The morning was still drowsy. Pale light filtered into the room through translucent curtains, softly outlining Do-yun's sleeping silhouette. His face looked almost childlike—relaxed, without the usual tense line of his lips. Seung-ho lingered by the bed longer than he intended: Do-yun's warm breath, the slight crease between his brows, as if even in sleep he was fighting with himself.
— I'll be back soon, — Seung-ho whispered barely audibly, leaning down and touching his temple with his lips. — Sleep. And don't think about yesterday.
He adjusted the blanket, ran his palm over his hair, releasing soft, soothing pheromones. Only then did he force himself to step away. The door closed, and the room's protective silence consumed everything once more.
The directors' meeting took place in a room with a long table, reflecting the light from a crystal chandelier. The atmosphere was formal, but a wariness, sharp as steel, hung in the air.
Seung-ho sat at the head, his gaze calm, his movements restrained, his controlled pheromones serving as an invisible shield. Next to him—Do-yun, in the half-shadow, more an observer than a participant.
— The quarterly financial report is impressive, — Mr. Kang spoke first. His voice sounded too confident, almost provocative. — But a question arises: are we overestimating the company's capabilities? The scale you are setting, Director Yoon, could be dangerous.
The words sounded like concern, but there was too much venom in the tone.
Seung-ho slightly raised an eyebrow. — Is growth dangerous? Or is the competition that can't keep up with us dangerous?
Kang didn't falter: — Competition is natural. But too rapid growth often leads to a fall. You are, of course, confident in your methods, but what if we are already spending more than we can afford?
Do-yun noticed Kang's fingers playing with his pen, how he exchanged glances with the man to his right. A slight nod—a signal? An agreement?
— It's strange to hear such concerns from you, Mr. Kang, — Seung-ho said. His voice remained calm, but steel was evident beneath it. — After all, three months ago, you were proposing an even more aggressive expansion than mine.
Several pairs of eyes turned to Kang. He smiled too broadly. — It's useful in business to change position if new data calls for caution. — Or if new allies suggest a different strategy? — Seung-ho retorted.
The silence thickened for a moment. Do-yun noticed several directors drop their gaze to their papers. He felt an omega's anxiety building in his chest: this was a confrontation where someone was clearly trying to undermine Seung-ho's authority.
— I act only in the company's best interest. — As do I, — Seung-ho cut in. — But I prefer to rely on facts, not conjecture.
He turned to the secretary: — Prepare a comparative report on all of Kang's proposals over the last six months. Let the board decide for itself how consistent his "caution" is.
Kang tensed but remained silent. The first round went to Seung-ho.
The evening was quiet, but the silence felt stretched, as if an invisible current was hidden beneath it. Do-yun sat on the sofa, a cup of tea cooling in his hands. When the door opened and Seung-ho walked in, he immediately knew—he was tired. But there was something more than just typical exhaustion in his gaze.
— You waited, — Seung-ho said. Do-yun nodded slightly. — How did it go?
Seung-ho took off his coat, sat down beside him, but didn't answer immediately. He ran a palm over his face, lingering at his temples. — Kang behaved predictably. But I noticed something else. — He looked directly at Do-yun. — Director Park. You remember him?
— Quiet. Always agreed with the majority, — Do-yun said cautiously. — Exactly, — Seung-ho nodded. — But today he spoke too much. Too confidently. As if he knew in advance what questions Kang would raise and was preparing the ground.
Do-yun clenched his fingers. Seung-ho noticed it.
— And Lee, too, — he continued. — Strange. Usually, he never misses a chance to chime in. But today, he was silent the entire time. Not a single remark. — Or he decided it was more profitable to wait, — Seung-ho said quietly. — In any case, too many things coincided. And I don't like coincidences.
They sat in silence. Do-yun felt his heart beating too fast. He almost opened his mouth to say: "You're right. They're connected. I saw their contacts." But the words got stuck.
Seung-ho leaned closer, his gaze intense, almost demanding. — Did you notice something?
Do-yun froze. His lips trembled, but his voice never broke through. His pheromones, usually controlled, became ragged. — No, — he exhaled too quickly. — Nothing.
And to drown out that "nothing," to hide the truth he dared not speak, Do-yun stepped closer. His hands rested on Seung-ho's knees. Instead of words, he chose action.
Do-yun nearly slammed into his knees, gripped them with his palms, and paused, as if gathering the remnants of his will. His breathing was ragged, his shoulders trembling, but his gaze remained stubbornly lowered.
Seung-ho ran his fingers through his hair, leaned closer. — Do-yun… — there was both warning and a plea in his voice.
But he didn't answer. He bent lower, as if trying to drown out his own words with movement, smoothly unzipping Seung-ho's pants, freeing his already throbbing arousal. His lips touched it gently, his breath grew hotter.
Seung-ho gripped his hair tighter, his palm resting on the back of his head, but didn't push him away. He allowed it. Do-yun sucked him eagerly, desperately. His tongue moved hastily, relentlessly.
The hunger grew, and Seung-ho felt himself nearing release. He groaned low, unable to help himself, and his fingers clenched harder in Do-yun's hair. — You… — he exhaled.
Do-yun seemed not to hear. His movements became sharper; he took him even deeper into his mouth, as if trying to smother himself with the rhythm. Seung-ho's pheromones burst forth powerfully, suppressingly.
Seung-ho drove deeper into his mouth, his thrusts becoming firmer, giving Do-yun no chance to pull away. He gasped, a choked sound, but didn't push back—on the contrary, he allowed it, opening himself up beneath the pressure. — Do-yun… — the name tore from his lips, like a growl.
The tension mounted, and Seung-ho could no longer stop. With one sharp thrust, he broke the last of his control, and hot semen flooded inside.
Do-yun groaned, the sound raw and hoarse, but didn't push him away. He took all of it until Seung-ho exhaled a choked breath, holding his head with both hands.
Silence fell over them. Only their breathing—heavy, ragged—filled the room.
Seung-ho slowly lifted his face, ran his fingers over his wet lips, along his cheek. His gaze was sharp, penetrating.
Do-yun closed his eyes and only pressed his cheek against Seung-ho's knee, letting his fingers caress his hair. He retreated into intimacy to hide how scared he was and how deeply entangled he had become.