POV: Kang Min-jae
Day 1 – Friday Evening
Setting: Café Onion, Seongsu-dong, Seoul
I changed my shirt three times before leaving my apartment.
This is ridiculous. It's coffee, not a wedding. But I'm standing in my bedroom at 5:15 PM, surrounded by rejected clothing options, trying to find the perfect balance between "I put in effort" and "I didn't try too hard." The navy sweater looks too formal. The white t-shirt is too casual. The gray henley is just right, except now I look like I'm auditioning for a catalog.
I go with the henley.
My reflection in the mirror shows someone who appears calm and confident—good hair, clear skin, an outfit that suggests effortless style. It's the same face I've presented to the world for thirty years, the one that makes people assume things about me before I open my mouth.
But my hands are shaking slightly as I grab my keys.
It's just coffee. With a woman I met last night who spilled wine on me and made me laugh more in ten minutes than I have all week. A woman who criticized abstract art with zero pretension and gave me her number like it wasn't a calculated move, just a natural next step.
A woman who, if everything goes according to plan, will be my girlfriend for the next ten days so I can win a stupid bet and prove to my colleagues that I'm capable of human connection.
The guilt surfaces again, sharp and uncomfortable. I push it down.
This isn't manipulative, I tell myself. People date with all kinds of motivations—loneliness, boredom, social pressure. Is a bet really that different? And it's only ten days. After that, if things are going well, I can tell her the truth and we can decide together whether to keep seeing each other. If things aren't going well, we'll part ways naturally. No harm done.
The rationalization sounds hollow even to me.
My phone buzzes. Tae-hyun, of course.
**Tae-hyun:** Day 1 of the bet. Don't fuck it up. Mi-sun wants updates.
**Me:** Tell your wife to stop being invested in my love life.
**Tae-hyun:** She says that's impossible and you should wear the gray henley.
I look down at my gray henley. How does Mi-sun even—
**Me:** Are you watching me through my window?
**Tae-hyun:** No, I just know you. You always wear the gray henley when you want to impress someone. Also good luck. Try to be genuine for once.
I pocket my phone and head out.
The subway to Seongsu-dong is crowded with Friday evening commuters—people heading home after work, couples going to dinner, groups of friends starting their weekends. I stand near the door, gripping the overhead rail, mentally rehearsing conversation topics. Ask about her writing. Show genuine interest. Don't monopolize the conversation. Make her laugh. Be the version of myself that people like.
Café Onion sits in the heart of Seongsu-dong's hipster renaissance—a converted factory building with exposed brick, industrial lighting, and coffee so good it justifies the ten-minute wait. I arrive at 5:50 PM, ten minutes early, and immediately regret it because now I have to decide whether to go in and claim a table or wait outside like I just happened to arrive at the exact same time as her.
I wait outside.
The October evening is cool, the sky transitioning from blue to purple. Around me, Seongsu's streets buzz with energy—young professionals ducking into restaurants, couples window-shopping at boutiques, the distant hum of the subway. This neighborhood always feels like potential, like Seoul reinventing itself block by block.
At 5:58 PM, I saw her.
Ji-won walks up the street with purpose, not the careful, self-conscious walk some women do on first dates. She's wearing jeans and an oversized cream sweater, her dark hair loose around her shoulders instead of the ponytail from last night. When she spots me, she smiles—a real smile, not the polite version people give strangers.
"You're early," she says.
"I'm punctual. There's a difference."
"Punctuality is arriving at six. Early is arriving at 5:50 and pretending you just got here."
I laughed, caught. "Fair. I'm nervous. Coffee with strangers makes me early."
"I'm not a stranger. I'm the person who ruined your expensive shirt."
"You elevated my expensive shirt to a conversation piece. Totally different."
We go inside, and the café is exactly as crowded as I expected—every table full, the espresso machine hissing, indie music playing just loud enough to create atmosphere without overwhelming conversation. Ji-won orders an Americano, no sugar. I get the same, plus two almond croissants because food gives us something to do with our hands.
We find a small table by the window, and for a moment, we just sit there, coffee steaming between us, the weight of first-date expectations settling in.
"So," Ji-won says finally. "Tell me about yourself, Kang Min-jae. Besides your apparent love of wine-stainable clothing."
