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Chapter Text

Han Sooyoung had always believed hell would smell like burnt toner and buzzing fluorescent lights.

It was mid‑July, the building’s ancient air‑conditioning unit was rattling like a dying insect, and every overhead tube flickered in sync with her rising frustration. She perched on the edge of Kim Dokja’s visitor chair—a sagging faux‑leather relic that squeaked if you even breathed near it—and watched him butcher her prose.

The clock on his wall ticked a fraction too loudly. A fan on his credenza pushed tepid air in lazy circles. Somewhere three offices down, someone was microwaving fish. It was the kind of afternoon designed to test human decency, and Sooyoung was failing the exam spectacularly.

She’d spent the morning polishing chapter five of her new manuscript—an experimental narrative laced with unreliable footnotes and fourth‑wall breaches—and had dared to feel proud when she slapped the printed pages onto Dokja’s desk. Pride was her first mistake. Sitting down to watch him edit was her second.

“Sentence three,” he murmured, red pen scratching. “You wrote ‘anyway’ again.”

She pivoted one knee over the other, heel bouncing. “It’s intentional voice.”

“Lazy voice,” he corrected without looking at her. “You break the tension with conversational filler instead of earned release.”

“You sound like a pretentious review blog.”

“Pretension is structural. Cut the adverb.”

Sooyoung inhaled, held it, let it out slow. Count to four, like the meditation app her therapist insisted she download and which she never opened unless she needed to avoid homicide. “Kim Dokja, did you wake up this morning and decide today was the day you’d gaslight my artistic process, or is this just the dopamine hit you get instead of coffee?”

He tapped his pen once—click. “If you thought I’d praise unedited stream‑of‑consciousness, you gave me too little credit.”

She slid forward, elbows on knees. “And if you think I’ll let you neuter my tone because you’re allergic to personality, you misunderstand me on a cosmic level.”

Dokja finally glanced up, brown eyes flat as a blank page. Up close he looked unfairly mild, like a librarian who never shushed children, which only made the harsh red markups feel like personal betrayal.

“Sooyoung,” he said—careful, even—“your narrative voice is strong. That’s not in question. But strength unfocused is just noise. You can snarl, or you can cut. Cutting leaves scars.”

“Oh, wow. Did you copy that from a self‑help calendar?”

“No. I wrote it on yours last week. You threw it away.”

She opened her mouth—closed it. She had thrown away a note last Friday, thinking it one of his passive‑aggressive reminders. Now she wanted to rummage through recycling and scrawl rude words over every letter.

The red pen glided again. Slash, circle, tiny comment in the margin: Consider tightening . She hated that his handwriting was neat. Hated that each annotation felt simultaneously like a scolding and a dare to do better.

“Why do you care?” she asked suddenly.

He paused mid‑stroke. “Because it’s my job.”

“No, your job is to ensure grammatical compliance and house style. You’re line‑editing my soul.”

“Your soul misuses semicolons.”

She barked a laugh—sharp, incredulous. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m consistent.”

“Consistently infuriating.”

“You still bring your drafts to me first.”

The silence that followed tasted metallic. Because he was right. Because she did. Because every stupid, arrogant line she wrote was written with one corner of her mind already anticipating the rhythm of his pen.

She stood abruptly, the chair squealing protest. “You know what, do whatever you want. Bleed on it. Hang it in the lobby as a cautionary tale. I’m going for lunch.”

Dokja set the pen down. “It’s half past two.”

“Then I’m having late lunch.”

“You skipped breakfast.”

She bristled at the casual accuracy. “Are you tracking my meals now?”

“I track your energy levels. They correlate with comma abuse.”

She spun on her heel, grabbed the door handle. “I hope one day you choke on an em‑dash.”

Without waiting for a reply, she pushed into the hallway, the scent of microwaved fish stronger here. Her pulse pounded in her ears like bad drum‑and‑bass. Lunch. She needed fresh air, caffeine, maybe a pastry laced with arsenic. Anything to drown the sting of knowing he cared enough to notice her skipped breakfast but not enough to say something kinder than Lazy voice .

Lunch lasted exactly eleven minutes—enough to down an iced americano and groan at the lack of food choices because she came down late, eventually she settled ion eating half a stale croissant from the lobby café before her conscience prodded her back upstairs. She hovered outside his office door, heartbeat skittish. Through the frosted glass she saw him still bent over the pages, a lonely figure drowning in fluorescent glow.

She hated how relief fluttered in her throat. Hated that he hadn’t tossed her manuscript aside the moment she left.

Squaring her shoulders, she pushed the door open. “If you changed my epigraph, we’re fighting.”

He didn’t look up. “Your epigraph quotes yourself.”

“It’s meta.”

“It’s narcissistic.”

“Same difference.” She approached the desk, noting the neat stack of revised pages. Red ink spider‑webbed across margins—cruel, meticulous art. She reached out, flipped to the second sheet. In the gutter he’d written: Beautiful imagery, but consider holding one beat longer before undercutting . A compliment? Her stomach swooped, treacherous.

She cleared her throat. “You could open with ‘good job’ occasionally.”

He angled his head. “Positive reinforcement works best when it’s scarce. Otherwise it cheapens.”

“So I should feel honored when you say anything nice?”

He met her gaze, something unreadable there. “I don’t edit writers I don’t believe in.”

The words landed heavy, more shocking than an insult. She swallowed. “Flattery won’t save you from my semicolons.”

“Then we’ll both suffer.”

A beat, strangely soft. The air‑conditioner wheezed, lights hummed. Outside the window, gray clouds rolled over Namsan like crumpled paper.

Sooyoung exhaled. Sat back down, chair squealing again. “Fine. Show me what else I did wrong.”

“Paragraph eight.” He slid the manuscript toward her, knuckles brushing hers—a glancing touch that sparked like static. Neither of them reacted.

She read his notes, cheeks warming at every strong hook and bristling at each trim this . They argued about rhythm, debated the ethics of footnote jokes, spent ten minutes on whether the protagonist’s mother would realistically cite Kant while burying a body. The outside world shrank to spilled ink and half‑muttered retorts.

By the time she glanced at the clock, it was nearly four. No wonder she was starving.

“You made me miss actual lunch,” she said.

He pushed his untouched lunchbox across the desk. “Sweet‑potato jumeokbap. Take half.”

She stared. “You pack your own rice balls?”

“They freeze well.”

“You’re a grandmother.”

“You’re hungry.”

Reluctantly she took one, still warm, sprinkled with sesame seeds. The first bite dissolved on her tongue, sweet and earthy. She hated how good it tasted.

“Thank you,” she mumbled.

“You’re welcome.”

A pause.

“Lazy voice,” she said around a mouthful, “is a stylistic choice.”

He smirked—tiny, fleeting. “If laziness is a choice, choose better.”

She rolled her eyes, but the fight had gentled to banter, rough edges sanded by rice and quiet respect.

Outside, thunder rumbled. Inside, red ink dried. And for a moment—one breathless, blinking moment—Sooyoung almost believed this maddening, perfect war could last forever.

And she was never more wrong in her entire life because the very next day she entered their lives. Her name was Yoo Sangah. She was the kind of person who folded herself neatly into spaces without drawing attention—like origami, intricate and quiet.

Polished. Polite. Disgustingly competent. And worst of all, attentive.

Every morning she greeted Kim Dokja with a small bow and a gentle, “Good morning, sunbae.”

Every day, she hovered just far enough from his desk to be respectful, but close enough to be seen. She asked about style guides and legal phrasing, syntax and formatting. And Kim Dokja—stoic, distant, aloof Kim Dokja—answered.

Not with his usual tired sarcasm or clipped retorts. With real words. Thoughtful explanations. Metaphors.

Only three days of that and Sooyoung snapped.

One morning, she slammed her manuscript down and told him he could edit it when he stopped being blinded by shiny new interns.

He blinked once. She didn’t wait for a reply.

She stormed straight to the break room and poured herself the worst coffee in Seoul.

Joonghyuk was already there, guarding the machine like he was guarding a portal to hell. 

He raised an eyebrow as she entered. “You’re glaring.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re scowling. Your mouth does that thing where it disappears into itself.”

She muttered something foul and poured her coffee.

“He’s mentoring her,” she said.

Joonghyuk, deadpan: “She’s his intern.”

“He doesn’t mentor me. He just fights me.”

“You don’t take advice.”

“He could still offer it.”

“You’d ignore it.”

She scowled harder. “You’re very bad at comforting people.”

He sipped his coffee. “You’re not here for comfort.”

She stared at the vending machine like it had betrayed her.

Then Joonghyuk added, almost absently, “You’re jealous.”

Her head snapped around. “Of an intern?”

Silence. He didn’t need to answer. His face said everything.

She groaned. “Okay. Maybe a little.”

They only had lunch together once.

One accidental tray alignment. One too-late realization. The cafeteria was full, and Joonghyuk had nodded—just once—when Sooyoung gestured to the seat across from him.

No big deal. Just lunch.

But someone saw them.

By Monday, it was canon.

Han Sooyoung and Yoo Joonghyuk. Secret office couple. Confirmed by HR, whispered in marketing, immortalized on the anonymous gossip board in all-caps and emojis. They even had a ship name: Jooyoung . Someone added a sparkly filter to a blurry elevator cam photo and made it the background of the breakroom desktop.

Sooyoung read it over Joonghyuk’s shoulder. “Well,” she said, grinning, “that’s new.”

He scrolled in silence, then muttered, “I hate office drama.”

“So correct them,” she said, not unkindly. “We’ll both deny it.”

Joonghyuk shrugged. “They already have a narrative in their head. Correcting it will only make it worse. Let it die out.”

It didn’t.

By Friday, the rumors had mutated. According to one post, Joonghyuk had recited love poetry to Sooyoung during a smoke break. Another claimed she was editing his thesis —what thesis?—and that the margin notes were secretly flirtation disguised as critical theory. Someone anonymously uploaded a timestamped video of them exiting the building together, slowed down and soundtracked with romantic piano.

Sooyoung almost laughed herself into a nosebleed.

And yet—she didn’t exactly mind it.

She started sitting closer in meetings. Started offering him bites of her lunch when he forgot his own. She leaned into the narrative like a finger pressing on a bruise.

Just to see.

Just to test a theory.

Maybe, if she leaned far enough into it, Kim Dokja might flinch.

The next time she passed him in the hallway, wearing Joonghyuk’s hoodie and laughing at nothing in particular, she caught a flicker in Dokja’s gaze.

Small.

Sharp.

And, every time she wore it since, she could feel Dokja’s gaze flicker. Or maybe she imagined it.

But the next manuscript she turned in came back with fewer comments.

Shorter. Sharper. Less engagement. It was like watching a conversation turn into a monologue.

She stared at the cold margins and felt something twist in her chest.

Chapter Text

The chaos had cooled from raging scandal to a steady background hum—less inferno, more office air conditioning: constant, mildly annoying, impossible to tune out.

Even a week later, the whispers lingered. Idle chatter. Lingering glances in the break room. Mysteriously specific questions slipped into meetings.

“So… long weekend, huh?”

“You were both out Friday and Monday?”

“I heard you’re really into Jeju now?”

“Oh, wait—you’re not already living together?”

No one said it outright, but everyone seemed to know. And once something became “common knowledge,” there was no undoing it. Sooyoung didn’t even bother denying it anymore—not when playing along was easier.

So when she strolled into the office Monday morning, iced americano in hand, sunglasses still perched like a crown, she made a beeline for Joonghyuk’s desk. No hesitation.

She leaned on the divider, voice low and casual. “Alright, weekend recap. What did we do this time?”

Without looking up, Joonghyuk replied, “It was the long weekend. We had a family getaway.”

Her brows rose. “Oh? I met your family already?”

“You barely passed. But my sister liked you. Said you have the emotional maturity of an eleven-year-old. She felt seen.”

Sooyoung nearly choked on her coffee. “Rude. Also: valid.”

She took another sip. “Where’d we go?”

“Jeju.”

Her eyes lit up. “Nice. I’ve always wanted to go.”

Joonghyuk nodded, still typing. “Apparently, we were scouting locations for our destination wedding.”

Sooyoung groaned. “God, we’re efficient. Let’s just elope. City hall. Two signatures. Done.”

