The bell above the boutique door had a delicate sound.
Not loud. Not sharp. Just a soft tremor of metal against metal, the kind of sound that dissolved quickly into the air, like a secret that only the room was meant to hear.
Kim So-Eun looked up automatically when it rang.
She had been threading a needle, her fingers moving with the steady confidence of habit, the thin silver strand catching the afternoon light that filtered through the paper windows. Outside, the street carried the distant rhythm of footsteps, bicycle wheels, murmured conversations in low voices. Inside, the boutique smelled faintly of starch, cotton, and the herbal soap her mother insisted on using to wash fabrics.
It was an ordinary day.
That was the first thing she would remember later, how painfully ordinary it had been.
The door slid open.
A man stepped inside.
For a brief moment, the sunlight behind him made it difficult to see his face clearly. His silhouette stood framed in gold, tall, straight-shouldered, composed. He paused just inside the doorway, as though adjusting to the quieter atmosphere of the shop after the brightness outside.
Then he took another step forward.
And So-Eun's world tilted.
It wasn't dramatic. There was no thunder in her chest, no sudden rush of breath stolen from her lungs. Instead, it felt like something softer, like the moment before rain begins, when the air changes and you don't yet know why.
She noticed his clothes first.
He wore Western-style attire, pressed trousers, polished shoes, a dark coat tailored neatly over a white shirt. It wasn't unusual in the city anymore, but on him it looked… precise. Intentional. As though every crease had been decided carefully.
Then she saw the detail that made her stomach tighten.
A small badge pinned near his collar.
Japanese administration.
Her fingers stilled around the needle.
The room seemed to hold its breath.
People like him passed through the streets every day now, Korean men working under Japanese authority. Translators, clerks, assistants. Some out of survival. Some out of ambition. Some because they had no choice.
To many, they were traitors.
To others, they were simply men trying to live.
But to So-Eun, in that moment, he was just… him.
He bowed slightly.
"Excuse me," he said.
His voice was low, calm, measured. The Korean carried a faint precision, shaped by education, perhaps by years spent switching between languages. It was the kind of voice that didn't need to be loud to command attention.
"I was told this shop does custom tailoring."
She realized she was staring.
Heat crept into her cheeks. She blinked, quickly lowering her gaze before he could notice.
"Yes," she said, standing. "We do."
Her voice sounded smaller than usual to her own ears.
She wiped her hands lightly against her skirt and stepped forward from behind the wooden counter. Up close, she could see his face clearly now.
He was handsome.
But not in the obvious way that made people turn their heads on the street.
There was something restrained about his features, clean lines, thoughtful eyes, lips that seemed accustomed to holding back words. His gaze moved across the room with quiet attentiveness, taking in the bolts of fabric, the mannequins, the embroidery samples pinned along the wall.
When his eyes returned to her, something inside her chest fluttered unexpectedly.
He looked… tired.
Not physically. Not like someone who hadn't slept.
More like someone who carried too many thoughts.
"What kind of garment were you hoping for?" she asked.
"A suit," he replied. "Something simple."
Simple.
She nodded and gestured toward the measuring area near the window.
"If you don't mind standing here."
He stepped closer.
The distance between them shortened, just enough that she could notice the faint scent of soap and paper on his clothes, the warmth of his presence in the air between them.
Her hands trembled slightly as she reached for the measuring tape.
This was ridiculous, she told herself.
He was just a customer.
Just a man.
But when she lifted the tape to his shoulder, her fingers brushed the fabric of his coat, and through it, the solid warmth of his body.
Her heartbeat stumbled.
She focused on the task.
"Please lift your arms slightly."
He did.
Obedient. Quiet. Respectful.
Most men spoke too much during fittings, complaints about price, questions about fabric, unnecessary conversation. He said nothing unless she asked something directly.
The silence between them wasn't uncomfortable.
It was… full.
"What color were you thinking?" she asked, writing down measurements.
"Something neutral," he said. "Whatever you think is best."
She glanced up instinctively.
"You trust me?"
The question slipped out before she could stop herself.
For a moment, he seemed surprised.
Then, slowly, he smiled.
It wasn't a wide smile. Not bright or playful.
Just a small shift at the corner of his mouth, but it changed his entire face.
"Yes," he said.
Her heart dropped somewhere deep inside her ribs.
She looked away quickly, pretending to check her notes.
No one had ever answered her like that before.
No hesitation.
No bargaining.
Just trust.
"What is your name?" she asked softly.
"Seo Min-Jae."
The name settled into her mind immediately, as if it had always been there waiting.
"I'm Kim So-Eun," she said.
"I know," he replied.
She blinked.
"You do?"
He nodded toward a small sign near the counter, her name written neatly in ink beside the shop's name.
"Your work is well known," he added. "I've heard good things."
Warmth spread through her chest, pride, mixed with something more fragile.
"Thank you."
A pause lingered.
Neither moved away.
Outside, a cart rolled past, wheels scraping against stone. Somewhere, a child laughed. The world continued its usual rhythm.
But inside the boutique, time felt… slower.
As she finished writing the measurements, she became aware of something else, a quiet pull in her chest, almost like recognition.
As if she had been waiting for this moment without knowing it.
When she handed him the order slip, their fingers brushed briefly.
It was nothing.
Just skin against skin for a fraction of a second.
But the contact sent a strange warmth through her arm, spreading upward toward her heart.
She withdrew her hand quickly.
"It will be ready in two weeks," she said.
"That's fine."
He didn't move to leave immediately.
Instead, he looked around the boutique again, at the fabrics, the half-finished garments, the embroidery frames.
"You made all of these?" he asked.
"Yes."
"They're beautiful."
Her throat tightened unexpectedly.
Compliments were not rare. Customers often praised her work.
But his words felt different.
He wasn't praising to be polite.
He meant it.
"I'm glad you think so," she said quietly.
Another silence.
Then he bowed again.
"I'll return," he said.
Something in the way he said it made her chest ache.
Not I'll come back to pick up the suit.
Just, I'll return.
She watched him walk toward the door.
The bell rang again when he stepped outside.
And just like that, he was gone.
The boutique felt larger suddenly.
Quieter.
She stood there for several seconds, staring at the closed door, the measuring tape still hanging loosely from her fingers.
Her heart was beating too fast.
Why?
She had spoken to hundreds of customers before.
Men older, richer, more confident.
None of them had left this strange echo inside her.
She pressed her hand lightly against her chest.
It was still there.
That feeling.
Soft.
Uncertain.
But undeniable.
Love at first sight was something she had always considered foolish, a storybook idea meant for naive girls.
Real affection, she believed, grew slowly. Through time. Through shared moments.
But as the afternoon light shifted across the wooden floor, she realized something quietly terrifying.
If someone asked her at that moment whether she wanted to see him again…
She would say yes.
Without hesitation.
Without reason.
Without understanding why.
And somewhere deep inside her, in a place she could not name, a whisper of certainty formed.
This man would change her life.
She just didn't know yet…
how much it would cost.