"What do you want to know?"
"The basics. Job, family, whether you're secretly a serial killer. The usual first-date questions."
I appreciate her directness. No coy games, no pretending this isn't what it is—two people assessing compatibility.
"I'm a creative director at an advertising agency. PRISM Creative, in Seongsu-dong actually. We're a few blocks from here."
"So you work near your favorite coffee shop. Efficient."
"Very. My commute is eight minutes if I'm walking slowly." I broke off a piece of croissant. "Family—parents still in Seoul, both academic types. I have no siblings, which means I got all the parental attention and pressure. And I'm not a serial killer. I don't even kill plants successfully."
Ji-won laughs. "The plant-killing thing is somehow more reassuring than the serial killer denial."
"What about you? Besides being a writer who critiques art and ruins shirts?"
She wraps her hands around her coffee cup. "I work for Metro Pulse. It's a digital magazine—lifestyle, culture, that kind of thing. I mostly write articles about skincare and coffee shops, which sounds glamorous but mostly involves me sitting in my apartment researching the ten best sheet masks."
"That doesn't sound like what you want to be writing."
Her eyes flick up to meet mine, surprised. "No. It's not."
"So what do you want to write?"
The question seems to catch her off guard. She's quiet for a moment, and I wonder if I've pushed too far, too fast. But then she says, "Real things. Stories that matter. Journalism that makes people think instead of just clicking." She laughs, self-conscious. "That sounds pretentious."
"It sounds honest."
"Honest and pretentious aren't mutually exclusive."
"True." I lean back in my chair. "But ambition isn't pretentious. It's just wanting more than what you have. Nothing wrong with that."
Ji-won studies me over the rim of her coffee cup. "You sound like you understand that feeling."
I do. More than I want to admit. "Everyone wants to be taken seriously. To be valued for what they can do, not what they look like or who they're related to."
"Speaking from experience?"
I hesitate. This is the part where I usually deflect, make a joke, and keep things light. But something about Ji-won's direct gaze makes me want to be honest.
"My father's a famous architect. My mother teaches art history at Hongik University. I look like—" I gesture vaguely at my face. "This. People make assumptions. That I got my job through connections. That I coast on appearance. That I've never had to work for anything."
"And have you? Had to work for anything?"
The question could sound challenging, but her tone is genuinely curious.
"Yes. But it doesn't matter how hard I work because people see what they want to see. The well-connected guy who looks good in campaign photos." I realize I'm oversharing, something I never do on first dates. "Sorry. That got heavy quickly."
"No, I—" Ji-won leans forward. "I get it. Being underestimated because of how you present. It's frustrating."
"How do people underestimate you?"
"They think because I write lifestyle content, I'm not a serious journalist. That I'm filling space between ads. That I'm—" She pauses. "That I'm lightweight. Easy to dismiss."
"That's their loss."
"Maybe. Or maybe I need to prove them wrong."
There's something in her voice—determination mixed with something else I can't identify. She looks down at her coffee, and I have the strange sense that she's not just talking about her career in general, but something specific. Recent.
"Are you? Proving them wrong?" I ask.
She meets my eyes again. "I'm trying to."
We sit in comfortable silence for a moment, and I realize this is the most honest conversation I've had on a first date in years. No performance, no careful curation of personal details designed to impress. Just two people admitting they want more than what they have.
"Okay," Ji-won says, breaking the moment. "Enough heavy stuff. Tell me something random about yourself. Something that wouldn't come up in normal conversation."
I think. "I have a golden retriever named Bori who lives with my parents because my apartment doesn't allow dogs. I visit him every weekend. He's the love of my life."
Ji-won's face lights up. "You're a dog person. That's important information."
"Are you a dog person?"
"I'm an 'I wish I could have a dog but I'm barely responsible enough to keep my plants alive' person. Which is to say, theoretically yes, practically no."
"See, I kill plants but keep dogs alive. We're complementary."
"Complementary in our failures. The foundation of all great relationships."
She says it lightly, joking, but the word "relationships" hangs in the air between us. We've been on one date—not even a full date, just coffee—and already the word feels both too big and oddly appropriate.
"Your turn," I say. "Random fact."
