looks like a beautiful disaster. His Ice King suit is blacker than usual, but his eyes are hidden behind heavy, dark-tinted designer glasses. He’s moving slower, his head thumping with every click of his leather boots on the polished floor.
Euijoo looks immaculate as always—crisp white shirt, perfectly tied silk necktie. To the interns, he is the Golden Anchor. Only a very keen eye would notice the slight, rhythmic limp in his stride or the way he winces almost imperceptibly whenever he has to sit down.
They meet at the high-end espresso bar on the 39th floor. No subordinates are around. The air is thick with the smell of roasted beans and the heavy, unspoken memory of the penthouse.
Nicholas leans heavily against the marble counter, his hand trembling slightly as he reaches for a double-shot Ristretto.
"You look like hell, Nicholas-nim," Euijoo murmurs, his voice low and steady, though his knuckles are white as he grips his own cup. "The 'Visionary' seems to have lost his focus."
Nicholas scoffs, the sound a dry rasp. He doesn't look at Euijoo, instead staring intensely at the steam rising from his cup. "And the 'Golden Boy' seems to have lost his balance. You’re walking like you’ve forgotten how your own legs work, Team Leader-nim."
Euijoo’s jaw tightens. He shifts his weight, a flare of heat rising to his cheeks that has nothing to do with the coffee. "Occupational hazard. Some 'projects' are more physically demanding than others."
"Maybe you should have vetoed the overtime then," Nicholas bites back, his Night Bitch attitude flickering through the daytime mask for just a second.
The bickering dies down as an intern rounds the corner. Immediately, their backs straighten. The masks snap back into place.
"About the... field observation," Euijoo says, his voice now purely corporate, though he leans in just enough so only Nicholas can hear. "In this company, we value efficiency. We don't let outside variables interfere with the 'Sermon' launch. Yesterday was a lapse in... logistical judgment. It stays in the Confessional."
Nicholas finally looks at him from behind the dark lenses. He sees the ‘Casanova’ hiding behind the Manager, and for a second, he remembers the sound of Euijoo screaming his name without the honorifics.
"Agreed," Nicholas says, his voice cold and final. "A one-time 'aesthetic' experiment. I have no intention of making it a habit."
They turn to leave in opposite directions.
Nicholas walks toward the Creative wing, his head spinning, his mind replaying the sight of Euijoo’s narrow waist under his hands.
Euijoo walks toward Operations, his limp slightly more pronounced now that he’s alone, his heart racing as he remembers the predator who dismantled him.
They both know they are lying. The 'One Night Stand' rule is the hardest budget they’ve ever tried to balance—and both of them are already overdrawn.
.
The final board meeting for The Sermon Project is held in the Obsidian Tower’s top-floor conference room. The atmosphere is lethal. Sunlight hits the glass, making the minimalist space feel like an interrogation room.
The interns are huddled at the end of the long marble table, pens trembling over their tablets. The Ice King and the Golden Anchor are at it again.
Nicholas is standing, his hands slammed on the table. He’s back to his masculine daytime persona—a sharp charcoal suit, hair slicked back, looking every bit the dominant Head of Creative.
"The separation between the Nave and the Confessional needs to be absolute, Team Leader Euijoo-ssi!" Nicholas snaps, his voice echoing. "I want the transition to feel like a fall from grace. If you put those 'safety sensors' on the velvet curtains, you ruin the entire sensory climax of the entrance. It’s amateur. It’s cheap."
The subordinates hold their breath. Usually, this is where Euijoo brings out a spreadsheet and calmly dismantles Nicholas’s ego with logic and budgetary constraints.
Euijoo doesn't reach for his tablet. Instead, he leans back in his leather chair, slowly unbuttoning his suit jacket. He looks up at Nicholas, his expression calm, mature, and professional—but there is a new, dark glint in his eyes that only Nicholas recognizes.
"You're right, Nicholas-nim," Euijoo says, his voice a smooth, dangerous silk. "The climax is everything. I suppose I was too focused on... controlling the flow."
He lets his gaze travel slowly down Nicholas’s frame, stopping briefly at his waist before returning to his eyes. To the interns, it looks like a cold, calculating stare. To Nicholas, it’s a physical touch.
"If you insist on a 'fall from grace,' I’ll allow it," Euijoo continues, a tiny, predatory smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I’ll remove the sensors. I’ll let you have your way with the entrance. After all, we both know how much you enjoy... forcing a specific atmosphere until everyone inside is completely breathless."
The room goes silent. The subordinates exchange confused, terrified glances. To them, Euijoo just sounded incredibly harsh—accusing Nicholas of being a controlling, suffocating designer.
But for Nicholas, the subtext is like a physical blow. He hears the Casanova behind the Team Lead. He remembers the sound of Euijoo’s breathless pleas against the charcoal silk sheets and the way that narrow waist felt when Nicholas forced the atmosphere in the penthouse.
Nicholas’s body, his oldest and most traitorous enemy, reacts instantly.
A deep, hot flush creeps up his neck, staining his cheekbones a vivid red. His Ice King composure shatters. He tries to look away, but he’s pinned by Euijoo’s steady, knowing gaze. His heart is hammering against his ribs so loudly he’s sure the interns can hear it.
"I... uh. Good," Nicholas stammers, his voice cracking for the first time in his professional career. He sits down abruptly, shuffling his papers to hide his trembling hands. "Then the design stands."
The meeting is adjourned. As the subordinates scurry out, whispering about how "Euijoo-nim really put the Creative Head in his place," the two leads remain in the room.
Euijoo stands up, gathering his sleek leather briefcase. He walks past Nicholas, stopping just for a second. He doesn't look at him, but his shoulder brushes Nicholas’s—a deliberate, lingering contact.
"You should work on your poker face, Nicholas-nim," Euijoo whispers, his voice barely audible. "The Ice King shouldn't melt so easily just because his enemy decided to be... compliant."
Nicholas grips the edge of the table, his knuckles white. The One Night Stand rule hasn't even lasted twenty-four hours, and their professional rivalry has officially turned into a high-stakes game of psychological foreplay.
From this day forward, every budget meeting is a minefield. Every veto is a challenge. Every 'Yes' is a surrender. Their arguments are no longer about F&B—they are about who can make the other break first in front of the entire company.