The buzz of the office was a hymn as familiar as a tune—low muttering, the beep of the printer, the thrum of the air system. Together, they created the steady pulse of Seojin Capital Solutions.
For Ha Seori, it was background noise she'd long since folded into her routine—comforting in its predictability, like rain on glass during a meeting.
But today, something felt… off.
Her desk sat diagonally across from Yoo Minjae's. Not directly across, but close enough to glimpse him behind the partitions. To most, he was unreadable: the same measured gaze, the same careful motions. But Seori had grown attuned to subtler things—the pauses too brief for others to notice.
Like now.
She approached with a folder. His fingers halted mid-typing—paused, not frozen. As if he'd sensed her before she spoke. He turned, composed as ever.
"Minjae," she said quietly, placing the folder by his mousepad. "I pulled the latest employee satisfaction survey. I thought you'd want it before tomorrow's meeting."
His gaze lifted, steady but softer than she expected.
"Thanks, Seori. I appreciate it."
There it was again. That warmth—not staged, not calculated. Just real.
Her chest tightened at the simplicity of it. She nodded quickly, murmured, "No problem," and walked back faster than necessary, cheeks warming.
At her desk, she exhaled, fingers pressed together, trying to slow her heartbeat. But his voice lingered.
---
Lunch came with the usual shuffle—colleagues pairing off, cafeteria chatter rising. By afternoon, Seori found herself drifting toward the break room. She could have told herself it was coincidence, but she didn't stop her steps either.
The space was quiet—fluorescent hums, the gurgle of the water dispenser.
She caught his profile as he poured his drink. Calm, deliberate, steam rising faintly.
"I've noticed you've been working late a lot," she said lightly, though her grip on her mug tightened. "Just thought I'd check in."
He didn't answer right away. He finished his cup, sat down, and only then spoke.
"There's a lot to remember," he said at last. "But I'm not dismayed by that."
He hadn't looked at her, but his tone wasn't cold. Remote, yes. But not indifferent—like the stillness of a lake at night, distant yet present.
Seori hesitated, then tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and leaned forward slightly.
"Well," she said softly, "if you ever need a hand—or just someone to listen—I'm here."
That made him glance up. Their eyes met.
It was only seconds. But it felt longer. The office faded. There was only her, him, and something unspoken bridging the space.
He smiled.
Not the polished kind for meetings. Not the faint curve for colleagues. This one was small, tentative, private—but genuine.
"Thank you," he said.
And that was all. No promises. No laughter. Just that.
But it clung to her like sunlight hours after dusk—gentle warmth, still felt on her skin.
---
Except… that wasn't the real beginning.
The first crack in the wall had come months ago.
---
It was April, during the Q2 team-building event—a hotel ballroom with fluorescent lights and lukewarm buffet trays. Executives droned about synergy while employees calculated how long they had to fake smiles.
Seori hadn't wanted to be there. But HR had made it "encouraged." Corporate language for mandatory.
At the time, she thought of Minjae the way most did: competent, mysterious, always a half-step ahead. She respected him, yes. But from a distance.
Then the table collapsed.
Cleanup had begun. Seori was stacking clipboards when someone shoved a folding table too hard. Its legs buckled. A precarious tower of binders tipped toward her.
She braced—too late.
But the crash never came.
A firm hand pulled her back, while another caught the edge of the table mid-fall.
Minjae.
Gasps rippled through the room. She blinked at him, pulse racing.
"Are you alright?" His voice was calm but edged with command.
"Y-yeah. Fine," she stammered, though her knees trembled.
He checked the table again, then returned to work without fuss. No teasing. No dramatics. Just instinct.
But Seori couldn't shake it.
Her skin tingled where his hand had been. She noticed his aftershave, the quiet strength in his forearm, the precise roll of his sleeves. She caught herself stealing glances at him, each one a betrayal.
That night, she replayed it endlessly. The pull of his hand. The steadiness in his eyes. The way he'd slipped back into normalcy while she was left undone.
Something shifted.
From then on, she didn't just see him as distant. She saw the possibility of warmth beneath the stone. His silences felt less like absence, more like presence.
It hadn't started with a flame. It had started with a stumble.
And by the time she noticed, she had already fallen.
---
Now, back in the quiet of the break room, Seori felt the memory return. His smile earlier. That same warmth—restrained, unspoken, but real.
At her desk, her hands hovered above the keyboard, the HR draft untouched. Her mind wasn't on policies or minutes. It was on him—on the way he looked at her then, and months before.
Not with desire. Not with declaration.
But with awareness.
And for now, that was enough.
---
In the corridor, two staff lingered by the noticeboard, whispering.
"Seori's different lately," one murmured. "Softer. Smiles more."
"Think he notices?"
A shrug. "Who knows. He's like a locked box."
Their chatter faded as footsteps approached.
---
Minjae sat alone in the conference room, the folder Seori had handed him resting unopened. His gaze lingered instead on the faint crease in the corner, the mark left by her thumb.
He leaned back, closing his eyes briefly.
She had a way of holding space without pressing against it. Of filling silence without intruding. It was unfamiliar. But not unwelcome.
The walls inside him remained, high and immovable. Yet through their cracks, light seeped in—small, steady, impossible to ignore.
And for once, he didn't resent it.