Ji-won tilts her head, thinking. "I watch old romantic movies when I can't sleep. Black and white ones, where everyone talks fast and wears incredible clothes. Katharine Hepburn, Cary Grant, that whole era."
"That's extremely charming."
"It's extremely nerdy."
"Charming and nerdy aren't mutually exclusive." I'm parroting her words back to her, and she notices, smiling.
We talked for another hour. The conversation flows easily—childhood stories, embarrassing moments, strong opinions about trivial things. I learn that Ji-won grew up in Busan, that she has a younger brother in university, that she's never traveled outside of Korea but wants to visit New York and Paris. She learns that I play basketball badly but enthusiastically, that I'm an excellent cook but hate baking, that I once got lost in Incheon Airport for three hours despite growing up in Seoul.
When our coffee cups are empty and the croissants reduced to crumbs, I realize it's after seven and the café is starting to thin out as people head to dinner.
"I should probably—" Ji-won starts.
"Let me walk you to the subway," I say quickly.
Outside, the evening has fully settled into night. Seongsu's streets glow with neon and string lights, and the October air has that perfect crispness that makes Seoul feel like a possibility.
We walk slowly toward the station, and I'm hyperaware of the space between us—close enough that our arms occasionally brush, far enough that it's not presumptuous.
"So," Ji-won says as we approach the subway entrance. "This was nice."
"It was. Can I see you again?"
"You're very direct."
"I'm nervous that if I'm not direct, you'll disappear and I'll spend the next week wondering if I should text you or if that's too eager."
She laughs. "Text me. Be eager. I appreciate the directness."
"Tomorrow?" I hear myself say. "Or is that too soon?"
Ji-won looks at me for a long moment, and I can't read her expression. Then she says, "Tomorrow works. But Min-jae?"
"Yeah?"
"This is—" She hesitates. "This is just dating, right? Nothing serious. Just seeing where it goes."
Something in my chest tightens. Of course that's what she thinks. That's what all first dates are—tentative, non-committal, keeping options open. But I need this to be more than casual. I need her to agree to be my girlfriend, even if she doesn't know why yet.
"Right," I say, smiling like that's exactly what I wanted to hear. "Just seeing where it goes."
But in my head, I'm already calculating. Nine days left. I need to accelerate this carefully—build connection without seeming desperate, creating intimacy without pushing too hard.
"Text me tomorrow," Ji-won says. "We'll figure something out."
She disappears down into the subway station, and I stand on the street, watching the space where she was.
My phone buzzes. Tae-hyun.
**Tae-hyun:** So? Day 1 update?
I look at the subway entrance, then on my phone.
**Me:** Coffee went well. Seeing her again tomorrow.
**Tae-hyun:** That's it? I need details. Mi-sun is literally sitting next to me demanding details.
**Me:** She's smart. Funny. Easy to talk to.
**Tae-hyun:** Do you actually LIKE her, or is this just for the bet?
I stared at that message for a long time.
**Me:** I'll figure it out.
But walking back through Seongsu-dong toward my apartment, I'm already thinking about Ji-won. The way she challenged my answers instead of just accepting them. The vulnerability when she talked about wanting to be taken seriously. The easy silence between us didn't feel awkward.
This was supposed to be simple. Ten days, prove a point, win the bet.
But nothing about the way Ji-won looked at me across the coffee table felt simple.
I let myself into my apartment, and it's exactly as I left it—clean, organized, empty. I pour a glass of water and stand at my window looking out at the Han River in the distance, the city lights reflecting off the water.
My phone buzzes again. This time, it's her.
**Ji-won:** Made it home. Thanks for the coffee. And the croissant. And the conversation.
**Me:** Thanks for giving me a second chance after the wine incident.
**Ji-won:** Well, I owed you. See you tomorrow?
**Me:** Definitely.
I save our text thread and set my phone down. Tomorrow is Day Two. One day closer to proving I can do this. One day closer to winning creative control on the Luminé campaign.
But as I get ready for bed, I'm not thinking about the bet or the campaign.
I'm thinking about the way Ji-won's eyes lit up when she talked about old movies. The way she made me laugh without trying. The way she said "just dating" like she needed to establish boundaries, and how that made me want to know what she was protecting herself from.
Ten days suddenly feels both too long and not nearly enough.