Chapter Text
Wooyoung stands in the stuffy elevator, the faint hum of machinery filling the silence as it ascends. He shifts his weight, tugging at the sleeves of his slightly oversized black suit. It isn't bad—clean, pressed, professional—but the fit leaves a little to be desired. It hangs just a bit too loose on his frame, and though he could afford to get it tailored, the thought of taking time out of his already packed schedule feels exhausting. His fingers tighten slightly around the two coffees in his hands. One is hot, destined for someone else, and the other is his cold brew, the strong black liquid sloshing lightly in its plastic cup.
The elevator dings softly as it reaches his floor, and the doors slide open. Wooyoung steps out into the sprawling office space, rows of cubicles lining the room like a miniature maze. The faint buzz of conversation and clicking keyboards fills the air, but he pays it no mind. His desk, in stark contrast to the others, is positioned right outside the enormous double doors of his boss's office. There's no cubicle wall to offer even a semblance of privacy, no escape from the intimidating presence of those doors that seem to loom over the entire floor.
As Wooyoung walks, his shoes tap against the polished floor, each step measured and deliberate. He pauses at the doors, balancing the coffee cups in one hand to knock, though he doesn't wait for a response before pushing one of the heavy doors open.
San's office is immaculate and intimidating, much like its owner. Every piece of furniture, every decoration, feels carefully curated to project authority and control. Bookshelves line the walls, filled with titles that look more like they belong in a library than a personal collection.
Abstract paintings hang above the leather couch, their bold strokes adding a splash of color to an otherwise neutral palette. It's an office meant to impress, to command respect, but it lacks any personal touches. No photos, no mementos—just cold professionalism.
San sits behind his massive desk, his head bent over a stack of papers. His posture is perfect, his expression sharp and focused. He's dressed impeccably, as always, in a crisp white shirt and a pinstripe vest that accentuates his broad shoulders and impossibly narrow waist.
Silently, Wooyoung approaches the desk and places the hot coffee down, taking care not to disturb the carefully organized stacks of documents. He doesn't speak right away, instead lowering himself into one of the leather chairs across from San. The chair creaks faintly under his weight, and Wooyoung leans back, sipping his cold brew through a black straw.
San doesn't acknowledge him immediately, his pen scratching softly against paper. Wooyoung waits, patient as ever, watching the way San's eyes move over the page with precision. Finally, San sets his pen down and flips the folder closed, looking up to meet Wooyoung's gaze.
"Usual meetings for today," Wooyoung begins, his voice calm but efficient. "Concept marketing and choreography approval, mostly." He pauses to take another sip of his coffee. "Your most important meeting is after lunch—the potential brand ambassador deal, if all goes well."
"If," San echoes, his tone unreadable as he leans back in his chair. Wooyoung nods, crossing one leg over the other. "Did you draft the proposal?"
"Of course, sir," he replies smoothly, his confidence unwavering. "Sent it to you this morning while I was in line for coffee. It might need minor adjustments, but it's exactly as you asked."
San raises an eyebrow, not in doubt but in curiosity. "Minor adjustments?"
Wooyoung meets his gaze without hesitation. "I don't have access to precise financial records or details on the brand's offer, so the numbers are placeholders. Some of the language might invite questions, but the proposal covers everything on both sides... sir."
San hums thoughtfully, his eyes flicking back down to the folder on his desk. He taps it lightly with his fingers before looking up again. "Thank you."
Wooyoung doesn't react beyond a slight incline of his head, his straw still between his lips.
"Shall we head to the first meeting?" San asks, his tone a little more clipped now.
"Let me drop my bag at my desk, sir," Wooyoung responds, standing. As they leave the office, San follows closely behind, a silent but commanding presence at Wooyoung's back.
At his desk, Wooyoung quickly slides his bag underneath, tucking it out of sight. He pulls a plain notebook from the desk, its pristine cover devoid of stickers or doodles. It's strictly for work, meant to look professional, even if it lacks personality. With the notebook in hand, he straightens and turns to San, who's already waiting for him to lead the way.
