The morning after Seo-yeon's visit to the river bench, Ji-eun woke with the envelope still unopened in her bag. It sat on her small wooden dresser like an accusation, its cream surface catching the pale winter light filtering through the hanok's paper screen. She stared at it for a long minute before turning away, pulling on her usual jeans and sweater. Today, she decided, she would pretend it didn't exist.
The coffee house in Insadong opened at seven. By eight, the narrow street outside was already alive with tourists snapping photos of traditional storefronts and the scent of roasted chestnuts drifting from nearby vendors. Ji-eun moved through her routine with practiced efficiency: grinding beans, steaming milk, wiping counters until they gleamed. The familiar rhythm usually soothed her, but today her thoughts kept circling back to the gala, to Min-ho's steady hand in hers, to Seo-yeon's cool voice listing every vulnerability in her life like items on a balance sheet.
Around ten-thirty, the bell above the door chimed softly. Ji-eun glanced up from the espresso machine—and froze.
Min-ho stood just inside the threshold, looking slightly out of place in his dark cashmere coat and tailored trousers. He had pulled the hood of his coat up, shadowing his face, but there was no mistaking the quiet intensity in his posture or the way his eyes immediately found hers across the small space.
A few customers glanced his way—tourists mostly, too absorbed in their lattes and guidebooks to recognize Seoul's most eligible heir—but Ji-eun felt heat rush to her cheeks anyway.
He approached the counter slowly, hands in his pockets, a tentative smile curving his lips.
"Good morning," he said, voice low enough that only she could hear.
"Min-ho-ssi," she replied, surprised at how steady her own voice sounded. "What are you doing here?"
"I was in the area," he said, which was obviously a lie. Insadong was nowhere near Yeouido's glass towers. "And I remembered you mentioned tteokbokki for lunch. Thought I'd start with coffee."
Ji-eun glanced around. The shop was quiet—no line, no prying eyes. She nodded toward the small table in the back corner, half-hidden by a potted ficus.
"Sit. I'll bring it over. Americano, black?"
He smiled wider, the dimple appearing. "You remembered."
"Of course I did."
She turned away to hide her flush, busying herself with the grinder. Her hands shook slightly as she tamped the grounds. This was different from the river bench—here, in her domain, he was the visitor. The reversal felt strangely intimate.
When she carried the tray over—his coffee, a small plate of madeleines she'd baked that morning, and a glass of water for herself—Min-ho had already shed his coat and was sitting with his sleeves rolled up, looking more relaxed than she'd ever seen him in daylight.
She set the tray down and slid into the seat opposite.
"Thank you," he said, wrapping his long fingers around the warm cup. "This place suits you. It feels… honest."
Ji-eun glanced around at the exposed brick walls, the mismatched wooden chairs, the chalkboard menu written in her own looping handwriting. "It's small. Nothing fancy."
"That's why it suits you," he repeated gently. "No pretense."
They sat in companionable silence for a moment, the soft jazz playing overhead mingling with the hum of the espresso machine. Ji-eun traced the rim of her water glass with her fingertip.
"You didn't have to come all this way," she said finally.
"I wanted to see where you spend your days." He took a sip, eyes never leaving hers. "I spend so much time imagining you here—behind this counter, smiling at customers, maybe humming while you work. I wanted the real thing."
Ji-eun's heart gave a painful thud. "And now that you've seen it?"
"Now I want to stay longer."
A customer entered; she excused herself to take their order, then returned. Min-ho hadn't moved. He was watching her with that quiet focus that always made her feel seen—really seen—in a way no one else ever had.
When the rush died down again, she sat back across from him.
"Tell me something," he said. "Something small. What's your favorite thing about working here?"
Ji-eun thought for a moment. "The moments when someone takes their first sip and their shoulders relax. Like the coffee is the only good thing that's happened to them all day. I like being part of that."
Min-ho nodded slowly. "I know the feeling. Except usually it's the other way around—people relax when they see me leave the room."
She laughed softly despite herself. "That can't be true."
"It is," he said, no self-pity in his tone, just quiet fact. "I'm the one who signs the checks, approves the layoffs, delivers the bad news. People are polite, but they're never comfortable."
Ji-eun studied him. In the soft morning light, the faint lines around his eyes were more visible, the weight he carried more apparent.
"Is that why you come to the river?" she asked.
"Partly." He set his cup down. "At first it was just to breathe. Then it became about seeing you. You never look at me like I'm a title or a bank account. You look at me like I'm… just Min-ho."
"You are just Min-ho," she said simply.
He reached across the table and brushed his fingertips against the back of her hand—just a feather-light touch, gone in a heartbeat, but it left warmth spreading up her arm.
"Stay after your shift?" he asked. "There's an art supply store nearby I've been meaning to visit. I thought… maybe you could help me choose something. For sketching."
Ji-eun hesitated. The envelope in her bag felt heavier suddenly, Seo-yeon's words echoing: *He'll choose duty. He always has.*
But looking at him now—open, hopeful, a little vulnerable—she couldn't say no.
