Tae-woo ⁞ PENT-UP PHONECALL

The automatic doors of Suryong Holdings Tower hissed shut behind Tae-woo, sealing away the cubicles and the hum of still running computers. The cold of a Busan December night hit him like a slap, a stark contrast to the overheated office he'd just escaped from.

He shrugged on his wool coat, the motion stiff as he walked towards his neatly parked car. The vehicle was dusted with a thin layer of snow, each accumulation a harsh reminder to the hours he'd lost inside that prison. Another project, another deadline screamed at by his seniors, another evening sacrificed here. His body ached with a deep exhaustion that sleep never seemed to cure. The thought of turning back to retrieve the hot beverage he'd forgotten made his stomach turn.

His key was in his hand when a voice cut through the quiet parking lot. "Team Leader Yeom!"

He turned to see one of his juniors, a pretty woman from his team, hurrying towards him. Her short bob was tousled by the wind, and she was holding a disposable cup of coffee, steam creating wispy lines around her head in the cold air. He schooled his features into a mask of polite detachment.

"You forgot this," she said, her cheeks flushed from more than just the cold.

He was an expert at ignoring this familiarity, all the hopeful glances and offered kindnesses that were really just preludes to poorly timed and executed flirtatious. He was too tired to scold her for the informality.

"I'm fine. You look like you need it more than I do," he said, his voice final.

He gave a slight, dismissive shake of his head. For a fleeting, nauseating moment, he wondered what the night would hold if he took the coffee anf let the conversation continue, if he suggested a drink somewhere else. The fantasy was brief and foolish. Never. He was better than those team leaders sleeping with half the juniors under them, he hated those kinds of men.

He slid into the driver's seat without a backward glance, the engine roaring to life as he pulled away, his destination already fixed in his mind. He needed a drink.

---

Hours later, the click of his apartment door lock was a familiar, lonely sound.

Tae-woo stumbled inside, shedding his coat and letting it fall to the floor. His red tie was a loose scarf around his neck, and his cheeks were flushed with the soju. The bar had not helped. God, he felt horrible. It wasn't the sick, spinning nausea of too much alcohol, but a lower, more frustrating ache. A tightness in his chest and a hardness in his pants. All night, surrounded by the sounds of sizzling meat and boisterous patrons, he had been plagued by thoughts of them.

Has to pick up tonight, oh fuck, let them pick up.

He had imagined them sitting beside him in the booth, their voice a quiet and sultry murmur in his ear.

Now, in the loneliness of his apartment, the need for a release that only they had been able to provide for him over these past two shameful yet exhilarating weeks. He knew the drill. When morning came and sobriety returned he would meticulously delete the call logs, some of which had stretched to a staggering hour in length. But he would wake up feeling truly satisfied, his body pleasantly sore in all the right places.

He didn't bother with thinking. He stumbled to his bed, collapsing onto the edge of the mattress. His fingers fumbled with his belt buckle, managing to get it open and his zipper down to free the hard shape already straining his boxers, the stain of warm precum more embarrassing than his next actions.

He was pulling out his phone, his thumb finding their number in his contacts a week prior. He pressed call and held the phone to his ear, his breathing already getting heavier. The moment he heard the connection click, he spoke, his voice a low, alcohol-slurred command, the same tone he used to chastise incompetent interns.

"Don't bother with the hello's tonight, Just..." He paused, biting his soft lower lip, his ears burning with a blush that spread down his neck.

The authority cracked, crumbling into a desperate plea. "Just talk. Please, just talk to me."

The automatic doors of Suryong Holdings Tower hissed shut behind Tae-woo, sealing away the cubicles and the hum of still running computers. The cold of a Busan December night hit him like a slap, a stark contrast to the overheated office he'd just escaped from.

He shrugged on his wool coat, the motion stiff as he walked towards his neatly parked car. The vehicle was dusted with a thin layer of snow, each accumulation a harsh reminder to the hours he'd lost inside that prison. Another project, another deadline screamed at by his seniors, another evening sacrificed here. His body ached with a deep exhaustion that sleep never seemed to cure. The thought of turning back to retrieve the hot beverage he'd forgotten made his stomach turn.

His key was in his hand when a voice cut through the quiet parking lot. "Team Leader Yeom!"

He turned to see one of his juniors, a pretty woman from his team, hurrying towards him. Her short bob was tousled by the wind, and she was holding a disposable cup of coffee, steam creating wispy lines around her head in the cold air. He schooled his features into a mask of polite detachment.

"You forgot this," she said, her cheeks flushed from more than just the cold.

He was an expert at ignoring this familiarity, all the hopeful glances and offered kindnesses that were really just preludes to poorly timed and executed flirtatious. He was too tired to scold her for the informality.

"I'm fine. You look like you need it more than I do," he said, his voice final.

He gave a slight, dismissive shake of his head. For a fleeting, nauseating moment, he wondered what the night would hold if he took the coffee anf let the conversation continue, if he suggested a drink somewhere else. The fantasy was brief and foolish. Never. He was better than those team leaders sleeping with half the juniors under them, he hated those kinds of men.

He slid into the driver's seat without a backward glance, the engine roaring to life as he pulled away, his destination already fixed in his mind. He needed a drink.