“That’s what I said.”

“You’re having way too much fun with this,” she muttered.

“So are you.”

She tilted her head, voice slow and teasing. “I know this must be hard for you, but try really hard not to fall in love with me.” She added a wink.

Joonghyuk finally looked up, visibly offended. “Please. I have standards.”

She grinned. “Fair.”

And with that, she sauntered off to her desk, sipping her coffee like it was just another Monday in a fake relationship that half the office believed was real—and the other half claimed they always knew.

But just as she passed the lounge, a laugh caught her attention.

Yoo Sangah’s.

Sooyoung slowed, turned—and there they were. Yoo Sangah holding two coffees. Kim Dokja taking one.

Han Sooyoung was not the jealous type.

She was, however, highly observant, deeply opinionated, and absolutely not above petty rage when the universe insisted on being stupid in her immediate vicinity.

Case in point: Yoo Sangah.

It had started innocently enough. A coffee here. A sandwich there. The kind of polite, coordinated kindness Sooyoung would normally ignore—except Yoo Sangah always brought two cups. One for herself. One for Kim Dokja.

Not just any coffee, either. His exact order. Iced americano, barely sweetened, just enough ice to rattle.

And he accepted it. With thanks.

With smiles.

Sooyoung had watched that smile unfold across his face—slow, soft, like a long-lost muscle remembering how to work. Not one of his default professional nods or tired grimaces. No. This was real.

It physically hurt.

She’d been typing at the shared lounge table when it happened—Yoo Sangah handing him the cup, saying something with a quiet laugh. And Kim Dokja—her Kim Dokja, editor from hell and semicolon tyrant—had laughed back. Even leaned in slightly.

Sooyoung dropped her phone.

It clattered on the table like a gunshot.

Yoo Sangah startled at the sound, flinching as her hand instinctively reached out—just long enough to brush Kim Dokja’s arm.

Just a reflex. Just a second.

But it was enough to make Sooyoung’s stomach twist.

“So that’s where we are now,” she muttered later, stabbing at her tray of cafeteria rice like it had personally betrayed her.

Across the table, Joonghyuk raised an eyebrow. “Did the rice offend you, or am I missing context?”

Sooyoung sighed and pushed her lunch aside. “Yoo Sangah is bringing him sandwiches.”

Joonghyuk blinked, expression unreadable.

She scowled. “Don’t play dumb. The intern. The one with perfect handwriting and emotionally stable energy.”

“I know who she is, I’m reacting to you,” he said simply.

Sooyoung ground her teeth.

“She’s kind,” Joonghyuk added.

“That’s the problem!” Sooyoung hissed. “She’s so kind. She’s kind to everyone. She’s even kind to me , and I’ve actively tried to make her uncomfortable.”

Joonghyuk gave her a long, unimpressed look.

Sooyoung huffed, voice lowering. “She brings him food. Smiles at his dumb jokes. Laughs like he’s hilarious.”

“He’s not,” Joonghyuk said.

“That’s what I’m saying!” She leaned in. “And the worst part is—he smiles back.”

Joonghyuk tilted his head. “Good. He should smile more.”

Sooyoung stared. “No. No, he shouldn’t. Not like that. Not at her.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’ll imprint on her like a duckling.”

Joonghyuk blinked. “That’s… not how humans work.”

“He hasn’t gotten that much unsolicited affection since—” She cut herself off.

Joonghyuk finished it for her. “Since you.”

She looked away. “That’s not the point.”

“It kind of is.”

“I’m serious. She’ll offer him a cup of tea and he’ll hand her his heart and follow her for the rest of his life.”

Joonghyuk took a calm bite of seaweed soup. “Maybe that’s good for him.”

Sooyoung slammed her chopsticks down. “Stop saying that.”

“She’s thoughtful. He needs thoughtful.”

“I’M thoughtful,” she snapped, jabbing a finger at herself. “I think about him all the time.”

“You insult him daily.”

“So he doesn’t forget his place.”

Joonghyuk exhaled a small, quiet breath. “Han Sooyoung, you’re upset because someone is being kind to Kim Dokja—and he’s reacting like a normal human being.”

“I’m upset,” she growled, “because she’s getting the smile I earned through years of emotional warfare.”

Joonghyuk stared. “You need therapy.”

“I have therapy. She says I’m ‘highly expressive.’”

Then, quieter: “Anyway, I’m not mad. I’m just... observing. Making notes. Preparing contingencies.”

“You’re plotting.”

“I’m considering attending the company retreat.”

Joonghyuk blinked. “You hate the company retreat.”

“Exactly.” She smiled sweetly. “That’s how you know I’m serious.”

Sooyoung was dreading this terrible idea the second the bus pulled out of the city.

Team-building weekend. The phrase alone made her want to bite someone. Trust falls, icebreakers, catered lunches no one asked for. She could survive all that. What she hadn’t counted on was him —and Yoo Sangah, smiling up at him like he’d rewritten the dictionary just for her.

The ride up is a blur of annoying co-workers, high-pitched commentary and someone’s terrible playlist. Sooyoung keeps her headphones in, forehead against the window. The clouds look stupidly peaceful. She closes her eyes. When she opens them again, Joonghyuk’s asleep next to her, arms crossed, sunglasses on. Classic.

She doesn’t mean to look for Kim Dokja.

But there he is—laughing at something Sangah said, calm as ever, carrying one of her bags.

Of course he is.

Joonghyuk hands her a granola bar without looking.

“What am I, a hiker?” she mutters.

“You forget to eat when you’re spiraling.”

She squints at him. “Have I ever told you you’re terrifyingly observant?”

“Don’t fall in love with me,” he says without missing a beat.

“I’d rather die.”

She takes the granola bar anyway.

The first night smelled like smoke and beer—and discomfort she couldn’t drink away.
Sooyoung stuck close to Joonghyuk, using his silence as a human shield. The fire crackled. People laughed too easily, trying too hard. But then someone handed her a cup of beer, and the warmth of the flame began to settle in her chest.

Across the firepit, she saw them again—Sangah beside Dokja, their knees almost touching. She wasn’t even looking at him, just laughing—shoulders loose, head tipped back. Dokja was watching her, his face softened by the firelight.

Something in Sooyoung’s chest shifted.

Joonghyuk noticed.

“He’s scared,” he said.

She blinked. “What?”

“Kim Dokja. He’s scared. Slow. Stupid. And you’re punishing him for it.”

“That’s rich coming from you.”

“Frankly, I’m here for it.”

She snorted. “What, my descent into chaos?”

“Your drama is cheaper than therapy.”

Sooyoung rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth tugged upward.

He nodded toward the fire. “Know why I picked this spot?”

“Because it’s warm,” she deadpanned.

“No,” he said, straight-faced. “I like front-row seats to idiots going up in flames.”

She laughed—really laughed. A bright, unguarded sound that cracked out of her chest before she could stop it.

Around them, the bonfire crackled louder, smoke curling skyward, sparks catching on the breeze. As the heat ebbed and surged, teams naturally paired off—couples drifting closer to the fire in quiet twos, shadows flickering across their cheeks like half-swallowed confessions. Across the flames, Yoo Sangah still sat with Kim Dokja, her voice low, hands moving gently. He listened, lips curved in that same maddening smile.

Sooyoung didn’t notice.

She burst into helpless laughter again—sharp, unfiltered, real. For a moment, she forgot the fire. Forgot the quiet audience across from her. Forgot everything except that Joonghyuk was occasionally funny in the worst possible way.

“You’re laughing,” he said.

“I hate that I am,” she gasped.

“Careful. Look too happy and someone might think you’re approachable.”

She smirked. “Don’t fall in love with me.”

“Don’t fall in love with me either.”

The breeze picked up. She rubbed her arms once. Without a word, Joonghyuk unzipped his jacket and handed it over.

She blinked. “...Thanks.”

“I’m letting you borrow this one,” he said. “Return the other hoodie while you’re at it.”

“No. The other one’s mine now. You gave it to me.”

“You took it from my chair.”

“You weren’t using it.”

“I haven’t seen it in three weeks.”

“Then it’s sentimental. I’m keeping it.”

He sighed. “Fine. But return this one.”

“No promises,” she said, a small smile breaking past her usual defenses.

Across the fire, Kim Dokja watched them.

He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but their body language grated on him. The way Joonghyuk leaned in, casual and close. The smirk tugging at Sooyoung’s mouth. The way she tilted her head when she was genuinely amused. It all scraped at something raw and stupid inside him.

He used to think they wouldn’t last—too alike, too combustible. But now, watching them, he saw it: they didn’t just match—they magnified. Like gasoline to flame. And he was the collateral, scorched to ash.

It made him feel like nothing. Unremarkable. A reader, not even part of the story.

He looked away.

Turning to Sangah, he mumbled something about being tired and stood.

“Oh—” she glanced around. “It is getting chilly. I’ll walk with you, sunbae.”

He didn’t argue. Together, they slipped into the dark, their silhouettes vanishing down the slope toward the quarters.

That’s when Sooyoung looked up.

Saw them walking away, side by side.

Saw Sangah’s soft smile. Dokja’s quiet step.

And it felt like daggers.

No—worse.

Like being forgotten in real time.

Like watching someone else pick up a story she never got to finish writing.

Han Sooyoung was in the kitchen before the sky began to lighten.

Not peaceful dark—just that dead-hour stillness where every thought echoed too loud, too long.

She hadn’t slept.

Spent the night staring at the ceiling, counting regrets in the cabin beams.

They’d left together.

Kim Dokja and Yoo Sangah.

Before the bonfire even died.

Shoulders brushing. Voices low.
Laughing at something that probably wasn’t even funny.

Maybe they just talked.

Maybe they drank tea.

Maybe he already kissed her.

She slammed a drawer hard enough to rattle the walls. The forks jumped. Good.

Get a grip. He’s not yours. He never was.

Not like you didn’t shove him away hard enough to leave a mark.

She gripped the coffee pot, knuckles white, trying to still the thoughts crawling under her skin.

And then--

“Sooyoung-ssi?”

of course.

She didn’t turn.

“Good morning! You’re up early… here to see the sunrise too?”

Of course she’s a sunrise person.

Probably hums while brushing her teeth. Probably thanks the sun for rising.

Sooyoung grunted. Noncommittal.

“Oh! Well, since you’re here, you could join us. We’re heading to the viewing deck in a few minutes.”

Us.

Her hand faltered.

Of course they’re going together.

She poured the coffee. Slow. Steady. Didn’t trust her voice.

“Sooyoung-ssi, wait!”

She stopped.

Too late to walk away now.

Turned—mask on, smile brittle, eyes hollow.

“Hmm?”

“I… I just wanted to ask something. It might be weird.”

“You started. Might as well finish.”

“I wanted to know what you think of Kim Dokja-sunbae. You seem to understand him. I admire that. I want to… get to know him too.”

Silence.

Not angry. Not jealous.

Just—vacant.

She could lie.

Say he’s not worth it. That he’s a locked door with no key.

But the girl was sincere. Too sincere.

And worst of all—she didn’t know.

Didn’t know about her. About them. What they were. What they almost were.

“…He’s funny,” Sooyoung said coolly. “Weird sense of humor. Hard to read. But he surprises you.”

She sipped her coffee. Swallowed the rest of the bitter things she was going to say.

“If you stick around long enough, he’ll open up.”
Then—dryly—“But I don’t think you’ll have a problem with that.”

Sangah beamed. “Really? That’s good to know. I’ll try my best!”

Sooyoung didn’t answer. Turned to go.

But then:

“Sooyoung-ssi?”

She paused. Again.

“What now, Sangah.”

“I was just wondering… do you think office romance is okay? You and Joonghyuk-ssi seem to be doing well.”

Sooyoung laughed. Once. Dry and sharp.

“Sure. Some people make it work.”

No context. Let her draw her own conclusions.

She turned again.

But—

“How about dating advice?”

God. She doesn’t quit.

“You seem really confident. Like you know what you’re doing.”

Sooyoung turned. Slower this time.
Really looked at her.

So bright. So hopeful. So completely unaware.

If I knew what I was doing, I wouldn’t be standing here.

She handed Sangah the sharpest parts of herself. Daggers.

