The second week was when Y/N realized something unsettling.
CEO Kim Taehyung did not miss details.
Not numbers.
Not mistakes.
Not behavior.
And definitely not her.
It began with small things.
The kind that could easily be dismissed as coincidence.
On Monday morning, she arrived five minutes later than usual. Traffic had stalled unexpectedly, and though she still reached before 9, it was later than her standard 8:45 arrival.
He stepped out of the elevator at exactly 8:59.
His gaze scanned the floor once.
Then landed on her desk.
"You were almost late," he said calmly while removing his gloves.
Almost.
Not late.
Almost.
Her fingers paused over her keyboard.
"Yes, sir."
"Adjust your commute."
"Yes, sir."
No anger.
No reprimand.
But he had noticed.
By Wednesday, the noticing became more personal.
She preferred her coffee with one sugar.
She had never told him that.
Yet during a long strategy meeting when refreshments were brought in, he pushed a cup toward her without looking.
"One sugar," he said.
She blinked.
"How did you—"
"You take it that way every morning at 10:20."
He said it as if it were obvious.
As if observing her daily habits was routine.
Her heartbeat skipped in a way that made her uncomfortable.
Because she had also noticed things about him.
The way his jaw tightened when someone wasted time.
The way he tapped his pen exactly twice when irritated.
The way his voice lowered — dangerously calm — when he was about to dismantle someone's argument.
But noticing him felt natural.
Him noticing her felt different.
It felt deliberate.
The first spark of something unprofessional happened on Friday.
It was raining again.
Seoul rain was different — persistent, moody, lingering like unfinished thoughts.
She had stayed late organizing a proposal that required restructuring.
Around 8:15 PM, the floor had emptied.
She didn't realize how hard it was raining until she heard the thunder.
Her body reacted before her mind did.
A slight flinch.
Barely visible.
But he saw it.
He always saw it.
"You dislike storms," he stated from across the room without lifting his eyes from the file in his hands.
She stiffened.
"I'm fine."
"That wasn't a question."
She swallowed.
"I just don't like loud thunder."
Silence stretched between them.
Another thunderclap echoed, shaking the windows slightly.
This time she didn't flinch.
But her shoulders tensed.
He stood slowly.
Walked toward the glass wall overlooking the city.
The rain streaked down the panes in silver lines.
"You can leave early," he said.
"There's still work."
"It can wait."
She hesitated.
"You don't like unfinished tasks."
A faint pause.
Then he turned to look at her.
"You're not a task."
The words landed heavier than they should have.
Her breath caught before she could stop it.
For a second — just a second — something unspoken hung between them.
Too warm.
Too aware.
Too close to crossing a line.
He broke the eye contact first.
"Take the company car," he added. "I don't want you driving in this."
Her pulse quickened.
"I can manage."
"I'm aware you can manage," he replied smoothly. "That doesn't mean I will allow it."
Allow.
There it was again.
That possessive undertone.
Subtle.
Controlled.
But there.
The shift became noticeable to others by the following Monday.
It started with Ms. Choi.
Executive Director. Polished. Intelligent. Ambitious.
She had worked beside Taehyung for four years.
She knew his patterns.
And Y/N disrupted them.
During a quarterly budget discussion, Taehyung asked for Y/N's input directly.
Not because he needed it.
But because he wanted it.
"Your analysis?" he asked, eyes sliding toward her at the end of the table.
Several heads turned.
Assistants did not usually speak in high-level meetings.
She cleared her throat.
"The projection underestimates operational risk by eight percent," she said calmly. "If we expand without restructuring regional management first, it will destabilize profit margins within two quarters."
Silence.
Taehyung's gaze didn't leave her face.
"And your solution?"
"Delay expansion by six months. Strengthen internal structure first."
A slow nod.
"That aligns with my thoughts."
Ms. Choi noticed.
He had already decided.
Yet he gave Y/N the floor.
And he looked… almost proud.
After the meeting, Ms. Choi approached Y/N near the elevators.
"You're adapting quickly," she said smoothly.
"I'm trying to."
A thin smile.
"Be careful."
Y/N frowned slightly. "Of what?"
"Visibility."
The elevator doors opened.