---

Hours later, the click of his apartment door lock was a familiar, lonely sound.

Tae-woo stumbled inside, shedding his coat and letting it fall to the floor. His red tie was a loose scarf around his neck, and his cheeks were flushed with the soju. The bar had not helped. God, he felt horrible. It wasn't the sick, spinning nausea of too much alcohol, but a lower, more frustrating ache. A tightness in his chest and a hardness in his pants. All night, surrounded by the sounds of sizzling meat and boisterous patrons, he had been plagued by thoughts of her.

Has to pick up tonight, oh fuck, let her pick up.

He had imagined her sitting beside him in the booth, her voice a quiet and sultry murmur in his ear.

Now, in the loneliness of his apartment, the need for a release that only she had been able to provide for him over these past two shameful yet exhilarating weeks. He knew the drill. When morning came and sobriety returned he would meticulously delete the call logs, some of which had stretched to a staggering hour in length. But he would wake up feeling truly satisfied, his body pleasantly sore in all the right places.

He didn't bother with thinking. He stumbled to his bed, collapsing onto the edge of the mattress. His fingers fumbled with his belt buckle, managing to get it open and his zipper down to free the hard shape already straining his boxers, the stain of warm precum more embarrassing than his next actions.

He was pulling out his phone, his thumb finding her number in his contacts a week prior. He pressed call and held the phone to his ear, his breathing already getting heavier. The moment he heard the connection click, he spoke, his voice a low, alcohol-slurred command, the same tone he used to chastise incompetent interns.

"Don't bother with the hello's tonight, Just..." He paused, biting his soft lower lip, his ears burning with a blush that spread down his neck.

The authority cracked, crumbling into a desperate plea. "Just talk. Please, just talk to me."

The automatic doors of Suryong Holdings Tower hissed shut behind Tae-woo, sealing away the cubicles and the hum of still running computers. The cold of a Busan December night hit him like a slap, a stark contrast to the overheated office he'd just escaped from.

He shrugged on his wool coat, the motion stiff as he walked towards his neatly parked car. The vehicle was dusted with a thin layer of snow, each accumulation a harsh reminder to the hours he'd lost inside that prison. Another project, another deadline screamed at by his seniors, another evening sacrificed here. His body ached with a deep exhaustion that sleep never seemed to cure. The thought of turning back to retrieve the hot beverage he'd forgotten made his stomach turn.

His key was in his hand when a voice cut through the quiet parking lot. "Team Leader Yeom!"

He turned to see one of his juniors, a pretty woman from his team, hurrying towards him. Her short bob was tousled by the wind, and she was holding a disposable cup of coffee, steam creating wispy lines around her head in the cold air. He schooled his features into a mask of polite detachment.

"You forgot this," she said, her cheeks flushed from more than just the cold.

He was an expert at ignoring this familiarity, all the hopeful glances and offered kindnesses that were really just preludes to poorly timed and executed flirtatious. He was too tired to scold her for the informality.

"I'm fine. You look like you need it more than I do," he said, his voice final.

He gave a slight, dismissive shake of his head. For a fleeting, nauseating moment, he wondered what the night would hold if he took the coffee anf let the conversation continue, if he suggested a drink somewhere else. The fantasy was brief and foolish. Never. He was better than those team leaders sleeping with half the juniors under them, he hated those kinds of men.

He slid into the driver's seat without a backward glance, the engine roaring to life as he pulled away, his destination already fixed in his mind. He needed a drink.

---

Hours later, the click of his apartment door lock was a familiar, lonely sound.

Tae-woo stumbled inside, shedding his coat and letting it fall to the floor. His red tie was a loose scarf around his neck, and his cheeks were flushed with the soju. The bar had not helped. God, he felt horrible. It wasn't the sick, spinning nausea of too much alcohol, but a lower, more frustrating ache. A tightness in his chest and a hardness in his pants. All night, surrounded by the sounds of sizzling meat and boisterous patrons, he had been plagued by thoughts of him.

Has to pick up tonight, oh fuck, let him pick up.

He had imagined him sitting beside him in the booth, his voice a quiet and sultry murmur in his ear.

Now, in the loneliness of his apartment, the need for a release that only he had been able to provide for him over these past two shameful yet exhilarating weeks. He knew the drill. When morning came and sobriety returned he would meticulously delete the call logs, some of which had stretched to a staggering hour in length. But he would wake up feeling truly satisfied, his body pleasantly sore in all the right places.

He didn't bother with thinking. He stumbled to his bed, collapsing onto the edge of the mattress. His fingers fumbled with his belt buckle, managing to get it open and his zipper down to free the hard shape already straining his boxers, the stain of warm precum more embarrassing than his next actions.

He was pulling out his phone, his thumb finding his number in his contacts a week prior. He pressed call and held the phone to his ear, his breathing already getting heavier. The moment he heard the connection click, he spoke, his voice a low, alcohol-slurred command, the same tone he used to chastise incompetent interns.

"Don't bother with the hello's tonight, Just..." He paused, biting his soft lower lip, his ears burning with a blush that spread down his neck.

The authority cracked, crumbling into a desperate plea. "Just talk. Please, just talk to me."