Not in that tone.
Not like it was a name.
But the ache lingered.
Tonight, it lingered worse.
He adjusted his cufflinks for the third time. The snow outside fell with unnerving grace. No wind. No sound. Just the slow, deliberate hush of something arriving.
He pressed a palm to the window.
The glass was colder than it should be.
He didn’t believe in ghosts.
But something was haunting him.
??????
A soft knock broke the silence.
“Come,” Seungho said without turning.
The door opened on a low hiss.
A man stepped in, carrying two files and a look that said this isn’t just business.
“Jaewan,” Seungho murmured, his voice gravel-smooth. “Late.”
Jaewan only raised an eyebrow. “You’re drinking scotch alone in a dark office. Again.”
Jaewan still moved like he had all the time in the world.
His suits were always perfectly creased, his cologne subtle—warm cedar and old books. He wore wire-framed glasses, more out of habit than need, and quoted Rilke in meetings just to watch interns panic.
Hewas one of the few who could enter Seungho’s office without knocking.
And the only one who still called him Seungho-ya like they were sixteen again, bruised and breathless from rooftop sparring matches no one else remembered.
They’d grown up together.
Jaewan had once tried to become a poet. Seungho had tried to become a shadow.
Only one of them succeeded.
“I thought we agreed,” Jaewan said. “No dramatics unless it’s quarterly losses or your brother announcing a surprise engagement.”
Seungho didn’t answer. He returned his gaze to the city below.
Jaewan walked to the desk, dropped the files, then poured himself a drink without asking. He didn’t sit. Just stood near the edge of the low light, like he’d learned long ago that Seungho moved like a lion when cornered.
“Alright,” he said after a moment. “Who is she?”
Seungho’s brow twitched. “What?”
“You’ve been like this for weeks. Quiet. Distracted. Looking out the window like it’s about to speak back.” Jaewan leaned against the desk, sipping slowly. “So. Who’s haunting you?”
“No one.”