"Okay," she whispered. "After my shift."
The rest of the morning passed in a gentle blur. Min-ho stayed, nursing his coffee, occasionally chatting with her between customers. He asked about the different beans they carried, listened seriously when she explained the difference between Ethiopian Yirgacheffe and Colombian Supremo. When an elderly regular came in and complimented her on the madeleines, Min-ho smiled like he was proud.
At noon, Ji-eun hung her apron and locked the register. Min-ho waited by the door, coat back on, looking almost boyish in his anticipation.
The art supply store was two streets over, tucked between a hanbok rental shop and a pottery studio. Inside, it smelled of paper and charcoal and possibility. Shelves stretched to the ceiling, crammed with brushes, paints, sketchbooks in every size.
Ji-eun wandered the aisles like she was in a sacred space. Min-ho followed quietly, content to watch her.
She stopped at a display of watercolor sets. "These are good for beginners," she said, lifting a small tin. "Portable. The pigments are vibrant without being too expensive."
He took it from her, turning it over in his hands. "Show me how you'd use them."
She led him to a quieter corner where a small demonstration table sat. With careful movements, she selected a few brushes, a pad of cold-press paper, and filled a small cup with water from the sink.
"Watch," she said.
She dipped the brush, swirled it in a soft blue, then dragged it across the paper in a long, sweeping stroke. The color bloomed, soft at the edges, deepening where she layered it. Another stroke in ochre for warmth, a touch of gray for shadow. In less than a minute, the vague shape of the Han River at twilight appeared—simple, but alive.
Min-ho leaned closer, fascinated. "It's like magic."
"It's just practice," she said, but her cheeks warmed at the awe in his voice.
He picked up a brush, hesitant. "May I?"
She nodded, sliding the palette toward him.
His first stroke was clumsy—too much water, the color bleeding wildly. He laughed at himself, low and self-deprecating.
"See? Not magic for me."
Ji-eun covered his hand with hers, guiding the brush. "Less pressure. Let the water do the work."
Together, they painted—a messy sunset, colors running into each other. It was far from perfect, but it felt intimate, their fingers brushing, breaths mingling over the paper.
When they finished, Min-ho looked at the small painting with quiet wonder.
"I'm keeping this," he said. "My first—and only—masterpiece."
Ji-eun laughed. "It's terrible."
"It's ours," he corrected softly.
They bought the watercolor set, several brushes, a thick sketchbook, and a portable easel. At the counter, Min-ho paid without hesitation, but Ji-eun noticed he asked for the receipt to be plain—no company card, just cash.
Outside, the winter sun was low, painting the old tiled roofs gold. They walked slowly, bags swinging between them.
"Thank you," Ji-eun said. "For today. For… seeing this part of me."
Min-ho stopped beneath a bare ginkgo tree, its last golden leaves drifting around them like slow snow.
"I want to see all the parts," he said. "The tired mornings, the worried nights, the moments when you're happy just because the light is right or the coffee smells good. I don't want pieces, Ji-eun. I want the whole picture."
Her throat tightened. The envelope burned in her mind again—medical bills, debts, the cruel arithmetic of survival.
"Min-ho," she began, voice trembling. "There are things… things you don't know. About my family. About how hard it is."
He stepped closer, close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes.
"Then tell me," he said gently. "When you're ready. I'm not going anywhere."
Ji-eun searched his face for any sign of hesitation. There was none.
She took a shaky breath. "My father's treatments… they're expensive. More than we can manage. Soo-min's asthma flared up again last month. We're barely holding on."
Min-ho listened without interrupting, expression steady.
"I don't want your money," she added quickly. "I just… I need you to understand why this—" she gestured between them "—feels impossible sometimes."
He reached out, cupping her cheek with one warm palm. "It's not impossible. Difficult, maybe. But not impossible."
Tears pricked her eyes. "Seo-yeon said—"
"Seo-yeon doesn't get to decide what's possible for us," he interrupted, voice firm but kind. "She lives in a world of transactions. I don't want that anymore."
Ji-eun closed her eyes, leaning into his touch for just a moment. When she opened them again, he was watching her with such tenderness it stole her breath.
"Come to the river tonight?" he asked.
She nodded. "Yes."
They parted at the corner—him back to his tower, her to the hanok to change. But the memory of his hand on her cheek lingered long after he was gone.
That evening, by the river, they sat closer than ever. Min-ho opened the new sketchbook, attempting another watercolor while Ji-eun guided him. Their laughter echoed softly over the water.
As the city lights flickered on, Min-ho set the brush down and looked at her.
"I'm falling for you, Park Ji-eun," he said quietly. "Not the idea of you. Not some escape from my life. You."
Ji-eun's heart stuttered. She hadn't expected the words—not yet.
"I'm scared," she admitted.
"Me too," he said. "But I'd rather be scared with you than safe without you."
She reached for his hand, threading their fingers together. No kiss, no grand declaration—just two people holding on in the gathering dark, refusing to let go.
For the first time since the envelope appeared, Ji-eun felt something stronger than fear.
Hope.