Chapter 9: After Hours
The city was quieter at night — not silent, but softened. The usual rush of Seoul's neon heartbeat dimmed slightly, replaced by a hum of tired footsteps and fading headlights.
Seo-Ah stood under the fluorescent glow of a 24-hour convenience store, gripping a carton of instant porridge and some cold medicine. Her younger brother had caught the flu, and after the long, exhausting merger meeting, she had barely made it in time before closing.
She was in sweatpants now. Hair pulled into a tired bun. No makeup. No heels. No polished version of herself — just a girl trying to keep things together.
She stepped outside, plastic bag in hand, and paused under the awning as rain began to drizzle. Of course it would rain. Of course she'd forgotten her umbrella.
With a sigh, she leaned against the glass, staring out into the wet street.
"Twice in one day," came a voice behind her — low, familiar, and completely unexpected.
Seo-Ah turned sharply.
Lee Min-Jun stood just a few feet away, one hand in his coat pocket, the other holding an umbrella he hadn't opened yet. His black coat was perfectly tailored, but there was a softness to him tonight — like the sharpness had dulled a fraction.
Her mouth parted in shock. "You—what are you doing here?"
He looked down at the bag in her hand. "Didn't realize assistants doubled as emergency caregivers."
She blinked. "My brother's sick."
A beat of silence. Then he nodded, eyes unreadable.
Seo-Ah shifted awkwardly. "It's just porridge and cold meds. I didn't know what else—"
"I wasn't criticizing," he said calmly.
Another beat passed, filled only by the soft patter of rain.
"Do you always look this tired?" he added, his tone almost casual — but not cruel.
Seo-Ah bristled slightly. "Only when I've been working fourteen-hour days for cold CEOs who refuse to take coffee breaks."
Min-Jun's lip twitched — not quite a smile, but something close. "Noted."
For a moment, the rain thickened.
Then, without a word, he stepped closer and opened his umbrella above both their heads.
Seo-Ah stiffened, shocked by the proximity. The umbrella created a small cocoon between them, muting the world — just their breath, the rain, and the faint scent of something expensive clinging to his coat.
"You didn't have to," she said, her voice smaller now.
"I know," he replied.
She glanced up at him. "You're not nearly as heartless as you pretend to be."
Min-Jun turned his face slightly away. "You're imagining things."
But she wasn't. She could see it in the way he held the umbrella so it shielded her more than himself. In the way his eyes lingered on her tired face, not with judgment — but something dangerously close to concern.
They walked together in silence.
Underneath the cold stars, beneath the rain, something unspoken began to bloom — quiet and unsure.
But real.
By Monday morning, the moment under the umbrella might as well have been a dream.
Lee Min-Jun walked into the office with the same unreadable expression, tailored suit, and air of detached command. If he remembered standing under the rain beside her, his body angled protectively, he didn't show it.
Seo-Ah, on the other hand, couldn't forget.
She sat at her desk with her notes open, eyes fixed on the screen but mind somewhere else — somewhere rainy, quiet, and confusing. Her chest clenched every time she recalled the way he had looked at her, like she wasn't just another name in a file.
"Don't fall harder than you can afford," she muttered to herself, tapping her pen against her notebook. "You already know how this ends."
But knowing didn't stop the ache.
The internal door clicked open.
"Ms. Kang."
His voice — that perfectly measured baritone — made her jump slightly.
Seo-Ah rose quickly. "Yes, sir?"
He didn't invite her in. He simply handed her a folder.
"I need this reviewed and summarized before the 2PM with HJ Group."
She took it from him, their fingers not quite touching.
"Also," he added, pausing before turning away, "don't forget to eat today."
Seo-Ah looked up, surprised. "Sir?"
He didn't repeat himself. He just walked back into his office, leaving her stunned, folder in hand, heart skipping for a reason she wasn't ready to name.
---
The day dragged on in sharp beats of work, meetings, and exchanged glances that meant more than either admitted.
At the 2PM conference, Seo-Ah sat beside him again. This time, her pen didn't shake — but her heartbeat did when Min-Jun leaned slightly closer during a lull in the talks and whispered, "You handle silence better than most people."
She looked at him, confused. "Is that... a compliment?"
His lips curved just slightly. "Don't get used to it."
Later, while the HJ Group executives stepped out to take a call, Seo-Ah dared to whisper, "Why are you like this?"
Min-Jun glanced sideways. "Like what?"
"Kind when no one's looking. Cold when everyone is. You say things like they mean nothing but they... linger."
He stared at her then — properly stared. As if weighing what he could afford to say.
Finally, he said quietly, "Because the moment you start meaning something to people, they start expecting things you can't give."
Her breath caught.
He looked away first.
---
That night, she lay awake in bed, one arm draped over her eyes.
She was falling. Slowly, messily. And he—he was letting her.
But not catching her.
Not yet.
The soft hum of her air conditioner was the only sound in the room.
Seo-Ah lay curled on her side, blankets tangled around her legs, the pale blue light from her phone screen casting long shadows across the wall. Her heart wouldn't settle. Her mind wouldn't stop.
She replayed his voice in her head—
"Because the moment you start meaning something to people, they start expecting things you can't give."
There was something tragic in the way he said it. Not defensive. Just... resigned.
Her fingers hovered over her phone. No new messages. No missed calls. Not that she expected any. Not from him.
But she wanted something—anything—from him. Even just proof that she wasn't the only one lying awake, heart caught between logic and longing.
Seo-Ah sat up and pulled the curtains aside. The city shimmered below, alive and untouchable. Somewhere out there, Min-Jun was probably still working, alone in some cold, high-rise office with his sleeves rolled up and a drink he wouldn't finish.
Her phone buzzed.
She flinched.
Unknown Number:
Don't forget to eat next time.
Her breath caught.
Her thumb trembled slightly as she typed back.
Seo-Ah:
You saved my number?
Three dots blinked.
Then vanished.
Then returned.
Min-Jun:
I don't forget things that matter.
She dropped the phone on her bed like it had burned her.
What was this?
A warning?
A promise?
Or just another fragment of attention she was going to mistake for affection?
Seo-Ah curled back under her sheets, eyes wide open in the dark.
She was falling.
And for the first time in years, she didn't want to stop.