The first meeting is as predictable as Wooyoung expected. A long wooden table dominates the conference room, surrounded by chairs that quickly fill with choreographers, producers, and marketing specialists. Wooyoung takes a seat along the outer edge, away from the main table, where he balances his notebook on his lap and places his coffee on the floor.
He listens attentively, his pen moving swiftly across the page as he jots down notes. Most of the discussions revolve around strategy—concepts, feedback, and endless back-and-forth about what will work and what won't. The choreographers argue over details, while producers chime in with concerns about budgets and timelines.
Through it all, San remains composed, his comments cutting through the noise with surgical precision. He never raises his voice, but there's a weight to his words that silences the room whenever he speaks. Wooyoung watches him carefully, noting the subtle shifts in his expression and body language.
The day continues in a blur of meetings and tasks, with Wooyoung trailing behind San like a shadow. He answers questions when needed, takes notes when required, and ensures everything runs smoothly.
By the time they return to their offices, Wooyoung discards his empty coffee cup and sinks into his chair. San disappears behind the imposing double doors, leaving Wooyoung to sift through emails, field calls, and forward drafts and designs. He knows what San likes—what meets his impossible standards—and he's become an expert at preemptively filtering out anything subpar.
When lunch rolls around, Wooyoung taps the intercom button on his desk phone. "Am I good to take lunch, sir?"
San's voice comes through a moment later. "No problem."
Wooyoung heads to the elevator, descending a few floors to find Yeosang. The elevator ride is uneventful, save for the steady dinging as the numbers descend to the lower floor. Wooyoung leans against the wall, his arms crossed loosely over his chest, and watches the lights blink.
When the doors slide open, more of the same greets him—rows of identical cubicles in muted tones. The air is cooler on this floor, and the fluorescent lighting feels harsher. He weaves through the aisles, the layout so familiar that he doesn't even need to think about it.
Finally, he spots Yeosang, reclining in his chair with his legs crossed under his desk. He's holding a small, steaming metal bowl close to his chest, taking a slow, deliberate bite.
"You started without me?" Wooyoung raises an eyebrow as he approaches, his tone mock-offended. He digs into the lunchbox that's sitting on Yeosang's cluttered desk, which is covered with half-drawn sketches, open fabric swatches, and a scattered collection of pens and pencils.
"What was I supposed to do? Wait and starve?" Yeosang counters, smirking as he gestures to the soup. "You tried it last night, didn't you? You know it's good."
Wooyoung rolls his eyes, digging into his own container—a sturdy, insulated box that's kept his portion of the cheesy beef and potato soup hot. The recipe he had tried the night before. The lid pops off with a satisfying click, releasing a fragrant cloud of steam.
"You're insufferable," he mutters, picking up his spoon. "Well? Was it good?"
Yeosang doesn't even pause, already halfway to another bite. "Good? It's amazing. Honestly, I'm shocked Jongho and I aren't the size of small houses with the way you cook."
Wooyoung snorts, shaking his head as he takes a bite of his soup. The rich, savory flavor is as satisfying as it was the night before.
"I think I could manage this one," Yeosang says, grinning. "Might need some guidance, but it's doable."
"I'd like to see you try making it," he challenges, though there's no real heat in his words.
The banter flows easily between them as it always does, filling the tiny, impersonal space of Yeosang's cubicle with warmth. Wooyoung settles into the spare chair Yeosang keeps tucked under his desk, their lunches resting on the mess of papers and fabric samples.
"You working on anything new?" Wooyoung asks, gesturing vaguely to the sketches and notes that surround them.
"Not really. They're pushing a girl crush concept for the new group, so I've been toying with ideas for that," Yeosang replies, stirring his soup absently. "But honestly? The production team isn't delivering. The tracks I've heard are... fine, I guess. But too repetitive. Not enough impact."