All the while armed only with coffee in one hand and bitterness in her mouth.

Still unsure if she wanted to cry, scream, or burn the whole damn cabin down.

She smiled—sharp and clean.

“Ask me anything.”

But before anyone could add another word, the door creaked open behind them.

Thank God, she thought, relief flooding her chest. A distraction. An interruption. A miracle.

More like a curse, in hindsight.

She turned, already halfway to smirking at whoever it was—
And froze.

Kim Dokja.

Standing in the doorway.

Hair unbrushed, hoodie thrown over a wrinkled shirt, equally surprised to see her.

They stared. The hum of the cabin suddenly too loud.

It was the first time in weeks.

He opened his mouth—nothing.

Then—

“Kim Dokja-sunbae!” Sangah’s voice sliced clean through the silence, Bright, chirpy, perfectly timed—like a schoolgirl in a drama. “Good morning! I made coffee!”

Just like that, the spell shattered.

Dokja blinked. Nodded stiffly. “Good morning,” he said—

To her.

Polite.

Then walked right past her.

Right to Sangah.

Like she hadn’t dragged herself through insomnia and bitterness just to breathe the same air as his…

Behind her, Sangah beamed, already talking about her dream, pressing a cup of coffee into his hands like it was something sacred. Her voice trailed after Sooyoung like a bright, mocking ribbon.

Sooyoung didn’t move.

She stood there, silent. Still. And her own untouched second cup of coffee.

She felt like a second lead in a K-drama. No—worse. The antagonist. Starting her villain arc… Watching her male lead fall for someone else in real time.

Eventually, she walked out. Quiet. Dignified.

No goodbye.

He probably didn’t notice.

Polite. That’s all it was.

It meant nothing.

Maybe she meant nothing too.

She turned the corner.

“Goddamnit,” she muttered, biting the inside of her cheek.

Her hands were shaking. Tears stung at the corners of her eyes. She blinked them back. Refused to cry.

Of course they watched the sunrise together.

Of course.

And of course, she remembered another sunrise—
Years ago. Here, in the same mountains.
She and Dokja had stayed up drinking, trading theories about fictional worlds and future regrets. Neither of them were morning people. But they hadn’t wanted to say goodbye, so they talked until the sky cracked open with gold.

It had been one of those moments. Quiet. Unspoken. Not quite a confession. But not forgettable either.

They never talked about it again.

But she’d remembered.

She’d held onto it—like a thread.

Like maybe, one day, they’d follow that thread into something real.

Something defined.

Now?

Now it hit her like a truck:

She wasn’t the one he wanted beside him.

Maybe he wasn’t emotionally constipated.

Maybe she just made him that way.

Maybe there was no deep well of repressed feelings. No aching silence.

Maybe he was just polite.

Maybe Sangah brought out something brighter in him — something better. And maybe that was who he always was, and she had been the one twisting him into knots, misreading the quiet, projecting meaning into the silences.

She didn’t even know anymore.

She didn’t even know him anymore.

Was this really Kim Dokja?

“—Sooyoung.”

Joonghyuk’s voice snapped her out of it just ust as she turned down the hallway, eyes still unfocused.

She didn’t say a word. Just walked up and handed him the second cup of coffee she’d been holding like it had always been meant for him.

He took it without comment, gaze steady on her face.

“You look horrible,” he said at last. “More than usual.”

She didn’t respond.

His expression softened—just a little. But it was real.

She stepped forward and leaned into his chest.

He didn’t flinch. Just shifted his cup to one hand and rested the other gently on the small of her back.

She didn’t sob. Didn’t even tremble.
But her breath hitched—just once—and that was enough.

He quietly guided her into his room, closing the door behind them with a soft click.

In the kitchen, Sangah’s laughter floated through the air—light, effortless.

Kim Dokja was probably laughing too.

Sooyoung pressed her face into Joonghyuk’s shoulder.

She didn’t want to hear it anymore.

Chapter Text

Yoo Joonghyuk had only meant to get coffee.

He’d just stepped out of his room, still groggy, the hallway dim with early morning quiet—when he saw her.

Han Sooyoung.

She was standing there with two mugs in her hands, her body frozen mid-step like she’d forgotten what she was doing. Her eyes were glassy, brimming with tears that threatened to fall at any second. Her lips parted slightly, like she’d wanted to say something but changed her mind. Her face, always full of wit and bite, was unreadable now—blank in a way that felt wrong.

Wrong, because she never let herself look like this.

Wrong, because something had clearly broken.

She walked toward him slowly. No urgency. No drama. Just quiet, crushing despair in every step.

When she reached him, she handed him a mug. Then gently shifted it to his other hand. Without a word, she leaned into his chest, resting her forehead just below his collarbone. Her fingers trembled around the remaining cup.

He froze.

She didn’t say anything.

“You look horrible,” he said quietly. “More than usual.”It wasn’t teasing—it was concern.

No response.

He opened the door behind them and guided her inside.

Taking the mug from her hand, he set both on the bedside table. Then gently sat her down on the bed.

Sooyoung sat there, rigid, her hand pressed against her chest like she was holding something in—or maybe keeping herself from falling apart. Tears streamed down her face in perfect silence. No sobbing, no outburst—just heavy, steady heartbreak in the quietest form he’d ever seen.

He had never seen her like this before. No sarcasm. No biting remarks. None of her usual bravado. Just raw, stripped-down pain.

Joonghyuk didn’t know what had happened. He didn’t ask.

He just sat down beside her. Let her unravel beside him without comment.

There was nothing he could fix. No solution he could offer.

When her breathing eventually steadied, when her shoulders stopped shaking just enough to move, he spoke again—softly.

“Rest. Just for a bit. We can talk later.”

She didn’t respond. But she let him pull the blanket up around her. She lay down without protest, still silent.

He stayed for a moment longer, watching her.

She closed her eyes.

Maybe she was trying to sleep.

Maybe she was just hoping the pain would stop for a while.

Maybe she was hoping she wouldn’t wake up feeling like this anymore.

He wasn’t sure.

So he stayed. Just in case.

But He didn’t speak. Didn’t reach out. Just sat beside her, still and alert, like moving too suddenly might shatter her entirely.

Han Sooyoung stirred awake to the feeling of someone gently shaking her shoulder.

“Come on. Get up,” Joonghyuk said, voice low—careful.

She rasped in protest, “What—why? It’s too early. Are you insane?”

His expression flickered—just for a second—from concern back to his usual deadpan.
Of course. He’d probably been worried. Thought she’d changed. That she was broken.
But no—she could still bite, still snarl, still wear the armor that made her Han Sooyoung.
She could be dead inside and still function just fine.

“Glad to see you’re back to your charming self,” he said dryly. “Now get up.”

She groaned into the pillow. “No.”

“We’re going hiking.”

“Says who?”

“You need it.”

“I need rest.”

“You need respite ,” he countered. “Fresh air. Exercise. Sunlight. You’re not photosynthesizing properly.”

She muttered a stream of curses into the mattress but got up anyway.

Fifteen minutes later, they were at the trailhead with the rest of their coworkers.
The air was crisp. Sunlight filtered through the trees in gold slants. Han Sooyoung was wearing combat boots.

Joonghyuk glanced down at them. “Those don’t look comfortable.”

“They’re not,” she said sweetly, swatting at a mosquito. “But they’re my aesthetic.”

He snorted—half a laugh.
And damn it—he was right.

Halfway up the trail, her legs ached, but the pain was grounding.
The wind whispered through pine branches. Leaves crunched underfoot. Laughter rose and fell, warm and human. Her breathing settled. Even the fog in her chest—thick with memories and if-onlys—began to lift.

Joonghyuk glanced sideways at her.
She wasn’t looking, but she felt his gaze anyway. He was still worried.

“Don’t fall in love with me,” she said, not turning.

“Never,” he replied.

The trail curved up a ridge, revealing a clearing beyond the trees. Sunlight filtered through the shifting leaves, and below, a stream murmured softly beside a slope slick with moss.

That’s when she saw them again.

Kim Dokja and Yoo Sangah, walking a few paces ahead of the group.

Sangah stumbled slightly—just enough to warrant concern.

And Dokja was already there, hand slipping to her waist to steady her. Holding her.

Close. Too close.

Sooyoung looked away before the ache in her chest could spread.

God, she had her own problems. Like the fact that she could barely walk. Her boot had twisted back on the slope, and now her ankle throbbed like hell. She tried to push through it, limping steadily, teeth gritted.

Joonghyuk noticed. Of course he did.

“Let me see.”

“I’m fine.”

Without a word, he stepped in front of her and gently steered her off to the side of the trail.

She scowled but didn’t resist as he knelt and examined her ankle with surprising care. His fingers were warm. His touch, methodical.

“Doesn’t look broken. Probably a sprain.”

Then, without a word, he crouched in front of her—back turned and waiting.

She stared at him flatly. “You’re not serious.”

“We’re falling behind. You can’t walk straight.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re limping like a dying dog.”

“Charming,” she hissed. “I don’t need—”

“You either get on my back,” he said calmly, “or I will throw you over my shoulder like a sack of drama and pride.”

She glared at him, sharp enough to kill. “Don’t you dare.”

He turned his head just enough to meet her eyes. “Try me.”

She didn’t flinch. But she didn’t move, either.

in front of them, faint voices echoed from higher up the trail. The others were already cresting the ridge.

And that’s when she heard it—footsteps, soft on pine needles. She turned slightly, just in time to see Kim Dokja look back from the path above.

His eyes fell on her.

On her ankle.

On Joonghyuk.

And then—on Joonghyuk’s back, where her arms were beginning to wrap around his shoulders.

He saw everything.

His face was unreadable. Not cold. Not angry. Just... still.

Then, like it meant nothing, he turned away.

He helped Sangah across the stream with quiet ease—his hand on her elbow, careful, practiced—and didn’t look back.

There was no smile. No warmth. No anger.

Just absence.

And that, somehow, cut more than anything else.

The rest of the walk was, surprisingly, pleasant.

Maybe because she was literally freeloading on Joonghyuk’s stupidly strong back, being carried like she weighed nothing.

Maybe because, despite everything, he just smelled clean—like pine and mountain air.

Sweat did trickle down the side of his face, catching the light as he walked in steady silence.

From the side, he looked… really handsome.

That was the moment she finally understood why he was called Copy King.

“What?” Joonghyuk asked when he caught her staring.

“I was thinking what the company bulletin would say about this.”

“They’re gonna have a field day. More than half of them were here and actually saw us. Finally.”

“I can hear it now: ‘Beautiful, talented Han Sooyoung, carried by CopyKing on a hiking trip, so naturally—because they’ve hiked for dates before. This is their 20th hike this season alone.’ ”

“You forgot to mention you’re in a bridal carry.”

“Right! Because bridal-carrying off a cliff is obviously practice for when we finally jump into the threshold of our brand-new suburban home.”

“Complete with our pet wolf we got from that last trip to the Himalayas.”

“—Our wolf named Georgie and our wild cat named Nicola.”

They laughed—at the absurdity, at themselves, at everything and nothing.

“Don’t fall in love with me,” he said casually.

Yeah. Yeah.

She brushed it off like a leaf in the wind. Like it didn’t matter.

But the smile that lingered on her lips—small, tired, almost tender—wasn’t one she wore for show.

The sun was rising slowly, a wash of gold unfurling across the horizon. Its light crept through the trees—soft and drowsy—until it reached the cabin deck, where two figures sat in quiet stillness. Below them, the lake shimmered like brushed metal, windless and perfect.

Kim Dokja didn’t notice the cold anymore.

He was watching her.

Han Sooyoung sat slightly apart, her legs sprawled lazily across his—half out of habit, half because she was cold and too proud to admit it. She looked utterly at peace, uncharacteristically still. Her sharp features had softened, her expression slack with quiet awe as the sunrise painted her in pale orange light. It touched her like a slow-burning flame—warming her skin, catching in the flecks of color in her hair, making her glow with something almost… iridescent.

His chest ached. Sharp. Sudden. Unavoidable.

Her eyes snapped to him. “Were you staring?”

“Was not.”

“You were.”

He didn’t answer—just gave the faintest twitch of his mouth.

