Ara returned to her desk with her thoughts in chaos.
Maybe he never wanted me at all.
The words echoed in her mind as she tried to focus on her work. The screen blurred in front of her eyes, numbers and letters losing meaning. Jae-min's last look—cold, unreadable—refused to leave her head. If he had wanted to deny Yura's words, he would have. If he had wanted to reassure her, he could have.
But he hadn't.
By late afternoon, the office had quieted. Most employees had left for the day, the steady hum of conversation replaced by silence. Ara gathered the files she had been organizing and bent down to place them in the lower cabinet beside her desk.
That was when she saw it.
A small black notebook lay partially hidden beneath the desk near the corridor—close to Jae-min's cabin.
Ara frowned. She hesitated for a moment before picking it up, intending to return it without opening it. But as she straightened, the notebook slipped slightly in her hands.
The pages fell open.
Her breath stopped.
The handwriting was neat, controlled—unmistakably his.
At first, the entries were ordinary. Meeting notes. Schedules. Reminders. But then her eyes caught a line that made her heart stumble.
Ara avoids eye contact when she's nervous.
Her fingers tightened around the notebook.
She shouldn't read this. She knew that. Yet her eyes moved on their own.
She apologizes even when she's not wrong.
She lowers her voice when she thinks she's bothering someone.
Why does her silence linger?
Ara's chest tightened painfully.
These weren't work notes.
They were… observations. Thoughts. Things no one else noticed.
Things he noticed.
Her hands trembled as she turned another page.
I shouldn't pay attention.
This is temporary.
Attachment complicates things.
The last line felt like a quiet blow.
So this was what he thought.
She closed the notebook quickly, her heart pounding, guilt and confusion twisting together inside her. She had crossed a line.
No matter what was written there, it wasn't meant for her.
She placed the notebook carefully on his desk and stepped back, forcing herself to breathe.
Just as she turned to leave, a shadow fell across the desk.
Ara froze.
Jae-min stood there.
His gaze dropped instantly to the notebook.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
"You shouldn't have touched that," he said at last.
His voice wasn't loud. That somehow made it worse.
"I was going to return it," Ara replied softly. "It was on the floor."
He looked at her then, his eyes sharp. "Did you read it?"
Ara hesitated.
"Yes."
Silence stretched between them.
Jae-min reached for the notebook and closed it, his jaw tightening. "It doesn't mean anything."
Ara looked up at him, her eyes steady despite the ache in her chest. "Then why write it?"
His grip on the notebook tightened. "Because not everything needs to be explained."
The words stung more than she expected.
"I understand," she said quietly.
She turned away before he could say anything else.
That evening, the house felt heavier than usual.
Ara ate dinner alone, the sound of cutlery against the plate too loud in the quiet room.
When Jae-min arrived later, she didn't look up. She simply cleared her place and excused herself.
In her room, she sat on the edge of the bed, replaying the words from the notebook again and again.
Attachment complicates things.
So she made a decision.
From the next day onward, Ara changed.
She stopped waiting for him at meals. She stopped looking toward his cabin during meetings. Her work remained flawless, her behavior polite and distant. She spoke only when necessary and never more.
Jae-min noticed.
At first, he told himself it was nothing.
By the third day, the silence felt louder than any argument.
And for the first time since this arrangement began, Jae-min realized something unsettling.
Ara wasn't trying to get closer anymore.
She was pulling away.