OneShot #1
You should've gone home an hour ago.
The office lights dimmed to night mode, floors above and below already silent. But your screen still glows in the dark, trying to convince you that one more paragraph will save you tomorrow.
It doesn't.
What saves you—or ruins you—is the steady sound of footsteps approaching across the polished floor.
You don't have to turn.
You feel him.
Mr. Bahng.
The reason your pulse refuses to behave.
He stops beside your desk, close enough that you smell clean soap and late-night coffee off his skin.
"Everyone else is gone," he says, voice low and worn. "Why are you still here?"
You keep staring at your keyboard like it holds answers.
"Finishing the quarterly revisions."
His short hum tells you he doesn't buy it. His hand settles on the desk, fingers long and strong and too close to your thigh.
"You know," he says, "you stare holes into documents when you're thinking about something else."
You swallow. Hard.
"Something else?" you echo.
"Like what?"
He leans down, mouth beside your ear, breath warm enough to melt every question into heat.
"Like me," he murmurs.
Your chair shifts—he shifts—until he's braced on the arms, caging you between his strength and the back of the seat. His sleeves are rolled, forearms tense with the restraint of someone who's one misstep away from giving in.
His perspective (brief, sharp):
"If you ask, even once, I won't stop"
Back to you:
Your breath catches. You're trembling, just slightly—but he notices.
He notices everything.
"Is this professional, Mr. Bahng?" you whisper.
"No," he answers instantly, eyes dark and absolutely unapologetic.
"But you're not calling me 'sir,' either, so I assume we're not being professional."
His knuckle skims the line of your jaw, barely a touch at all—
—and it still feels like surrender.
"I shouldn't be here like this," you say.
He tilts your chin up with one finger. "Then ask me to leave."
You can't.
And he knows it.
He keeps his voice quiet, but it vibrates through your bones.
"You've been wanting this longer than you'll admit," he says. "Longer than I should've let you."
Your knees press together, instinctive defense against the heat twisting low in your stomach. His eyes drop… then slowly rise back to yours,
a silent, devastating dare.
"Stand up," he says.
Your heartbeat pounds like an alarm.
But you stand.
He steps into your space—no gap left—forcing your breath to match his.
His hand slides to your waist, palm firm, thumb brushing just beneath the hem of your blouse. He watches you shiver.
"You're not scared of me," he says. "You're scared of how much you want me."
You open your mouth—whether to argue or agree, you don't know—but his expression answers for you.
"Tell me I'm wrong," he challenges, voice the kind that steals choices.
You don't.
He nods once. Decision made.
"Turn around."
You turn, pulse hammering.
His hands settle on your hips—possessive, claiming—and his breath ghosts the back of your neck.
Somewhere behind you, the office door slides fully closed.
A quiet click.
A quiet promise.
"You're going to go home tonight," he whispers, lips brushing skin, "and you're going to think about exactly what I didn't do to you."
Your body draws tight, heat pulsing everywhere his hands don't move.
"And then," he continues, "tomorrow morning, you'll decide whether you want me to finish what we both started."
His mouth touches your neck—just once—barely there.
"And if you show up early…"
His fingers tighten, just enough to start a sigh from your throat.
"…I'll know your answer."
He releases you slowly, palms dragging fire as he steps back.
You don't turn around.
You can't.
"Goodnight," he says, voice raw.
You hear his footsteps fade down the hall—
leaving you standing in desire and adrenaline and a choice that will keep you awake until dawn.
You exhale one shaken breath.
You whisper to the empty room:
"Goodnight… sir."