"Figures. Music production's a nightmare, from what I hear," Wooyoung says, shrugging. "But you'll make it work. You always do."
Yeosang smiles faintly at the compliment, though his focus remains on his soup. They eat in comfortable silence for a few moments, Wooyoung's mind already wandering to dinner plans. Cooking for Yeosang—and occasionally Jongho—is a welcome distraction from the grind of his day-to-day. It's something he looks forward to, even if it means extra effort on his part.
When they're done, Yeosang packs up his bowl, leaving the lunchbox on the desk. It's been theirs for years, passed back and forth, occasionally lost which sets both of them in a panic, but they like the worn out thing.
Wooyoung heads back upstairs, his mind still lingering on the easy conversation with Yeosang. When he reaches his desk, he immediately notices San standing there, his figure unmistakable even from behind. He walks a bit slower, wondering why San is looking down at the little trinkets he keeps on his desk. Mostly gifts from Yeosang, or Mingi.
"Sir?" Wooyoung calls out, stepping closer. San turns sharply, as if caught off guard, his expression carefully neutral.
"I was looking for you," San says, his voice measured, though there's a faint edge of something unfamiliar.
"Is something wrong?" Wooyoung furrows his brow, confused but trying just as hard as San to keep the front. The polite tone and careful treading of conversation.
"The meeting for the brand deal starts soon," San replies, his tone clipped.
"I'm aware, sir," Wooyoung responds, trying for a reassuring smile. "Did you have questions...?"
Wooyoung knows he sounds like he's fishing for a responce but that's because he is. San never stands at his desk. He never comes out to find him, it's Wooyoung who is always buzzed in to his office. To San's desk he goes, not the other way around.
San hesitates, blinking a little too quickly.
"I thought we should get there early," he says finally.
There's something off about him. San, who is always poised and unflappable, seems almost... uneasy. To anyone else, he'd appear perfectly composed, but Wooyoung knows better.
"Sure, let me just grab my notebook," Wooyoung says, his tone light as he steps around his desk. He feels San's gaze on him as he retrieves the plain black notebook, but when he looks up, San's expression has returned to its usual mask of control.
For a moment, they simply stand there, San seemingly forgetting to lead the way. Wooyoung waits patiently, his notebook in hand, until San finally moves, his stride regaining its usual confidence.
Wooyoung falls into step behind him, as he always does, but his mind lingers on that fleeting moment of hesitation. Something isn't quite right.
The elevator ride is quiet, the hum of the machinery filling the air between them. Wooyoung leans against the wall, his notebook tucked under his arm, and his eyes flit to San's profile. The sharp line of his jaw is relaxed, unreadable, his expression smooth as ever.
It's unnerving. San never comes to Wooyoung's desk—never—and it's eating at him. He tries to push the thought aside, focusing instead on the meeting ahead, but it lingers like an itch he can't quite scratch.
They step out onto the floor, the conference room already buzzing with the quiet energy of pre-meeting small talk. Wooyoung takes his usual seat behind San, setting up his notebook and pen with mechanical precision.
The meeting begins, and Wooyoung immediately shifts into work mode. He scribbles notes as San speaks, his words calculated and deliberate. Negotiating a brand deal is a delicate art, and San handles it with the kind of finesse that makes Wooyoung envious.
The brand wants their logo prominent; San counters with the importance of preserving the idol's image. The brand suggests a flat fee; San argues for royalties tied to sales. It's all a dance, a push-and-pull of give and take.
Wooyoung can't help but admire the way San handles it all. His voice is steady, commanding but never overbearing, and his confidence is palpable. Wooyoung catches himself staring, his eyes drifting from San's expression to his hands as they gesture or pick up the pen to sign the finalized agreement.
San's hands are precise, every movement purposeful. They're not as long-fingered as Yunho's or broad like Mingi's, but there's something about them that's... nice. Wooyoung's cheeks warm at the stray thought, and he quickly ducks his head back to his notes, pretending to be engrossed.