“You think I’m pretty?” she asked, wearing that crooked, cocky smile—the one she always wore when she was about to be insufferable.

“Pretty exhausted,” he shot back without missing a beat.

She rolled her eyes. “The audacity"

"You’re really one to talk. We’ve been sleep-deprived for weeks. Even on this so-called company vacation, we still can’t sleep.”

“And whose fault is that? I told you to go inside first.”  he countered.

“And I told you to go inside first,” she echoed, dryly.

Just two idiots, arguing over nothing.

Secretly grateful to have spent the whole night doing exactly that—nothing. Talking. Bickering. Laughing. Letting time pass like they had all the time in the world.

It was perfect.

And they both knew it.

Sooyoung rubbed her hands together, the cold finally biting into her bones. Dokja frowned, stood, and moved his chair closer. Without a word, he took her hands in his—cold fingers curling around hers—and began gently rubbing them between his palms, warming them up with soft friction.

Then he leaned down and blew warm air onto her knuckles.

She blinked. Stunned. It was—strangely intimate.

He glanced up.

“You’re looking at me weird,” he said flatly.

“You’re being weird.”

“Should I stop?”

“…No.”

So he didn’t.

They just sat there. The sun climbing higher, warming their skin. The wind rustling faintly in the trees. Her hands in his. The rest of the world slipping into soft silence, as if time held its breath just for them.

And neither of them dared to break it.

“Dokja sunbae?”

That snapped him out of it.

“Huh?”

“You were smiling to yourself.”

“Ah…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Just remembered something.”

“Ohh.” Sangah’s voice softened.

They stood there, side by side, watching the sunrise.

Silence settled gently between them—comfortable, undemanding.

Sangah never asked anything of him. She simply stood there, her shoulder nearly brushing his, her presence calm and unwavering. She’d always been like that—gentle in her words, thoughtful in her silences.

She didn’t know.

Not about that sunrise.

Not about what had happened on this porch.

Not about how Sooyoung used to sit exactly where she stood now—legs draped across his lap, smirking like she owned the world.

Sangah couldn’t know.

And maybe that was the only reason Dokja could still breathe around her.

For that, he was grateful.
Maybe he even needed her now—in that pathetic, exhausted way people cling to something solid. Her voice was soothing, her eyes kind, her presence a balm on everything he couldn’t say aloud. Being near her felt like calm after chaos. A rare moment of stillness in a mind that never stopped aching.

Lately, Sangah was always nearby. Maybe she loved him. He’d started to suspect as much.

And that thought...
That should’ve meant something.

But it didn’t.
It only made the ache in his chest sharper.

Because she wasn’t Han Sooyoung.

She didn’t make his pulse stutter or pull him into chaos just for the thrill.
She didn’t argue like it was war or laugh like the world cracked open.
She didn’t set him on fire—and make him grateful for the burn.

She wasn’t the one who smiled across the bonfire last night—at Joonghyuk, of all people—and left him gutted.
She wasn’t the one who held two cups of coffee this morning, neither one for him.

She wasn’t the one he kept hoping would speak first.
The one drifting further every day.
The one already half-gone.

Yoo Sangah just wasn’t her.

No matter how soft she was, how bright, how full of grace...

She wasn’t the storm.

She wasn’t the fire.

She wasn’t the one he still saw every time he closed his eyes.

They stayed like that—watching the lake, the sun, the horizon neither of them could reach.

Sangah stood beside him—close, but not quite touching—breathing warm air into her hands, rubbing them together against the cold.

Dokja glanced sideways. “Do you want to go back inside?”

She shook her head. “No. It’s beautiful.”

He nodded. That was enough.

He kept his hands in his pockets, eyes fixed on the horizon, on the light unfurling across the water like a memory.

He didn’t offer anything more.
Just stood there, quiet, surrounded by too much memory and not enough future.

Later, back at the cabin.

The porch was quiet again—the same viewing deck from earlier, where Dokja and Sangah had watched the sunrise. This side of the camp was mostly empty now; the others had drifted toward the main lodge or the lake trail on the far end.

Sooyoung sat curled in a throw blanket, her injured ankle propped up on a stool. The sky had turned soft orange, clouds edged in gold.

Joonghyuk stepped out of the cabin holding a tray—one mug of steaming hot cocoa, one plate stacked high with cookies. He placed it beside her with maddening calm.

Sooyoung glanced down at it.

“Cookies?” she said, raising a brow.

“Are you baiting me into falling in love with you?”

“Is it working?”

“I’d rather fall off this porch.”

“Good.”

He settled into the chair beside her, and for a moment, they said nothing—just watched the forest breathe.

Then, quietly:

“So… what was that earlier?”

She blinked. “Oh. That.”

With a sigh, she rested her chin on her knees. “Sangah cornered me this morning. While I was getting coffee.” Her voice was dry, brittle. “Told me she liked him.”

Joonghyuk stayed silent, listening.

“She wanted advice. On how to get closer to him. Can you believe it?” A short, humorless laugh. “The irony.”

“And then, just my luck, I saw Dokja. Because of course they were going to watch the sunrise together like the picture-perfect couple.”

She paused. The pain in her voice wasn’t even bitter—just tired. Cracked.

“I hate her,” she whispered.

Joonghyuk didn’t flinch.

“She doesn’t do it to spite you,” he said. “She just doesn’t know.”

“I know that,” she snapped, voice suddenly raw. “That’s why I want to hate her.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Then I hate him.”

His voice was low. “Far from it.”

“He’s not even a morning person!”

“Saying no takes more energy than tagging along.”

“I disagree.”

“If he’d said no, he wouldn’t have had to wake up. Wouldn’t be here.”

“But then he’d have to deal with the aftermath of rejecting her for no reason.”

Shouldn’t I have been reason enough? she thought. But she didn’t say it. Didn’t want to argue anymore.

Instead, she slumped deeper into the chair. “Ugh. It’s so frustrating when you comfort me.”

“You don’t make it easy.”

A small smile tugged at her mouth, despite herself. “I don’t make anything easy.”

He sipped from his mug. “That’s true.”

“Hey, were you projecting? About how saying yes like an obligation keeps the peace?”

“About time you noticed,” he said, sarcasm etched in his tone.

She couldn’t help but smile at that.

They sat there in the quiet again—just the sound of wind and distant laughter drifting from inside the cabin. And though nothing was really fixed, and her ankle still throbbed and her heart still ached… for a moment, Sooyoung let herself lean against Joonghyuk.

Just enough to feel warm.

The next morning, they packed for the return to Seoul.

The others moved around the cabin with easy chatter and tired smiles—tossing snacks into bags, folding borrowed towels, arguing over who’d left the rice cooker on all night. From a distance, it almost looked normal. From a distance, maybe it even felt that way.

But then she heard Dokja’s voice at the doorway, light and familiar:

“Sangah, how do you always manage to forget something?”

Sooyoung didn’t turn around.

Joonghyuk did. Just once. Then quietly zipped up her duffel without a word.

She met his eyes and gave a silent nod.

Some things didn’t need to be said. Some things couldn’t be.

So she walked out of the cabin with her bag slung over one shoulder, the ache in her ankle grounding her in the present.

Every step hurt—but it was a pain she could bear.

The company retreat had ended, and Sooyoung wondered if that was really the only thing that ended on this trip.

Chapter Text

The week passed in a haze of routine.

 Emails. Scripts. Dry meetings and colder coffee. Everything ran on autopilot, and Han Sooyoung was just another cog pretending she wasn’t spinning out of place.

She didn’t think about Kim Dokja. Not during editing sessions. Not when Sangah brought him an extra coffee. Not when she caught them laughing quietly in the hallway.

 Not once.

 Except, of course, constantly.

She tried to act normal—asking for more work, avoiding shared spaces, stationing herself just near Joonghyuk’s office like she had something to prove.

Nothing had officially changed. And yet, everything had. Or maybe she had. Or maybe nothing had changed at all, and this was just what moving on felt like—sandpaper over old wounds.

She overheard it by accident: the company’s 35th anniversary was coming up. A flashy, overproduced nightmare.

“You should go,” Dokja was saying gently. “It’s only every five years. You’ll regret it if you don’t.”

 “Did you go last time, sunbae?” Sangah asked.

 He shook his head. “No.”

 She stepped closer. “Then let’s go together.”

Sooyoung froze just outside the doorway, holding her breath like that might stop it from happening.

A long pause.

 Then Dokja exhaled. “I’m sorry. I really don’t like events like that.”

She didn’t stay to hear more. She walked away.

Somehow, the rejection felt like fresh air. He hadn’t said yes. That was enough. It leveled the ground beneath her feet, though she couldn’t say why.

She’d already planned to skip the gala. Now it was certain.

 Even if they did go together, she didn’t know if she had it in her to make a show of anything.

Things felt... still.

 Not good. But survivable.

Until Joonghyuk, of course, had to ruin it.

They were reviewing some advertiement script when he looked up, perfectly bland.

 “Seeing as you haven’t asked me to the gala yet, I’d like to congratulate you on your maturity.”

Sooyoung smirked. “Please. I’ve always been the mature one.”

 “Right.”

 “Besides,” she added breezily, “he’s not going.”

 Joonghyuk paused. “He is.”

 “No, he’s not.”

 He shrugged.

 “I overheard them, like, a week ago. She asked. He said no. He doesn’t go to those things.”

 Joonghyuk didn’t even glance up. “He changed his mind.”

Silence.

 Sooyoung stared, unblinking.

Joonghyuk tapped to the next slide, completely unbothered.

 Then, without lifting his eyes from the tablet, he added, “Must be because the interns were asked to help coordinate the event. Easy excuse.”

Han Sooyoung’s stomach dropped.

No. That couldn’t be true.

 All interns were required to help with gala prep.

 Of course Sangah would be helping.

 And of course he would volunteer to help her.

Every declaration she’d made about being fine—about not caring, not needing to prove anything, not making a scene if Sangah and Dokja went together—evaporated in an instant.

 She swallowed it all down. Quietly. Completely.

She shot to her feet. “Then we’re going too.”

 Joonghyuk barely looked up. “What’s in it for me?”

 “Excuse me?”

 He deadpanned, “What do I get for plunging into a social hellscape?”

 “Oh, I don’t know,” she drawled. “Unlimited drama. Chaos. All the mess your emotionally constipated self secretly lives for.”

 “I feel like I’m getting the short end of the stick.”

 “Fine. What do you want?”

 He tapped his pen against the desk. “Dinner. You’re paying. And not fast food.”

 She lit up. “Perfect! Fancy place tonight. My treat. Since we’re already going out anyway.”

 He blinked. “What?”

 She leaned over the desk, grinning.

 “Joonghyuk, the gala’s tomorrow. Do you think I just have something in my closet that'll make Kim Dokja regret replacing me?”

 “No. I’m not going shopping with you.”

 She smiled sweetly. “Don’t you have friends for that?”

 “I said I’m not—”

 He went.

Soft jazz drifts through the air as Han Sooyoung and Yoo Joonghyuk move from boutique to boutique, their steps in sync—just like their bickering.

She twirls in front of a mirror, earrings catching the light, a pair of heels dangling from one hand.

 Cut to: Sooyoung tossing accessories into a shopping cart.

Each time, she stepped out from behind the curtain to show him dresses—cheeks a little more flushed, waiting for... something.

“Which one?” she asked after the third. Her voice was light, teasing. Her eyes weren’t.

Joonghyuk blinked. “They’re fine.”

Her smile froze. Fine?

She stared for a beat too long, then gave a tight nod and turned away.

She didn’t ask again.

Instead, she pulled the curtain shut with a quiet swish, grabbed more options off the rack, and disappeared with the sales rep. No commentary. No questions. No audience.

While she was gone, a boutique staffer took the seat beside Joonghyuk.

“You two look good together. Best-looking couple we’ve had today.”

He didn’t respond.

“She’s really beautiful,” the woman added, almost offhand.

Joonghyuk glanced up—across the boutique, Sooyoung stood alone by a rack of dresses, flipping through them absently, her expression unreadable.

He didn’t smile.

But his gaze softened.

“…She is,” he said quietly.

Later, as they leave the last boutique—

Sooyoung steps out with the final bag. Joonghyuk takes it without a word, adding it to the pile in his arms.

