The success of the photoshoot left a lingering energy in its wake. For Jeon Minho, it was a disquieting hum under his skin, a feeling he couldn't quite name. He found himself replaying the moment his fingers had brushed against Kim Siwoo's, the brief, electric connection that had silenced the entire world for a heartbeat.

Two days later, Siwoo was scheduled to come to Jeon Enterprises to review the final, edited images. Minho had instructed Lee Taejoon to ensure the conference room was prepared, his tone brusquer than necessary. He was determined to maintain a strictly professional facade, to rebuild the walls that had so dangerously crumbled.

Siwoo arrived precisely on time, looking effortlessly elegant in a soft, cream-colored sweater that made his skin glow. The formal "Mr. Jeon" and "Mr. Kim" were exchanged, their voices carefully neutral.

"The photographers sent over the final selects," Minho began, powering up the large screen. "The 'Andromeda' series is particularly strong."

As the stunning images flashed across the screen, both CEOs were pulled back into their professional roles. They discussed lighting, composition, and marketing angles with a focused intensity that almost, but not quite, masked the underlying current between them.

The meeting was winding down when a soft rustling came from the door. It creaked open, and a small, familiar face peeked in. Junho, having once again given Taejoon the slip, had followed the sound of Siwoo's voice.

"Mama!" he whispered, his voice full of wonder.

Minho closed his eyes for a second, a wave of frustration and something softer—resignation?—washing over him. "Junho-ah, I told you to stay with Taejoon."

But Junho was already padding into the room, his eyes fixed on Siwoo. He clutched a piece of paper tightly in his hand.

Siwoo's heart melted instantly. He smiled, his whole face softening. "Hello, my little angel. What do you have there?"

Encouraged, Junho shuffled forward and shyly thrust the drawing into Siwoo's hands. "For you."

Siwoo looked down. The drawing was more detailed than the last. There were three figures again. "Appa" was a tall figure in a black suit, with a serious, frowny face. "Junho" was a small figure holding the tall figure's hand. And this time, "Mama" was a beautifully detailed figure with kind, smiling eyes, wearing a crown and a yellow shirt, holding Junho's other hand. The three of them were standing under a large, smiling sun. Scrawled in wobbly letters at the top were the words: "My Famlee."

The air left Siwoo's lungs. This wasn't just a picture; it was a profound, heartbreaking confession from a child who had woven him directly into the fabric of his world. He looked from the drawing to Junho's hopeful, expectant face, and then, helplessly, up to Minho.

Minho had seen the drawing. His stern expression had fractured completely, revealing a raw, stunned vulnerability. He was staring at the paper as if it held all the answers to questions he'd been too afraid to ask. The word "Famlee" seemed to hang in the air, vast and terrifying.

"He... he asked me what your favorite color was," Minho said quietly, his voice rough. "I told him I didn't know. He said it must be yellow, like the sun. Because you're warm."

Siwoo felt a tear prick the corner of his eye. He blinked it away rapidly and looked down at Junho, his voice thick with emotion. "It's the most beautiful drawing I have ever seen, angel. Thank you." He carefully placed it inside his portfolio, treating it with more reverence than any contract. "I will treasure it always."

Junho beamed, his mission accomplished. He then did something that sealed all their fates. He climbed onto the plush conference room chair next to Siwoo, leaned his small body against the Omega's arm, sighed contentedly, and closed his eyes.

The simple, trusting act was a tidal wave.

Siwoo froze for a second, then instinctively lifted his arm and wrapped it around the little boy, pulling him into a gentle side-hug. He looked up at Minho, half expecting anger, a command to let go.

But Minho said nothing. He just watched them, his gaze an unreadable storm of conflict—fear, protectiveness, and a deep, aching longing. The sight of his son, safe and content in the arms of the beautiful, confusing Omega who was slowly dismantling his life, was too powerful to deny.

In that silent conference room, with the images of their professional triumph still glowing on the screen, a new, fragile family portrait had been drawn. Not in ink, but in trust.

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