When the meeting concludes, San stays behind to chat with a few of the representatives. Wooyoung watches from his seat, idly tapping his pen against the edge of his notebook.
San's smile is polite, charming even, but it doesn't reach his eyes. Wooyoung knows better. He's seen San truly smile before, though it's rare. When he's genuinely happy, his eyes crinkle at the corners, disappearing into crescent shapes. It's a sight that sticks with Wooyoung, even now.
After a few minutes, San glances over, their eyes meeting across the room. It's a subtle cue, but Wooyoung knows it's time to leave.
He stands, making his way to San's side with practiced ease.
"I'm so sorry, but he has a meeting online in a few minutes. We really should be heading up," Wooyoung says smoothly, offering the group a polite smile.
"I'd never be on time if it weren't for him," San adds, his tone light but believable. He extends his hand for a quick round of goodbyes, his exit as graceful as his negotiation.
They step into the elevator together, the doors sliding shut behind them. Wooyoung cradles his notebook to his chest, crossing his arms over it. He lets his mind wander to dinner plans, thinking about what ingredients he has left at home. He likes spicy food, Yeosang doesn't have as high a tolerance...
San shifts slightly, glancing back over his shoulder. Wooyoung catches the movement and looks up, meeting his boss's eyes for just a second before San turns back around. It's not hurried, not like he was caught doing something he shouldn't—it's casual, as though he was simply confirming that Wooyoung was still there.
Wooyoung narrows his eyes, more curious than concerned. San isn't acting like himself, and it's becoming harder to ignore.
"Are you feeling alright, sir?" Wooyoung asks, his tone carefully professional. "I don't mean to intrude."
San doesn't turn around.
"Nothing of your concern," he says, his voice clipped and cold. The answer is a clear deflection, and Wooyoung knows it. His fingers tighten slightly around his notebook, but he says nothing.
Calling his boss a liar probably wouldn't go over well.
As they return to their respective desks, San steps into his office, the soft-close door clicking shut behind him. Wooyoung watches the door for a moment, biting his lip.
Finally, he slumps into his chair, setting the notebook down and propping his chin on one hand. His eyes scan over the little trinkets on his desk—the ceramic crab pencil holder, the sticky notes, the organized racks of papers. Nothing unusual.
So why had San been so interested in them earlier?
The rest of the day drags by uneventfully. Wooyoung has wrapped up all the work that's dependent on him, leaving him idly scrolling through Pinterest. It's not like San could see his screen, and even if he could, Wooyoung's job was done.
His screen displays a board filled with recipes, a mix of elaborate meals and easy weeknight staples. He pauses on a few ideas, saving them to a folder he'll probably forget about later, and mentally adds "grocery shopping" to his list of chores. Laundry, too. Washing suits with their finicky old machine was always a gamble.
At 4:30 sharp, Wooyoung presses the button on his office phone.
"It's four thirty. May I leave now?" His tone is casual, but he presses his lips together as he stares at the Pinterest board, hoping San doesn't have any last-minute tasks for him.
"Of course." San's voice comes through, calm and even, and Wooyoung doesn't need to be told twice.
He shuts down his computer and packs up, sliding his notebook into his bag. With his backpack slung over one shoulder, he's out the door in a hurry.
The deal he had struck with San was simple: if Wooyoung handled the morning coffee runs—which meant waking up earlier than anyone else—he got to leave earlier, too. Maybe that's what got him the job in the first place. His knack for negotiation and his quick wit had earned him little favors like this, though really, it was just a trade-off.
Downstairs, Wooyoung unclips his bike from the rack, hooking the lock onto his backpack strap before swinging a leg over the seat. He takes a moment to pop in his earbuds, scrolling through his music until he finds a playlist that fits his mood.
And then he's off, weaving through the city streets.
The ride home is quick but chaotic. The sidewalks are crowded with people, everyone moving with purpose in the late afternoon bustle. Wooyoung's wheels skate over uneven pavement, dodging a stray pigeon here and a distracted pedestrian there.