She doesn’t protest.

Instead, she links their arms and beams up at him. “You’ve earned your reward. Let’s eat. Something expensive.”

He gives her a long-suffering look. “I regret this already.”

“No you don’t,” she sing-songs, tugging him toward the restaurant escalators.

Kim Dokja balanced a cardboard box in his arms as he walked beside Yoo Sangah. She carried a checklist and a tote bag filled with gala name tags, her voice light as she reviewed the prep schedule.

 “…We should confirm the lighting setup by tomorrow, and then—oh!”

She stopped mid-step, grabbing his sleeve.

Dokja turned. “What?”

Sangah leaned over the glass railing, pointing down. “Isn’t that Sooyoung-ssi? And… oh my god, is that Yoo Joonghyuk?”

Dokja followed her gaze.

Downstairs, near the escalator, Han Sooyoung stood chatting, a few glossy shopping bags in hand. Joonghyuk took them from her without comment, like it was routine. She slipped her arm into his like it belonged there.

Sangah lit up beside him. “They look so good together! Like a movie couple, right?”

Dokja said nothing.

His grip tightened. The edge of the box bit into his palm.

Sangah glanced at him. “You okay?”

A hollow ache opened beneath his ribs.

“I thought—” He stopped. His throat was too tight.

Sangah blinked. “You thought… what?”

He kept his eyes forward. “Nothing.”

His stomach turned—slow, simmering disbelief.

Because the truth was stupid.

I thought it was a bluff.

 I thought she was faking it.

 I thought Joonghyuk was just a prop in one of her chaotic games.

But this wasn’t a performance.

Just them. Comfortable.

Happy.

Dokja’s grip tightened again.

And for the first time, he wondered if he’d made the wrong bet—

 not just in this game,

 but from the start.

Dinner had been surprisingly fun.

To Sooyoung’s great surprise, Joonghyuk had picked the restaurant himself. And it wasn’t some cold, pretentious fine-dining spot either—it was sleek, understated, and expensive in that effortless way that said I have taste but no time for nonsense.

They’d barely sat down before Sooyoung raised a brow. “Didn’t think you had opinions about restaurants.”

Joonghyuk took a sip of water. “I don’t.”

 Then, deadpan: “I just knew you’d pick somewhere awful.”

Sooyoung gasped, scandalized. “Excuse me? I was going to take you to a place with flaming steak and table-side opera.”

“Exactly my point.”

They bickered through appetizers. Laughed—actually laughed—through the mains. At one point, Joonghyuk rolled up his sleeves and launched into a breakdown of why certain dramas were structurally unsalvageable. Not to be outdone, Sooyoung countered with a rant about a director who cast an idol lead purely because he was hot.

Somewhere between dessert and finishing her wine, she caught it: Joonghyuk, mid-rant, slipping into a brief, unmistakable smile.

Sooyoung blinked. “No way. Was that a smile?”

He didn’t answer. Just kept talking like nothing happened.

“I knew you had facial muscles,” she muttered, triumphant.

 “You imagined it.”

 “No, I didn’t. I’m calling the press.”

Then silence-- the kind that didn’t press, only paused.

“You know I really do owe you.”

 Sooyoung’s expression had shifted—no smirk, no snark. Just tired honesty.

 “It’s been months of this stupid charade,” she said. “But you’ve really pulled through. All the damn time. Even when I thought you’d flake. Even when I hoped he—”

She stopped, biting the inside of her cheek. She didn’t want to ruin the mood. Not tonight.

Joonghyuk didn’t push. He never did.

Instead, he nudged the last piece of his dessert around his plate and said, perfectly deadpan,

 “It’s no big deal. I couldn’t exactly let you spiral out of control. You might’ve committed arson and somehow left me jobless.”

Sooyoung let out a sound between a choke and a sigh. “That’s… fair.”

He gave a lazy shrug. “Also, filing a restraining order against you is a lot of paperwork.”

 “You’re so dramatic.”

 Another shrug. “You bring it out of me.”

When it came time to foot the bill, Joonghyuk dropped his card on the tray before Sooyoung could even reach for her purse.

She blinked at him, stunned. “Hey—what gives? The whole point of tonight was that I treat you.”

He didn’t flinch. “You’re already going bankrupt with everything you bought today.”

Sooyoung opened her mouth. Closed it. “…Okay, accurate,” she muttered.

But then he added, almost too casually, “So you still owe me.”

She paused. Looked at him. Narrowed her eyes.

 Sly bastard.

 Oh, she saw it now—he wanted another date.

If this even counted as one.

She didn’t call him out on it. Just smiled—real, this time. No sarcasm, no sharp edges.

 “I guess I still do.”

They stepped outside. The night was humid, the sky inky with clouds, and the city lights bled across the pavement like a promise.

Joonghyuk offered to take her home, but Sooyoung waved him off. “I’ll grab a taxi.”

He didn’t argue. Just gave her that unreadable look.

She started to turn away, then stopped at the curb, one hand tucked into her coat pocket. Her fingers curled around the fabric like she needed something to hold onto.

The night air wasn’t cold, but her chest felt brittle—like glass on the edge of shattering.

She didn’t look at him when she spoke. Didn’t dare.

 “Don’t fall in love with me.”

It was a line they used often. A joke. A boundary. A rule.

But tonight, it didn’t sound like a punchline.

 Tonight, it sounded like a warning. Or a plea. Or maybe even a dare.

Because even she wasn’t sure what she wanted him to say.

There was a pause. Long enough to mean something.

And then Joonghyuk said, quiet and steady,

 “I know.”

But it landed with weight. Not flippant. Not casual.

It sounded like something he’d said to himself a hundred times before tonight.

 Like he was reminding himself.

 Like he already had.

The next day was the company’s anniversary gala.

Everyone was given a half-day to prepare, and for once, the office felt light—almost festive. Fresh haircuts. New dresses. Crisp suits. It was refreshing to see old faces polished up—and new ones, too. People reintroducing themselves with confidence, as if shedding the weight of fluorescent lighting and coffee-stained desks.

Kim Dokja didn’t care much for any of it.

He wasn’t scheduled to help, but when he heard Sangah had been roped into the volunteer staff, he offered. He wasn’t busy—and he knew what it felt like to be overworked and underappreciated. If he could make her night even a little easier, then fine. It felt like his turn to return the favor.

Sangah wore a soft lilac dress with sheer sleeves that framed her arms gently. Her hair was pinned up, and with the light catching the delicate shimmer of her makeup, she looked—objectively—beautiful. The kind of beautiful that made people pause mid-conversation. Dokja noticed how coworkers glanced at her, then at him, their expressions curious. Some, even envious.

When they’d met earlier in the lobby, she had smiled and said, “You look really nice tonight.”

He’d only nodded, brushing his hands down the front of his plain black tuxedo. It fit, sure, but it was nothing special. Everyone in the room wore some variation of the same thing. He didn’t feel like he stood out.

The tables were arranged by department, so the publishing team clustered around a few round tables near the center. People were still trickling in—some stopping by the photo booth outside before the doors officially closed and the program began. Inside, the hall buzzed with overlapping voices, laughter, compliments. Controlled chaos.

And then he walked in.

The chatter didn’t stop all at once—but gradually, like the air being pulled from the room. One by one, heads turned.

Joonghyuk.

 The Copy King.

The nickname had started as a joke in the department—a teasing title for the company’s star copywriter. “King” had little to do with seniority and everything to do with his face: the kind that turned heads in every corridor.

And tonight? He looked the part.

Sleek, perfectly tailored tuxedo. Black-on-black. Timeless. Sharp enough to cut. His posture was effortless. He strode in with that same detached air—a walking headline.

Kim Dokja didn’t want to look at him. Didn’t want to feed into the spectacle. Didn’t want to feed his own inferiority complex, either.

He looked away.

But then the murmurs quieted altogether, and even Sangah beside him went still. Her mouth parted.

 “Is that—?”

Dokja’s stomach flipped. Bile rose in his throat. But still—he turned to look.

Beautiful didn’t even begin to cover it.

She wore a black gown so sculpted it looked poured onto her frame, hugging every curve with merciless precision. The fabric—silk, or something like it—moved like liquid, deadly in silhouette. The back dipped low, revealing the full line of her spine, while a high slit flashed up one leg like a blade drawn with every step. One long sleeve clung to her left arm; the right shoulder was bare, a deliberate asymmetry.

Her hair was shorter now, slicked clean into place, soft bangs grazing her brows. The cut sculpted her face, drawing attention to fine bone structure and the sharp clarity of her gaze. Smoky eyeshadow and winged liner made her eyes smolder under the lights. Her lips were painted in glossy crimson—striking. Almost dangerous.

Her heels clicked against the marble floor with mechanical precision. Her posture didn’t waver. She walked beside Joonghyuk with the kind of poise that wasn’t innate—it was trained, practiced, weaponized.

Everything about her was sharpened into performance. A statement, not a suggestion.

She looked transformed—blinding. Poised. Unapologetically magnetic.

Judging by the stunned silence in their wake, most of their coworkers didn’t recognize her.

But Kim Dokja did.

He knew her by the sweep of her gaze, the slight tilt of her chin when she sensed eyes on her.

To everyone else, she might’ve looked like a stranger.

But to him?

She was unmistakably Han Sooyoung.

And somehow, that made her feel even further away.

Then a voice from across the hall broke the silence:

 “It’s the CopyKing and his Queen!”

The room erupted—cheers, whistles, applause like a red carpet premiere.

She wasn’t just beautiful. She was undeniable.

And she wasn’t bluffing.

This wasn’t a passing joke between shifts.

 It wasn’t harmless gossip whispered over coffee.

 It wasn’t flirtation masked as boredom.

This was intentional. Unapologetic. Public.

And for the first time, Kim Dokja understood:

She had never needed to pretend.

He was the one who’d been pretending it didn’t matter.

The night had frayed at its edges. The gala was winding down, dulled now by clinking glasses and half-empty wine bottles—open bar generosity turned reckless indulgence. People were drunk. Laughing too loud. Swaying too close.

Kim Dokja wasn’t the type to overdo it.

 But tonight, he had.

He’d been spiraling for hours—not that anyone seemed to notice. Not when he smiled on cue, not when he made polite conversation with sponsors, not even when he stood in the corner pretending her presence didn’t carve straight through him.

So he drank.

 And kept drinking.

 Until the edges blurred and the noise stopped hurting.

Maybe he thought the alcohol would silence it—the vision of her, hand in Joonghyuk’s arm like it belonged there. The way she looked up at him. The easy rhythm of two people who didn’t need to try anymore. That smile. That intimacy. That unbearable comfort.

He should’ve laughed. Called it another one of her games. But for the first time, it didn’t feel like she was bluffing. It felt like she had moved on.

And he hated how much it gutted him.

 Because he hadn’t realized, not fully, how much of him had stayed—stupidly—waiting.

So he drank like he could drown it.

 The regret. The jealousy.

 The fucking ache of losing something he never thought he could lose.

Sooyoung only noticed how far gone he was when he stumbled into the hallway, Yoo Sangah trailing behind. Or maybe guiding him. Maybe holding on.

 It didn’t matter.

 Not when she turned the corner and saw it:

Kim Dokja’s body, slotted between Sangah’s legs.

 Her back pressed to the wall.

 His hand braced above her shoulder.

 His hips caging hers in.

 Close enough to kiss.

 Close enough that no excuse would matter.

Sooyoung didn’t breathe.

 She might’ve made a sound—some tiny, broken thing.

 It was enough.

Dokja looked up.

 Eyes glassy.

 Mouth parted.

 Chest rising like he’d just realized what she saw.

 What this looked like.

 What it could’ve been.

 Too close. Too late.

She turned on her heel so fast she nearly twisted her ankle. Walked—no, ran. Head down. Throat tight. Hands trembling.

The bathroom had been the plan. But there was no way she’d go near that hallway. Not now. Not like this.

 She fled to the balcony instead.

Cool air slapped her as she shoved open the glass doors. She gripped the railing with both hands, lungs dragging in air like she’d just surfaced from drowning. Her vision blurred—wine, maybe. Or tears she refused to shed.

Footsteps behind her.

 Yoo Joonghyuk.