And Taehyung stepped out.
His eyes immediately assessed the distance between them.
"Is there an issue?" he asked calmly.
"No," Ms. Choi answered before Y/N could speak. "Just advice."
"Unnecessary," he replied coolly.
A small silence.
Then he turned to Y/N.
"Come."
Just one word.
But the tone was different.
Sharper.
More territorial.
Inside his office, the door closed softly behind them.
He walked toward his desk but didn't sit.
"What did she say?"
"Nothing important."
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"That's not an answer."
"She just told me to be careful about visibility."
A pause.
"And how did you interpret that?"
She hesitated.
"That people are starting to notice."
His jaw tightened subtly.
"Notice what?"
Her voice softened.
"The way you treat me."
The air shifted.
He stepped closer.
Measured.
Controlled.
"How do I treat you?"
Her heart pounded.
"Differently."
Silence.
He stopped a foot away.
"Do I?"
She held his gaze.
"Yes."
Another beat of quiet tension passed.
He searched her face as if calculating risk versus desire.
"And does that bother you?" he asked quietly.
She didn't answer immediately.
Because the truth was complicated.
It didn't bother her.
It terrified her.
"I don't want to be the reason people question you," she finally said.
His expression changed.
Something darker flickered beneath his composure.
"No one questions me."
It wasn't arrogance.
It was fact.
"And if they question you because of me?" she pressed.
He leaned slightly closer.
"Then they will learn not to."
Her breath caught.
There it was again.
That protective edge.
It wasn't about reputation.
It was about her.
The real moment happened that evening.
The office had emptied once more.
She was finalizing emails when the lights in his office dimmed slightly.
He stepped out, jacket off, sleeves rolled to his forearms.
A rare sight.
Less CEO.
More man.
"You're still here."
"You are too."
A faint exhale — almost amused.
"Walk with me," he said.
Not an order.
A request disguised as one.
They walked through the quiet hallway toward the large windows overlooking the river.
The city lights reflected in the glass.
For once, there were no files between them.
No desks.
No titles.
Just silence.
"You adapt quickly," he said after a moment.
"You test quickly."
A small pause.
Then — unexpectedly —
He smiled.
It wasn't wide.
It wasn't bright.
But it was real.
"You're observant."
"I have to be."
"Why?"
"Because you don't miss mistakes."
"And you believe I'm looking for yours?"
She hesitated.
"Aren't you?"
He turned to face her fully.
"No."
The simplicity of it unsettled her.
"I'm looking for your potential."
Her throat tightened slightly.
"That's different."
"Yes."
Thunder rolled again in the distance.
Softer this time.
She glanced toward the sky reflexively.
He noticed.
Without thinking — truly without thinking — he stepped slightly closer.
Not touching.
Just closer.
"You don't have to tense," he said quietly.
"I'm not."
"You are."
His voice had dropped lower.
Gentler.
"Why do you care?" she whispered before she could stop herself.
Silence.
Longer this time.
He held her gaze steadily.
Because he didn't have an easy answer.
Because the real answer was dangerous.
Finally, he spoke.
"Because when you flinch, I notice."
Her pulse stumbled.
"And when I notice," he continued, "I don't like it."
The words weren't romantic.
They weren't poetic.
But they were intimate.
Honest.
Raw in a way that unsettled both of them.
Another second passed.
The space between them felt charged.
He could close it.
She knew he could.
She wasn't sure she would step away if he did.
But instead—
He stepped back.
Rebuilding the distance.
"You should go home," he said softly.
Professional again.
Controlled again.
But the shift had happened.
It was no longer just boss and assistant.
It was awareness.
And everyone was starting to see it.
That night, as Y/N lay in bed, she replayed the way he had looked at her by the window.
Not like an employee.
Not like a responsibility.
Like something fragile.
And valuable.
Meanwhile, in his penthouse overlooking the same city, Kim Taehyung stood alone in the dark.
Replaying her voice when she asked:
Why do you care?
He had built an empire on logic.
On control.
On emotional distance.
But control was slipping.
Not dramatically.
Not recklessly.
Just subtly.
Like ice melting beneath sunlight.
And he wasn't sure if he wanted to stop it.