Their apartment complex is nestled between a sandwich shop and an antique store, a small building with a faded sign that no one ever seems to notice. Wooyoung parks his bike beside the building, securing it to a metal pole before heading inside.
The door's keypad blinks faintly, and Wooyoung punches in the code. The familiar buzz grants him entry, and he steps into the cool, slightly cramped interior of the apartment.
The space is small but cozy, the living room cluttered with Yeosang's things. His fashion mannequin stands ominously in the corner, draped in half-finished designs. Wooyoung had begged Yeosang to keep it in his room, but of course, Yeosang had refused. Seeing its human-like silhouette in the dark had scared Wooyoung half to death more times than he could count.
With his music still playing in his ears, Wooyoung kicks off his shoes and heads to his room. The first order of business is ditching the suit. He peels off the blazer and undershirt, replacing them with an oversized sweater and a pair of basketball shorts.
Now more comfortable, he pads into the kitchen. Dinner waits for no one, and Wooyoung enjoys cooking too much to delay.
Opening the fridge, he surveys the contents. The usual staples are there—eggs, vegetables, a couple of containers of leftovers. He mentally assembles a plan, already pulling out what he needs.
Dinner isn't just for him—it's for Yeosang too. And if Jongho happens to drop by, Wooyoung knows he'll need to make extra. It's a routine he doesn't mind. A part of his day he looks forward to.
He drums his fingers on the door as he scans for inspiration. There's a tub of kimchi, half a head of cabbage, a carton of eggs, and a package of tofu shoved into the corner. A lone bell pepper rolls precariously on the middle shelf, and a container of leftover rice sits front and center.
"Fried rice it is," Wooyoung mutters to himself, grabbing the essentials and placing them on the counter. It's quick, easy, and uses up the odds and ends in the fridge.
He rolls up his sleeves and sets to work, the rhythmic sound of chopping filling the cozy apartment. The bell pepper gets diced, the cabbage shredded, and the tofu cubed. He tosses the vegetables into a pan, the sizzle of oil meeting produce blending with the low hum of his music.
Yeosang wanders in halfway through, still in his work clothes. His tie is loose, and his sleeves are rolled up, revealing slender wrists. He leans against the doorframe, watching Wooyoung with a small, amused smile.
"Smells good," Yeosang says, crossing his arms as he steps further into the kitchen.
"Thanks. Just throwing together what we've got left." Wooyoung waves the spatula in the air before turning back to the stove. "You could've texted me what you wanted, you know."
"Like I'd do that when I know you'll just make whatever you feel like," Yeosang retorts, sliding into one of the kitchen chairs. "You're always experimenting. I don't mind, as long as it's edible."
"Rude." Wooyoung tosses the tofu into the pan, giving it a quick stir. "You're lucky I like cooking for you."
Yeosang props his chin on his hand, watching the younger man with an almost lazy contentment. "How was work? Anything interesting?"
"Not really," Wooyoung replies, turning the heat down and cracking an egg into the mix. "San was... weird today. He came to my desk, which never happens, and then he was all vague and cold when I asked if he was okay."
Yeosang raises an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. "Weird how?"
"I don't know," Wooyoung says, pausing to scrape the pan and fold the egg into the rice. "He was just... off. Like, distracted or something. Maybe stressed. Who knows? He's a mystery most of the time."
Yeosang hums thoughtfully, his gaze shifting to the window. "Maybe he's just overworked. CEOs tend to have a lot on their plate."
"Yeah, but it's not like him to be so distant." Wooyoung shrugs, turning off the stove and dishing out the fried rice into two bowls. "Whatever. Not my problem, I guess."
He sets the bowls on the table, sliding one toward Yeosang before grabbing a pair of chopsticks for himself. They settle into their usual rhythm, eating in comfortable silence, the sounds of the city outside muffled by the apartment walls.
Yeosang is the first to break the silence. "You're overthinking it. Just do your job, and if he needs to talk, he'll come to you."