 Of course he’d followed.

She didn’t turn. Couldn't. Her voice cracked anyway when she spoke.

 “It’s not even a game anymore.”

 A bitter laugh, short and sharp.

 “I already lost.”

Joonghyuk approached quietly.

 Sooyoung stood stiff at the balcony, arms braced on the railing like it was the only thing keeping her upright. Her head hung low. Shoulders trembling—not from the cold, but from everything else. From what she’d seen. From what she felt.

He didn’t speak.

 Just stepped closer—slow, measured—until he was beside her. His presence was steady, grounding. His warmth subtle at her side.

One of his hands came to rest beside hers on the railing. He didn’t touch her—not yet. Only let the closeness speak first. Let her breathe him in if she chose to. Let her walk away if she needed.

She didn’t.

So he moved carefully. Lifted one hand, tentative, letting his knuckles graze her elbow.

 Still, she didn’t flinch.

 His palm settled on her forearm—not to pull her, just to hold her. To anchor her.

And when he touched her chin, it wasn’t to demand—only to ask.

 Her breath hitched. But she let him guide her face toward him.

And there she was.

 Tear-streaked. Stunned. Lips parted like her body was too full of feeling to keep it all inside. Her hands still clutched the railing, white-knuckled, refusing to let herself fall.

He didn’t speak.

 Neither did she.

 They just stood there for a moment—eye to eye, heart to heart, in a silence thick enough to drown in.

Then, softly, painfully:

 “He hadn’t even looked at me once,” she whispered.

 Her voice cracked like thin ice.

A beat passed.

 “He’s doing it on purpose.”

Joonghyuk’s jaw clenched.

“How would you know?” she asked, voice bitter, broken.

He swallowed. His thumb brushed a tear from her cheek before it could fall.

“Because,” he said, eyes locked on hers, “it’s so damn hard to look away from you.”

Sooyoung bit her lip, hard enough to sting. Her arms were still braced against the cold railing, but the sharpness grounded her. 

Why couldn’t it just be him?

 Joonghyuk—steady, solid, impossibly patient. He’d been there. Always. Through every spiral, every cruel twist of her heart. When things went quiet, he stayed. When things burned, he helped her smother the flames. It was so clear now, glaring in its simplicity.

He’s always been the one.

So why—why did her heart keep reaching the wrong way? Why did it cling to someone who wouldn’t even look at her?

Because the heart is a stupid, stubborn thing.

 But her mind—it knew.

And now, it willed her forward.

 She straightened a little, lifted her gaze to meet his. She was going to ask. Again. For what must’ve been the thousandth time over the past few months.

But this time, it wouldn’t be teasing. It wouldn’t be a defense mechanism. It wouldn’t be a dare. It would be her hoping that he’d finally contradict her statement. A step toward something real. 

She parted her lips. Breath caught.

“Don’t fall in love with me,” he beat her to it.

His voice was quiet. Frayed at the edges.

 His eyes looked hollow in the low light—like he’d already played out the ending in his head, and it hadn’t been kind.

Sooyoung blinked, caught off guard by the raw ache in his voice.

 “Why not?” she asked, barely above a whisper.

Because the truth was—she could.

 Right now, she could.

 She could fall for him, let herself lean into the only person who never asked her to be anything but exactly who she was.

 She could jump, and trust that he’d catch her.

She was finally moving on.

 And she wanted him to be where she landed.

But Joonghyuk didn’t look away. His gaze held, quiet and unwavering, steeped in sorrow.

 “Just don’t,” he said.

And somehow, that hurt more than anything else.

Then from inside, Sangah’s voice rang out—half-muffled by the noise of the crowd.

 “They’re calling our department!”

Apparently, they’d won some stupid award. Of course.

 Sooyoung let out a sharp breath, brushing a hand over her face.

“Go ahead,” she said, resting her other hand lightly on Joonghyuk’s arm. “I’ll follow. Just… give me a minute.”

But Joonghyuk didn’t move.

 “Let’s go together.”

“I can’t,” she whispered. “I probably look like hell—my eyes are all puffy.”

He reached out, cupping her face. His hands were warm, steady against her skin.

 “You’re beautiful.”

The words landed with quiet force.

She blinked, caught off guard.

“You’re the most beautiful woman here,” he said, low and sure. “Who else is worth a month’s salary right now?”

A startled laugh slipped out of her, sharp and wet. She tipped her head back.

 “You’re right,” she sniffled. “For what this makeup cost, it better be fireproof.”

Just like that, the tightness in her chest eased. The weight of the night loosened its grip.

They slipped back into something familiar—stoic Joonghyuk and impossible Sooyoung, side by side.

Arm in arm, they stepped back inside.

 Still themselves.

 Still pretending not to want more.

After Sooyoung left, Kim Dokja finally peeled himself off the wall, off of Sangah heart pounding with a sick, uneven rhythm. He turned to Sangah at once, bowing low.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, voice tight. “I didn’t mean to—trip. That was… I’m sorry.”

Sangah looked just as flustered. “No—it’s okay. I shouldn’t have followed. I just... I was worried you might trip on the way to the bathroom or something. You didn’t look steady.”

They both laughed—awkward, forced.

From the ballroom, someone called Sangah’s name. Another intern was waving her in. “They’re starting the awards!”

She gave Dokja a small, apologetic smile before slipping back inside.

Dokja stood there a moment longer, chest heaving. His heart wasn’t just pounding now—it was unraveling.

That look on Sooyoung’s face.

 That sound she made.

He hadn’t even realized how close he’d gotten to Sangah. Hadn’t noticed the space between them disappearing. Not until he heard it—a breath caught in her throat, a soft gasp cut short. And when he looked up, Sooyoung was already turning away, her expression slicing clean through him.

He stumbled into the men’s bathroom, the floor tilting beneath him—not from the wine, but from everything else.

At the sink, he gripped the porcelain and bowed his head. The mirror showed someone he didn’t recognize.

Fucking hell.

He splashed water on his face in rough handfuls, trying to clear the fog, trying to rewind time, trying to be anyone but this—

 This man who hurt her. 

When the spinning stopped, he didn’t hesitate.

He left the bathroom and headed straight for the balcony.

But when he got there—

 She was already outside.

 And Joonghyuk was with her.

His hand rested on her arm like it belonged there. He stood close—anchoring her, steadying her, like he knew exactly what she needed.

Dokja froze.

They weren’t speaking. Not yet. Just standing there, eyes locked—like someone had already said the thing neither of them was ready to hear out loud.

The air between them shimmered—tender, volatile. Like a confession waiting to break.

Dokja’s breath caught.

The alcohol still humming in his blood gave him the reckless urge to move. To open the door. To grab her arm. To say something.

 Anything.

But what could he say?

He had no excuse.

 No right.

 No claim.

So he stayed where he was—watching the moment slip past, knowing that even if it hadn’t been a game before, it was over now.

Chapter Text

Kim Dokja waited in the office.

No meetings. No coffee. No emails open. Just him—and the silence. A silence too still, too heavy, like the air before a storm.

He wanted—no, needed—to talk to her.

About last night. About the way he must have looked: eyes sharpened by accusation, voice honed to cut in all the wrong places.

About the way he feels now: wretched. Hollow.

Months of keeping things strictly professional had stripped him raw. Every laugh she shared with Joonghyuk, every easy smile that never landed his way—it twisted deeper than he’d admit, an ache lodged under the ribs.

It was supposed to be him beside her. Him in her orbit. Not Joonghyuk. Not anyone else.

He hadn’t slept after the gala. He’d meant to talk to her then, but the words wouldn’t come, slippery as smoke. They still wouldn’t. But the gnawing in his chest told him he had to try anyway.

Maybe there was no fixing this. Maybe there never had been. But he could at least apologize. Explain.

She’d probably shrug it off, roll her eyes like always.

But the way she’d looked at him last night… and the way she’d left—no, fled—
That had said more than anything she could pretend.

So he waited.
And waited.
And waited.

The clock’s second hand seemed louder than it should be. Each tick drew the edges of his thoughts tighter.

Sooyoung was always late. He’d made peace with that.

But two hours was too long—even for her.

The unease crept in slowly, like water seeping under a closed door.

Their supervisor finally walked in, muttering into his phone, until he stopped short, scanning the room.

“Sooyoung’s not coming in today,” he said, distracted. “Called in sick.”

Dokja blinked.

“Oh.”

The word fell flat, almost hollow.

The manager didn’t notice. “She has a deadline today—said she left the manuscript on her desk. Can you find it and send it to my office? I’m late for a meeting.”

The request barely registered. His gaze had already drifted toward her empty desk.

For the first time all morning, the silence didn’t just feel heavy.
It felt wrong.

He stood in front of Han Sooyoung’s desk like a man surveying the crime scene of his own neglect.

That part wasn’t unusual.

What was unusual… was that she hadn’t sent the manuscript to him.

And now the boss was saying it was done.

So he looked.

It sat exactly where it should have been—right in front of her monitor, neatly labeled: FINALIZED.

He opened the file.

And froze.

Red pen.
Margin notes. Crossed-out lines. Tight, surgical shorthand. Not his.

He knew the handwriting instantly.

He turned the pages faster now.

No banter in the margins. No scrawled insults. No half-joking provocations.
No trace of their rhythm—no playful cruelty, no fights waiting to happen.
No him at all.

She hadn’t brought this to him. Not even out of habit.

She’d gone to someone else.

The pages felt heavier than paper should. His chest tightened. Breath thinned. Fingers trembling, he stacked the manuscript with too much care—like breaking it would reveal just how badly he was already coming apart.

He didn’t hear Sangah until she was beside him.

“Sunbae?”

He didn’t answer.

“You look—are you okay?”

Still nothing.

He stepped back. Then walked—fast. Past her. Past the desks, each one a silent witness. The stares that followed clung like fingerprints he couldn’t scrub off.

Straight to Joonghyuk’s cubicle.

The man barely glanced up before Dokja’s voice cut through the air—low, sharp enough to slice:

“Outside. Now.”

They ended up behind the building.

Cold. Quiet. An alley where truths had nowhere to hide.

“You’ve been editing her work?” Dokja’s voice snapped through the still air.

Joonghyuk’s expression didn’t change. “She asked.”

“She always asked me .”

“She said she didn’t want to bother you.”

“I don’t care if you’re together,” Dokja growled.

A lie.

He cared too much. It was killing him.

“I edit her work. That’s mine. You had no right—”

“We’re not together,” Joonghyuk cut in, voice flat.

The words landed harder than they should have.

Dokja’s eyes darkened. “Then what? Are you both playing with me? Laughing behind my back while I—”

Joonghyuk scoffed. “You’re too caught in yourself.”

He stepped closer. “I was there because she needed someone. After being replaced. After doubting her worth. After wondering if she mattered at all.”

That shut Dokja up.

Joonghyuk’s voice stayed even.

“But we’re not in love. Not like everyone thinks.”

Dokja didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

“That’s why you need to do something, Kim Dokja.”

Dokja flinched.

Joonghyuk’s voice dropped, deliberate and final.

“One day, someone’s going to see her — really see her.

How she turns chaos into armor.
How she moves like a storm, tearing through everything without meaning to.
Too loud. Too sharp. Too much for anyone who can’t keep up… and still never enough for herself.

He’ll see the way she loves like it’s a war she plans to lose.

And he’ll fall. Hard.”

A beat.

“And when that happens, he won’t back down.
Not even for someone she might still love more.”

His voice softened, but the edge in it only cut deeper.

“Because the one who stays—wins.”

Dokja didn’t realize his fists were clenched until Joonghyuk glanced at them.

“I—I don’t know how…” Dokja rasped.

“Then figure it out,” Joonghyuk said. “Fast.”

A pause. Then—

“Because I don’t love her.”

A step closer.
“Not enough.”

Another step. Shoulder to shoulder now.
A firm hand on Dokja’s shoulder.

“Not yet.”

The words weren’t comfort. They were a deadline.

Then Joonghyuk turned and walked back toward the building.

Dokja stayed where he was until his breath evened, until clarity settled like cold steel down his spine.

He wouldn’t wait anymore.
He wouldn’t let anyone else get the chance to be with her.

