The meeting room was too quiet.
Minji stood by the presentation screen, finishing her pitch. Her voice was steady, eyes calm, but she could feel his gaze. Minho sat at the table, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
When she ended, the room clapped politely. Clients seemed satisfied. Everyone left—except him.
She turned, already bracing herself.
"You should've informed me before changing the direction of the final lookbook," Minho said, tone clipped.
Minji raised a brow. "You weren't in the office, and the deadline was tight. I went with what worked."
"You went with what you wanted," he shot back, standing now. "You don't get to override decisions without checking in."
The sting hit deeper than it should. "I didn't know I needed permission to think creatively."
His jaw clenched. "This is business, Minji. Not your personal art project."
Her lips parted in disbelief. "Right. Because if I take the lead, it's personal. But when you change things, it's 'vision.'"
A beat of silence. The tension crackled.
"Maybe stop acting like you care only when it's convenient," she muttered, stepping past him.
He turned sharply. "Maybe stop thinking this is more than it is."
Her eyes flashed—but she said nothing.
The door clicked behind her, but the heat stayed behind.
—
It happened fast.
Later that evening, Minji was carrying a stack of design boards out of the sample room—still furious, distracted, heart heavy—and didn't notice the uneven tile near the hallway.
Her heel caught.
She stumbled with a quiet gasp, the boards tumbling from her hands as she hit her knee hard against the floor.
"Minji!"
She winced—of course it was him.
Minho rushed over, kneeling beside her. "Are you okay? What happened?"
She bit back the sting in her voice. "Nothing. I just—wasn't looking."
He gently took her wrist. Her palm was scraped, faint blood near her thumb.
"Dammit," he muttered. "Why weren't you watching where you were going?"
"Why do you care?" she snapped, voice tight.
His hand froze.
Then—softer, lower—"Because I always do."
She blinked, the silence ringing louder than his words.
He pulled out a handkerchief, wrapping her palm with careful fingers. She didn't move. Didn't breathe.
"You should be more careful," he murmured, eyes not meeting hers.
She lowered her gaze, voice just a whisper. "Then stop making it so hard to focus."
Their hands stayed together a moment too long.
Neither pulled away.
She stood slowly, brushing off her skirt. "Thanks," she said, voice soft now.
Minho hesitated, then looked at her.
"Dinner. Tomorrow night," he said suddenly. "Just… you and me."
She stared at him.
"You're asking me out?"
"You decide what to call it."
A flicker of a smile touched her lips as she turned to leave.
"I'll think about it."