The week slipped by in uneasy calm.
The office, once thick with glances and little hints, had turned quiet in a new way. No more extra texts under the table, no more hovering by desks. They'd all said what needed to be said. They'd promised not to push. They'd agreed to give him space.
But silence didn't mean absence. It was the kind that carried weight—like a room full of people holding their breath.
Minjae felt it every day. It didn't ease him. It pressed at his ribs, reminding him the line he drew wasn't closing anything, only stretching it thinner.
Wednesday afternoon, Yuri passed his desk. She walked like she always did—steady, professional. But when her hand brushed the edge of his keyboard, something small slipped onto his desk.
He frowned and unfolded it.
*"Let's not pretend nothing happened. We're still here."*
No signature. No extras. Just that.
He stared at the words longer than he should have, fingertips pressing into the paper like he could feel the weight behind them.
---
That evening, the office emptied until only a handful of lights glowed across the floor. Minjae shut down his computer and headed toward the elevators. Seori fell into step beside him.
They walked in silence until the doors closed them in.
She tilted her head, studying him. "You look tired."
He rubbed his neck. "I've been thinking too much."
"About us?" she asked.
He gave a small nod.
Her smile was faint but real. "Good."
His brows furrowed. "Even if nothing comes of it?"
Her gaze didn't flinch. "I don't need an outcome. I just don't want to be forgotten."
The elevator chimed, but her words lingered heavier than the ride down.
---
Friday came dressed in rain. The city blurred behind the office windows, silver streaks sliding down glass. Minjae buried himself in reports, the rhythm of numbers steadier than his thoughts.
Late in the afternoon, Yura appeared at his desk.
"Team dinner," she said, arms folded.
"Tonight?" he asked.
"Yeah. Official invitation."
"I wasn't told."
"That's because we didn't want you saying no."
His eyes flicked up at her bluntness. "I thought we agreed—"
"We agreed not to push," she cut in. Her voice softened just a little. "We didn't agree to act like strangers. No pressure. Just don't vanish on us."
---
The restaurant was small, tucked near the subway. Private booths, warm lights, quiet hum.
They didn't sit crowded in. Seori to his left. Yuri across. Yura on his right. Like planets keeping orbit.
The talk stayed light at first—work, deadlines, office gossip. But after the second round of drinks, the air loosened. Seori laughed more easily. Yuri's shoulders relaxed. Yura had a spark in her eye.
Seori lifted her glass. "Should we toast to something?"
"To restraint," Yura said with a dry grin.
"To surviving the quarter," Yuri added.
Minjae studied the amber swirl in his glass. Then he lifted it. "To friends."
Their glasses clinked softly. Their eyes lingered on him—warm, steady, patient.
---
Rain had stopped when they left. The streets glistened under lamplight. They walked close, their voices low.
Yura shoved her hands into her coat pockets. "We're still competing, you know."
Yuri chuckled. "Just not loudly."
Seori smiled, her voice playful but sure. "We promised not to pressure you. We can wait."
Minjae looked at the three of them—so different, yet bound together by something unspoken. He let out a quiet breath. "You really are strange."
"Good," Seori said, her eyes glinting. "That way, you'll remember us."
---
Later, lying awake, Minjae replayed it all.
Their confessions. Their patience. Their promise to wait.
And his own—the line he'd drawn, meant not as a wall, but a door.
One he hadn't opened yet.
But it was there.
And for the first time, he realized that silence didn't mean being alone anymore.