Han Sooyoung wasn’t that sick.
Her body ached, her throat was dry, her nose wouldn’t stop running—but none of it was enough to justify calling in.

And yet, here she was.

Not tired in a way sleep could fix.
Tired in her chest. In her heart. In her soul.

Last night, she’d almost done something reckless.
With Yoo Joonghyuk, of all people.

She’d almost confessed—on a whim, fueled by whiskey, sadness, and that sharp-edged loneliness that makes any warm body seem like a good idea. It wouldn’t have been a lie exactly—what she felt in that moment had been real enough.
But it wouldn’t have lasted.

She’d been drunk.
Drunk on grief. On being forgotten. On the ache of still waiting for someone who never came.

And Joonghyuk—he was safe. Familiar. His silence didn’t cut like Dokja’s. His presence dulled the pain.
For a while.

But morning has a way of burning off illusions. And when it did, the ache returned—worse than before. Because she hadn’t crossed that line.
And Dokja had crossed his, in a different way entirely.

Or maybe it hadn’t been reckless at all. Maybe she was the only one who thought that.
Maybe it had always been one-sided.

Maybe the real mistake was hoping.
Reading between lines that weren’t there.
Mistaking kindness for affection.
Taking silence as longing.

She sighed and leaned into the window frame, watching a pale slice of sky.
She didn’t want to cry. Not anymore. What would be the point?

She thought of him. Of all the almosts.
All the moments they nearly kissed but didn’t.
Late nights in the break room after office parties—wine going warm on the table, laughter softening into half-finished sentences when night bled into morning.

Once, years ago, he’d even taken her home. Not just hailed a cab—walked her all the way to her door. Said goodnight like it meant something.

And she still wonders why she didn’t ask him to stay.
Why he didn’t.

Maybe neither of them ever said what they wanted. Maybe she waited. Maybe he did too. Or maybe… he never wanted anything more.

Maybe she didn’t ask because she couldn’t survive hearing no.
Pride. Self-preservation. Cowardice.

Maybe she’d been the one sending mixed signals all along.
Maybe they both had.

But now?
Now it felt too far gone to fix.

Kim Dokja didn’t remember taking the elevator back up.
Couldn’t recall the sound of the doors opening, or the look on Yoo Joonghyuk’s face when he walked away.

By the time he came to, his body was already moving.

He strode down the hall like something was burning inside him, heading straight for his desk.
His hands moved without thought—pulling drawers open, shoving books and loose papers into his bag with a precision that was almost violent.

Across the room, Yoo Sangah pushed back her chair, startled by the sudden storm of motion.
“Sunbae?”

“I have to go. It’s an emergency.”

He didn’t look at her.
Didn’t explain.

By the time she’d taken a breath, he was already gone—ignoring the elevator entirely, pounding down the stairwell like the ground might give way beneath him.

An hour later, the supervisor stepped in, papers tucked under his arm and irritation drawn sharp in his jaw.
“Yoo Sangah-ssi. Do you know where Kim Dokja went?”

She stood automatically. “He said it was an emergency.”

The man frowned. “Do you know which manuscript I sent Dokja to find? See if you can locate it for me.”

Sangah nodded, crossing to the desk in question.

Sooyoung’s workspace was its usual brand of chaos—messy, but meticulously so. Except… something was missing.
A narrow space in the middle stack, like a pulled tooth.

Her eyes dropped.

The manuscript sat on the keyboard.

She picked it up.
Flipped it open.

Red pen.

Margin notes. Line strikes. Small, decisive comments. The handwriting sharp enough to cut.
Surgical.
Precise.
Impersonal.

Not a single word wasted.

It wasn’t Dokja’s.

Sangah stilled, fingers lingering on the edge of the page as something slotted into place.

Every moment she’d half-noticed before began unspooling in her head:
The way Dokja froze when Joonghyuk and Sooyoung were in the same room.
The strange tension at the retreat, when she’d caught the faintest flicker of something behind Sooyoung’s eyes.
And last night—at the gala—when Dokja had accidentally caged her against the wall.

It had been too close. Too charged.

And Sooyoung had seen it.

Her expression had cracked open like something priceless had been stolen in front of her.

Sangah drew in a slow breath. Her chair creaked as she sat back down, the manuscript still open in her hands.
“Oh,” she whispered to no one.

And for some reason, the word felt heavier than it should.

It was one of those nights that stretched too long—work hours bleeding into something softer. Half-empty wine glasses. Stray laughter between stacks of unwashed mugs. A clock that kept forgetting to move.

When the cab pulled up, she slid in first. He followed without thinking, the door closing them into a pocket of warmth smelling faintly of rain and her perfume.

They didn’t speak. The driver’s radio murmured an old ballad meant for people awake when they shouldn’t be. Streetlights swept over her face in fragments—shadow, gold, shadow again.

A bump in the road brought their hands together. Not enough to be deliberate. Too much to be nothing. Neither moved away.

The cab couldn’t take them all the way; the streets narrowed too much past a certain point. They got out a block early, the air cool and damp against their skin.

They walked side by side down a narrow alley lit by flickering lamps, footsteps echoing off brick. The quiet between them wasn’t empty—it was taut, holding something unspoken.

At the steps to her building, she slowed. He stopped with her, close enough to feel her warmth through her coat. She didn’t reach for her keys—just stood there, one hand on the railing, looking at him like a question neither of them could voice.

“Do you…” she began, then faltered, something unreadable passing over her face.

He could have closed the distance. Could have stepped into the space between breaths, leaned in until her perfume drowned out the night air.

Her gaze dipped to his mouth. His heart slammed against his ribs. The air tightened.
If he just moved—just a little—

Instead, he swallowed the impulse, fingers curling in his coat pocket like restraint could anchor him.

“Goodnight,” he said, his voice too even for the storm inside him.

She blinked, a beat too long, before smiling—small, almost sad. Then she turned, climbed the steps, and vanished into the dark.

He stayed until the sound of her door latch clicked shut. Only then did he breathe.

The train’s metallic screech yanked him back. Fluorescent lights. Subway doors. His own face in the glass.
Next stop. His stop.

God. She’d been right there—arm’s reach, one word away. And he’d let her go.
Maybe because he was afraid she’d turn away.
Maybe because if she leaned back instead of forward, he’d never recover.
Maybe because wanting her out loud would make it real, and real things could break.

But now she was already breaking in someone else’s orbit.
And all he had left was the sound of a door closing, replaying in his head long after she’d walked away.

The announcement chimed again.
Dokja’s eyes snapped open. His pulse spiked; his breath came uneven.
He hadn’t thought about that night in years—not like this. Not in detail. Not with the weight of everything he hadn’t done pressing until it hurt to breathe.

By the time the train slowed, he was already on his feet.
The doors opened; cold air rushed in. He stepped out fast. Too fast.

It didn’t matter. He was moving now—every stride tighter, faster.

By the time he hit the street, he was running.
Running past startled faces, red lights, crossing signals, through the ache in his lungs.
Running toward her apartment—
Because if he stopped, even for a second, he knew he’d lose his nerve all over again.

Yoo Joonghyuk had always known there was something between Han Sooyoung and Kim Dokja.
It was obvious from the start.

They were both so emotionally constipated, so predictably foolish, it was almost painful to watch.
The three of them had joined around the same time, still green, still pretending they knew what they were doing. Even then, he’d noticed it—some warm, sparking thread between them. At first, he’d ignored it. Stupid. Not worth the thought. But it kept pulling at him, until watching them became a kind of masochistic pastime: two hopeless idiots stuck in orbit, drawn together by something they refused to name.

And it stayed that way for years.

He’d figured it out the first time Sooyoung stormed into the break room while he was making coffee—eyes too bright, words too sharp, trying too hard not to sound worried about someone who wasn’t him.
When the rumors started, he hadn’t stopped them. Maybe they’d force the two of them to confront whatever it was. Maybe it’d speed things up, let him stop watching this slow-motion car crash.

The teasing, he could handle. He liked it.
She was clever enough to match him, reckless enough to keep him on edge, and—damn it—fun.

Pretending to be together started as a joke, a way to feed the office gossip without ever confirming it. But somewhere along the line, her edges softened.
Little by little, the mask slipped.
And behind it, he saw what she tried to bury:
A tenderness she treated like a flaw.
A heart that bruised too easily.
A woman who pretended she didn’t need saving, even when she did.

They spent too much time together, until it felt like a given.
He stood beside her. Protected her. Filled the role she needed.
And he let himself get used to it. To her.

It should’ve been nothing.
It should’ve stayed nothing.

But the act blurred.
Her laugh stopped sounding staged.
His hand lingered longer than necessary.
The way she looked at him—sometimes—made it too easy to forget it was all performance.

He began to notice the details he’d never cared to look for:
The quiet moments when her walls came down.
The way she could burn a room down with a single glare, then turn around and bandage someone’s pride with a single line.
How fiercely she cared, even when she tried to hide it.

By the time he realized what had happened, it was too late.

Even if from the start, he’d known—
She was never his.
Never would be.

He told himself he’d made peace with that.
But that was before he knew what it felt like to be part of her orbit.
Before he had to watch her keep looking at someone else.

If it had been anyone else, maybe he would’ve fought. Maybe he would’ve dragged it out, played the stubborn fool, hoping she’d change her mind. He was steady. Dependable. Always there. Sometimes, that was enough.

But not here.

Because this wasn’t about him.

This was about Dokja.
Oblivious, maddening, quietly selfless Dokja—who loved in silences and half-gestures, who looked at her like she was the only thing worth surviving for.

Joonghyuk had seen it all.
The glances.
The flinches.
The kind of longing that didn’t waver, not even when it hurt.

And the worst part? She never noticed.

So he stayed in the background, holding the line, cleaning up their messes before they could see them.
Because even if they were both spiraling, they were spiraling toward each other.

And if he could just grab their heads and slam them together until they figured it out—he would.

He rang the doorbell twice. Then a third time.
By the fifth ring, panic had already clawed its way into Kim Dokja’s throat.
He didn’t even know why. She wasn’t dying. But worry was a muscle—neglected, then suddenly overworked—and now it hurt to breathe.

The door cracked open.
Han Sooyoung blinked at him, blanket wrapped around her shoulders, eyes red-rimmed but sharp.

“You look like a drowned salaryman.”

“Ran half the way,” he panted, shoulders heaving.

“Dumbass. Come in before you puddle on the doorstep.”

He stepped inside. The apartment smelled like paper, peppermint tea, and her shampoo—sharp and familiar enough to punch straight through his composure.
He didn’t take his shoes off right away, just stood there dripping into the genkan like he might forget how to move.

“I’m not dying,” she said, quieter this time.

“I know,” he replied.

She tilted her head, waiting for the rest.

“But I am.”

Her brows lifted, the blanket slipping an inch from one bare shoulder. She waited for a smirk, a jab—something to prove he was joking.

Instead, he just looked at her.

“I also remember how you pretend you’re fine until you’re not.”

Her lips parted, then pressed shut.
He had never said something like that out loud.

He set his bag on the coffee table with a soft thud, then crouched and began unpacking: cold medicine, electrolyte drinks, sliced fruit, instant porridge, two cup noodles with cartoon tigers on the packaging.
The plastic bags crinkled under his hands; he smoothed one flat just to keep them busy.

“It’s not much.” He raked a hand through sweat-damp hair, droplets clinging to his wrist. “But if you have rice and an egg, I can make juk. My mother used to—”
He stopped, flushing, his gaze skittering sideways. “It helps.”

Sooyoung’s eyes tracked the little mountain of convenience-store concern.
Something trembled behind her ribcage—she tightened her grip on the blanket like it might hold her together.

“What are you really doing here?”

He froze, fingers curling slowly around the strap of his bag.

“If you’re not going to make anything clear,” she said, “then I think you should just—”

“I came to see you.”

“I missed you.”
Then, slower. Heavier:
“And I was afraid that if I waited any longer, I’d lose the right to say that at all.” Her throat tightened, but he kept going.
“I thought if I stayed silent long enough, maybe the ache would fade. That you’d stop living in every quiet part of my life. That the distance we built would protect us both.”

He exhaled—shoulders sagging, hands falling uselessly to his sides.