Wooyoung pokes at his food, mulling over the advice. "Yeah, maybe. But something about it felt... off. I don't know. Forget it."
Yeosang smirks, taking another bite of his food. "You say that, but you'll be stewing over it all night."
Wooyoung scowls but doesn't argue. Yeosang knows him too well.
The pair eat together in their usual quiet companionship. The clinking of chopsticks against bowls and the occasional hum of satisfaction from Yeosang fill the small kitchen. When they finish, Yeosang automatically gathers their bowls and utensils, moving toward the sink without a word.
"Thanks for cooking," he says as he begins rinsing the dishes, his voice calm and familiar.
"Thanks for cleaning," Wooyoung replies lightly, already on his way to his room. They've settled into this routine over the years, a give-and-take balance that neither questions.
Once in his room, Wooyoung glances at the small pile of clothes on the chair near his bed. The suits he'd worn this week need washing, and he knows if he doesn't do it now, they'll sit there until next week. Sighing, he grabs the pile, separating them into darks and lights as he goes.
After a moment, he pokes his head out into the hallway, craning his neck to look into the kitchen. Yeosang is still standing at the sink, sleeves rolled up, his hands moving rhythmically under the stream of water.
"Yeosang?" Wooyoung calls, tilting his head. "You wanna wash stuff with me? Might as well throw your stuff in with mine."
Yeosang freezes for half a second before replying, a little too quickly, "Uh... I can do it myself."
Wooyoung blinks at him, narrowing his eyes as if he's trying to decipher something. There's a beat of silence where he considers pressing the issue, but he decides against it.
"If you insist," he murmurs.
Shrugging, he turns to the closet where the washer and dryer are stacked. The narrow space makes maneuvering awkward, but he's done this enough times to make it work. He carefully loads his suits into the washer, adjusting the settings with a precision born of years of paranoia about ruining the delicate fabric.
The sound of water rushing through the pipes fills the small space as the washer starts up. Wooyoung crouches, peering through the little round window as the water begins to fill the drum. He watches as the suits are gently soaked, then spun, the fabric twisting and turning in endless circles.
San's odd behavior still lingers in his thoughts, like a tiny splinter he can't quite shake. He doesn't know why it bothers him so much. Maybe it's just because it's out of the ordinary. San is usually so put-together, so predictable in his calculated efficiency, that anything outside the norm feels like a puzzle Wooyoung needs to solve.
The sound of the sink shutting off pulls him from his thoughts. Wooyoung steps back into the kitchen, where Yeosang is drying his hands with a dish towel.
"Hey," Wooyoung starts, his tone casual, "you sure you don't want me to throw your stuff in with mine? Save you the trouble later?"
Yeosang hesitates, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of the towel. "It's fine. I'll do it tomorrow."
Wooyoung narrows his eyes slightly, leaning against the counter. "You've been saying that for three days now."
"I'll get to it." Yeosang's reply is light, almost dismissive, but Wooyoung catches the edge of something—hesitation, maybe? Or avoidance?
"You're hiding something," Wooyoung teases, crossing his arms. "What, did you spill dye on one of your fancy shirts and don't want me to see?"
Yeosang rolls his eyes, tossing the towel onto the counter. "Nothing like that. Just...leave it alone, okay?"
Wooyoung blinks at him, momentarily caught off guard by the firmness in his tone. It's not like Yeosang to be snappy, and the shift leaves Wooyoung both curious and slightly concerned.
"Alright, alright," he says, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Touchy subject, I get it."
Yeosang doesn't respond, instead retreating to his room with an air of finality. The door clicks shut behind him, leaving Wooyoung alone in the kitchen.
Wooyoung lingers for a moment, staring at the closed door before letting out a sigh.
"Weird day," he mutters to himself, heading back to his own room. He leaves his door open so he can hear when the washer beeps and lies down on his bed, pulling out his phone to pass the time.
First San, now Yeosang. Everyone's acting strange today, and Wooyoung can't figure out why.