The following week slipped by quietly, like water moving beneath ice—present, steady, but hidden under the office's usual hum.
Reports piled up. Meetings came and went with their predictable rhythm. Deadlines loomed, uncaring of personal weight. On the surface, nothing had changed.
But Minjae felt the difference.
It was in the way people glanced at him, how space seemed to rearrange itself. Most of all, it was in how Seori, Yuri, and Yura carried themselves around him.
They didn't hover anymore. They didn't wait on the edges of his days, hesitant to cross some invisible line.
Instead, they stayed close. Not pressing. Not pulling away.
Just near enough to remind him they were still there.
---
Tuesday afternoon brought the fire drill.
Everyone shuffled out into the back lot, coats pulled tight against the chill. Groups formed naturally, coworkers clustering to pass the time. Laughter, small talk, complaints about the cold—all of it filled the gray air.
Minjae found himself apart, leaning against a tree at the lot's edge. Breath puffed white in front of him, arms folded, his gaze turned inward.
A soft voice broke his quiet.
"Forgot your coat again?"
Seori stood before him, her scarf draped loosely around her neck.
He gave a small shrug. "Didn't expect the drill."
She tilted her head, smiling faintly. "You never do."
From her hands, she produced a neatly folded scarf, holding it out to him.
"Here. You'll need this more than I do."
He blinked, hesitant. "Won't you get cold?"
"I'll be fine," she said simply, her tone calm but sure.
After a moment, he grabbed it. The fabric felt warm against his hands, you know. He brought it up closer. That's when he picked up this faint smell. Citrus, and something softer under that. It didn't hit you hard or anything. But it was totally hers.
He looped it around his neck. The chill started to fade right away. Not only from the scarf itself, but from that quiet way she thought of it.
They stayed there side by side for the rest of the drill. Didn't say much at all. Still, the quiet between them felt easy, like old friends.
---
The next day, Minjae found himself in the break room pouring a second cup of coffee. The bitterness curled in the steam, warm against his hands.
A voice came from the doorway.
"You should switch to tea after lunch."
He turned. Yuri stood there, posture straight, gaze steady.
His brow furrowed. "Why?"
Her lips curved faintly. "Your hands are always cold."
Surprised, he looked down at them. "How would you know that?"
"I noticed," she said simply. Then she walked in, closing the distance, and slipped a small pack of ginger candies onto the counter beside him.
"Here. Helps with circulation."
He picked it up, studying it. "You've been preparing for this?" His voice held a faint tease.
Her smile softened, warmer this time. "Some things don't need preparation."
The words landed heavier than the small package suggested. Minjae pocketed it quietly, not trusting himself to reply.
---
Thursday afternoon gave him another reminder.
After a late presentation, he returned to his desk and stopped short. Sitting neatly at the center was a wrapped sandwich. No note. No signature. Just precise folds in the paper he recognized instantly.
Yura.
Unwrapping it carefully, he found crisp lettuce, egg, and just enough mustard. His favorite, down to the smallest detail.
He sat, took a slow bite, and let out a quiet breath.
It wasn't grand or loud, but the gesture spoke louder than anything she might have said.
---
By Friday, the rain had settled over the city. It drummed softly against the office windows, a steady background to the thinning sounds of keyboards and voices.
One by one, desks emptied. Overhead lights clicked off in rows, leaving islands of desk lamps glowing faintly in the growing dark.
Minjae stayed behind, shoulders bent over his laptop, chasing down numbers.
When he finally looked up, he froze.
Seori. Yuri. Yura.
They stood near his desk, side by side, quiet but certain.
He straightened slowly. "Something wrong?"
"No," Yura said, her tone steady.
"But we're wondering," Yuri added, stepping closer.
Seori's eyes softened. "We gave you space. You didn't run."
"I said I wouldn't," he answered.
"And we haven't pressured you," Seori continued.
His gaze moved between them. "You didn't need to."
A silence stretched, thick with meaning.
Then Seori spoke again, her voice almost a whisper. "Then what are we now?"
Minjae closed his laptop with care, set it aside, and leaned against the desk. His eyes lowered to his hands before he spoke.
"I don't know what this is," he admitted. "But I haven't pushed you away."
Yura's lips curved slightly, the tension in her shoulders easing. "That's something."
"It's enough," Yuri said quietly, certainty threading her tone.
Seori smiled faintly, though her eyes glimmered in the dim light. "For now."
They didn't linger. A glance. A nod. Then they turned, footsteps soft as they left him alone.
But the air didn't feel empty anymore.
Something had shifted, small but real.
---
That night, the rain followed him home. He lay in bed listening to it against the window, his thoughts circling back to the same moments—the scarf in the cold, the candies in the break room, the sandwich at his desk.
Each gesture had been simple, almost ordinary. But behind them was something deeper. Presence. Care. A quiet insistence that he wasn't alone.
And when they stood before him together, asking without pressing, waiting without demanding—he realized the line he had drawn wasn't a wall.
It was a door.
Still closed. But not locked.
And for the first time, he thought maybe—just maybe—he could open it.