“But it didn’t. It just made everything worse.
And then Joonghyuk started showing up in all the places I should’ve been—by your side, holding your work, listening.
And I realized…”

A crack threaded through his voice.

“I realized I made it easy for someone else to be what I was too afraid to become.
That if I hesitated one more second, you’d finally believe I didn’t care.”

A beat passed.

“And that thought scared the hell out of me.”

Sooyoung’s fingers curled tight into the blanket at her collarbone, knuckles whitening.
All the speeches she’d rehearsed—sharp, perfect lines muttered into her pillow—sank like stones in her throat.
How was she supposed to hurl them at him now? Tell him he’d made her feel like she didn’t matter?

She could cry. She could spit it out like venom.
You can’t just do this now. Can’t just show up because you’re jealous.

Damn. That would’ve been nice dialogue, she thought bitterly.
But the words dissolved before they reached her tongue.

She exhaled slowly, letting the fight drain from her shoulders.
Across from her, he shifted his weight—like he’d been holding his breath, too—and his hands fell open at his sides.

She looked at him—really looked.
His shirt clung to him in damp patches, his breath still uneven, his eyes unbearably open.
Maybe in another story, she would have said everything.

But he already knew.
Already regretted it.
Already wanted to make it right.

Her grip loosened. She swallowed.
Then she tipped her chin toward the small kitchen, her voice barely more than a breath:
“Kitchen’s that way.”

The silence while he cooked wasn’t awkward—it was careful.
Two porcupines learning how not to bleed.

The kitchen was small enough that every sound carried:
the scrape of a knife against the board,
the faint hiss as ginger hit hot oil,
the quiet simmer when broth met the pot.

She lingered in the doorway, blanket trailing behind her like a cape.
Loose strands of hair clung to her cheeks, warmed by the steam.
He could feel her there without looking—the weight of her watching him move.

“I missed arguing with you,” he said at last, eyes on the pot.

She huffed, the sound curling in the air. “You missed winning.”

“I never won.” He stirred in slow, steady circles. “You always took the best lines.”

Her mouth curved, almost-smile. “You let me.”

He risked a glance, just long enough to catch her eyes.
“Only because I liked hearing you laugh after.”

Her cheeks warmed—hotter than the stove flame—and she fiddled with the blanket’s fringe.

They ate on the couch, knees almost touching.
The juk was simple—rice, egg, ginger—but the first spoonful made her eyes flutter shut.

“Good?” he asked.

“Tolerable,” she murmured, voice thick. “Better with jealousy, apparently.”

He set his bowl down. “Sooyoung.”

She met his gaze for the first time in weeks.

“I can’t promise I’ll stop being an idiot,” he said, fingers curling once on his knee before going still.
“But I can promise you won’t have to guess if I’m looking.”

Her breath caught. “You’re looking now.”

“I’ll keep looking,” he said—like a vow. “Even when it’s terrifying.”

The air between them pulled taut.
She set her bowl aside, the ceramic knocking softly against the table.
The blanket slipped from one shoulder as she leaned in, slow enough for him to feel every inch closing.
Their foreheads touched—light, steady.

“Don’t run next time,” she whispered.

“Only if you don’t hide.”

“Deal.”

Outside, the city kept moving—trains, deadlines, gossip.
Inside, two bowls of cooling porridge sat forgotten.
Han Sooyoung’s fingers found the frayed edge of his tie—
and Kim Dokja, in the quietest, surest way he knew, stayed.

They didn’t talk much after that.
They didn’t need to.

At some point, she tugged him toward the bedroom without ceremony.
Not for sex. Not for anything like that.
Just the bed. Just the dark. Just each other.

They lay down, limbs awkward at first—then less so.
Her head found his shoulder.
His hand brushed her knuckles, then stayed.
Their foreheads almost touched, breaths warm in the space between.

This—this was what they’d been circling for years.
All the almosts.
All the unspoken things.
Finally here.
Finally real.

He leaned in, breath trembling with what he couldn’t say.

She stopped him with a palm to his chest.
“Are you sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure in my life.”

“No,” she murmured. “I meant… I’m technically still sick. You might catch it.”

A beat.

“I won’t,” he said.

And then he kissed her.
Not rushed. Not fevered.
Slow. Certain.
Like a promise kept.
Like forgiveness made warm.

She melted into it.
So did he.

They didn’t speak again that night.
Just held on—closer, closer.
Too much time had passed pretending they didn’t need this.
Now, neither dared let go.

They didn’t sleep much, either.
They stayed wrapped together, breathing in sync,
until exhaustion finally pulled them under.
And when it did, it was the softest sleep either had known in months.

The sun cracked through the blinds.
Kim Dokja groaned before opening his eyes.
Throat raw, head pounding, chills creeping under the covers.

Across from him, Sooyoung blinked awake, saw his face, and smirked.

“I told you,” she said.

He glared, weakly. “Worth it.”

She rolled her eyes, reaching for the thermometer. “Idiot.”

“Your idiot,” he rasped.

“Not if you die from the flu before noon.”

They both called in sick. Again.
This time, she made the juk.
Brought cold compresses. Mocked him without mercy.
Refused to let him touch the remote.

And he let her.
Because her fussing meant something now.
And because—even with a fever,
even with her yelling at him for sniffling too loud—

It was still worth it.

News traveled fast.
By the third day of Kim Dokja and Han Sooyoung’s suspiciously simultaneous sick leave, the office rumor mill had already gone into overdrive.

The CopyKing’s Queen seat? Officially vacant.
Sources reported the ex-queen had vanished on a spontaneous honeymoon with a new king.
King Dokja.

That was all it took.
The rumors bloomed like mold in the dark.
By lunchtime, there was a working theory that Kim Dokja and Han Sooyoung had eloped. That they’d gotten secretly married after the gala. That their extended leave wasn’t about illness at all, but a stealth honeymoon somewhere in Busan. Or Jeju. Or holed up in her apartment “sick”—quotation marks very much included.

None of it was true.
(Except the part about Sooyoung’s apartment.
And the part about them being sick.
And sort of the honeymoon part, if cuddling with a fever counted.)

Yoo Joonghyuk, of course, didn’t care.
Or at least, he pretended not to.

He went through the motions—emails, reports, copy reviews—but something was… off. His rhythm stuttered. His focus slipped.
Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t do gossip. He found it inefficient. Irritating.
But this time, he couldn’t ignore the absence.

He was making coffee from the new espresso machine—part of the prize the department won at the gala. His thoughts wandered (which they rarely did), not toward deadlines or drafts, but toward quiet.
The kind of quiet left behind when someone who used to be in your life suddenly wasn’t.

Then the breakroom door slammed open. Two interns stumbled in, arms overloaded with office supplies.
Startled, Joonghyuk shifted his grip—too late.
Hot coffee splashed directly onto his hand.

Right as Yoo Sangah walked in.
“Seriously?!” she barked at the interns. “Watch the door!”
Then she spotted Joonghyuk’s red, dripping hand.
“Oh—god. Are you okay?” she asked, rushing over. “You should get that looked at.”

“It’s fine,” he muttered, already dabbing it with a napkin.

“Joonghyuk-ssi!” she snapped. “That’s second-degree if you’re not careful.”

“It’s nothing,” he said flatly, running his hand under cold water.

“Go to the clinic,” she insisted.

He didn’t want to. But she gave him that patient, pointed look—the kind that wore down even his sharpest edges.
So he went.

On the way there, Joonghyuk found himself thinking.
Honestly… it was kind of nice.
That Dokja and Sooyoung were finally together.

They were infuriating, exhausting, and utterly blind to their feelings—but they made sense.
He’d always known it would happen eventually. He just didn’t expect it to ache like this.

Not heartbreak. Not exactly.
Just a pang.
A quiet, precise kind of absence.
Like something was missing from his usual backdrop, and he hadn’t noticed until it was gone.

He didn’t plan to actually check in at the clinic. The burn wasn’t serious. He’d dealt with worse—paper cuts, emotional trauma, Han Sooyoung.
But Sangah had insisted. And for some reason, he’d listened.

He sat on the exam table, flexing his hand where the espresso had hit. The sting had mostly faded. He could’ve iced it and been fine in an hour.
He was just about to leave when the door opened.

And he froze.

For a second—just one—Yoo Joonghyuk genuinely wondered if he’d died in the breakroom and gone to heaven.
Because the woman who walked in looked like an angel.

Tall. Poised. White-blonde hair falling in soft waves down her back. Pale skin, delicate features, and a calm that made the sterile clinic feel like someplace else entirely.
She wore a crisp white coat over tailored slacks. Moved like silk.

Her voice was low, warm, unreal.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” she said, crossing to the sink to wash her hands.
“I’m the attending today. Dr. Lee Seolhwa.”

She turned to face him fully.
Their eyes met.

“And you are?”

His mouth opened.
His brain stopped.

“I’m… uh. Y—Yoo Joong… Joonghyuk.”

He cursed himself the second it left his mouth.

Seolhwa didn’t flinch or laugh. She only tilted her head, like she was quietly tucking the name away somewhere private, before lowering her gaze to the chart.

While she scanned the page, Joonghyuk studied her—not in the detached way he usually observed people, but in the startled, almost defensive way of someone caught off guard.
Her hair had the kind of sheen you only notice when you’re too close.
Her hands, small and sure, moved like she’d memorized each gesture.
Even her voice, when she spoke again, landed low in his chest.

“Let me see your hand.”

He obeyed before he could think about it.
Her fingers were cool against his skin, careful but firm, the pads brushing just enough to make him aware of how long it had been since anyone touched him without urgency or pretense.

It was over in seconds—an ointment, a loose wrap, a light pat to signal she was done.
But when she stepped back, Joonghyuk found himself staring.

“Try not to burn yourself again,” she said with a small smile.

He almost said something—what, he didn’t know.
But she was already turning away, moving to wash her hands again, leaving him with the faint smell of soap and the ridiculous thought that he might want to come back here.

Later when Sooyoung finally returned to work, she ambushed them in the hallway.
“Dinner,” she declared, stepping into Joonghyuk’s path like she’d been waiting her whole life to be annoying. “Tonight. You, me, Dokja, Sangah. I’m cashing in.”

Joonghyuk blinked. “Cashing in what?”

“I owe you a meal, remember?” She jabbed a finger at him. “It’s time.”

Dokja appeared behind her with a thermos of ginger tea. “You know this sounds like a trap.”

“It’s not a trap,” Sooyoung said—too quickly. “It’s called being emotionally accountable. Sangah, back me up.”

Sangah looked up from her phone. “Free samgyeopsal and soju, you say?”

“Exactly,” Sooyoung beamed. “Now everyone’s coming.”

That night, they met at a samgyeopsal joint just off the main road—metal tables, sizzling pork belly, side dishes flying, and enough noise to hide the way Sooyoung was very obviously scheming.

Halfway through the meal, over lettuce wraps and clinking shot glasses, she leaned forward, chin propped on one hand, and said—far too casually:
“So. Are you two single?”

Sangah blinked.
Joonghyuk paused mid-wrap.
Dokja looked up from the grill. “Sooyoung.”

“What?” she said, all innocence. “It’s just a question. You two have a vibe. Wouldn’t it be hilarious if my thank-you dinner also doubled as a blind date?”

Sangah laughed softly. “This is definitely a trap.”

Joonghyuk reached for his water. “I’m seeing someone.”

A beat.

Sooyoung blinked. “No way. Like the new rumor said?”

Joonghyuk raised an eyebrow. Just slightly.
And somehow, it said: Yes. Hard to believe, but true.

Sangah raised her glass with a grin. “Congrats.”

Sooyoung slumped into Dokja’s side. “Everyone’s pairing off. I miss being the main character.”

Dokja handed her a lettuce wrap. “You were more like comic relief.”

She took it with a scoff. “Funny, coming from a background extra with zero lines.”

Dokja raised a brow. “I feed you, and this is the thanks I get?”

She smirked. “You get me at peak charm and minimal complaints. It’s a steal.”

They laughed, drank, and grilled as the night blurred sweet around the edges—until, somewhere between the pork belly and the easy rhythm of newfound friendship, something unspoken slipped into the air.
Something warm, promising, almost shy.

And for the first time in their godforsaken office—
a rumor had finally turned out to be true.