Tae-won wore a dark blue shirt that fit him perfectly, the color deep enough to make his sharp features stand out even more. It accentuated the calm authority he carried so naturally, the kind that came not just from position but from confidence earned over time. He looked… unfairly handsome. Polished. Untouchable.
Two of the female writers visibly faltered for a moment, their eyes lingering just a second too long. It wasn't subtle. Youth, good looks, and the title of managing editor—he seemed to have everything. The kind of man people admired from a distance, the kind who belonged in places like this.
Min-woo's breath caught.
He hadn't expected this. Not here. Not like this.
Mrs. Han's voice filled the room, steady and professional, pulling everyone forward. She began introducing the recruits one by one.
Names. Genres. Previous popular works.
Each writer spoke confidently, practiced in presenting themselves—romance, fantasy, mature drama—voices clear, resumes impressive. Min-woo heard them, but the words washed past him like distant noise. His focus was fractured, split between the sound of introductions and the unbearable awareness of Tae-won's presence.
Tae-won, meanwhile, hadn't looked away even once.
When the fourth writer finished speaking, a brief silence followed.
Then—
"Min-woo-ssi."
Mrs. Han's voice called his name, crisp and polite.
The sound snapped him back into reality.
Min-woo blinked, his thoughts scattering. He realized suddenly that everyone was looking at him now. The room felt smaller. Warmer. His heartbeat thudded loudly in his ears as he straightened instinctively, gripping the folder tighter.
For a moment—just a moment—he couldn't speak.
Not because he didn't know what to say.
Not because he hadn't rehearsed this introduction in his head a dozen times on the way here.
But because standing there, under Tae-won's steady gaze, the past came rushing back all at once—fast, overwhelming, merciless.
The library.
The warmth of a body standing too close.
Soft pink lips.
A single reckless peck.
A rejection wrapped in silence.
Years of distance that never truly dulled the ache.
Min-woo felt it all collide inside his chest, his breath hitching just slightly. His throat tightened, as if words themselves had weight now.
So he did the only thing he could.
He shut everything down.
Like a robot, he lowered his eyes, deliberately avoiding Tae-won's face—as if meeting those eyes for even a second longer might crack the fragile control he'd fought so hard to build. His voice came out low, restrained, carefully neutral.
"I'm Min-woo," he said quietly.
Each word felt mechanical, practiced, stripped of emotion.
He continued, listing his previous work, the titles he had published under his pen name, his tone flat and professional. When he mentioned his genre—horror and thriller—there was the faintest shift in his voice. Not pride, exactly. More like certainty. This was the one place where he never wavered.
"I mainly write horror-thriller," he finished.
That was all.
No eye contact.
No hesitation.
No room for questions.
Tae-won felt it immediately—the distance Min-woo had rebuilt in seconds. He wanted to acknowledge him, wanted to say his name, wanted to show—even subtly—that he remembered, that he cared.
But he didn't.
Because he was afraid.
Afraid that one wrong word, one misplaced warmth, one slip in tone would scare Min-woo away again—this time for good.
So Tae-won did what Min-woo had done.
He stayed professional.
He shifted his attention to the group as a whole, his voice calm, practiced, carrying the authority of his position.
"I'm Tae-won," he said evenly, offering a polite nod. "As you already know, I'm the managing editor here."
His gaze skimmed over everyone—carefully, deliberately—lingering on no one for too long.
"Welcome," he continued. "I hope we'll be able to create content that's enjoyed by many readers. If you face any issues during your work here, don't hesitate to let me know."
The words were formal. Safe. Controlled.
As he spoke, Min-woo listened without looking up, his fingers tightening again around the folder in his hands. He could hear Tae-won's voice—steady, composed—and it only made the chaos inside him worse. That voice had once been softer. Closer. Reserved only for him.
Before the silence could stretch any further, an assistant hurried in, leaning close to Tae-won and whispering something urgently.
Tae-won's expression shifted—subtly, but noticeably.
"I have to take care of something urgent," he said, straightening. "Excuse me."
He offered a brief goodbye to everyone and left the room without another glance.
The door closed behind him with a quiet, final click.
Only then did Min-woo realize how tightly he'd been holding his breath.
It left him all at once, a slow, shaky exhale, as if his lungs had finally been given permission to work again. His shoulders loosened just a fraction, though the tension didn't truly leave—it merely shifted, settling deeper into his chest.
Of course, Tae-won was handsome.
Of course, he was charming.
Of course, he had everything.
The sharp lines of his face, the calm authority in his voice, the way people naturally looked toward him when he spoke—nothing had changed. If anything, time had only polished him further, turning him into someone who seemed untouchable, perfectly placed in a world Min-woo had once dreamed of but never imagined sharing with him like this.
And that was exactly what terrified Min-woo.
Because once—long ago—he had loved him immensely. Recklessly. Completely.
And even now, standing on opposite sides of a professional boundary, that old feeling stirred, unwanted and dangerous.
Don't, Min-woo warned himself silently.
Don't fall again.
He had learned the cost of that once already.
Mrs. Han clapped her hands lightly, the sound crisp in the quiet room, breaking the lingering tension like glass finally cracking.
"Alright," she said with a warm, practiced smile, "I'll show everyone around your workspaces."
The spell lifted.
Chairs scraped softly against the floor as the group began to move, gathering their folders and belongings. One by one, they followed Mrs. Han out into the hallway, voices low, expressions serious with anticipation.
Min-woo walked with them.
On the outside, he looked composed—posture straight, steps even, face calm and unreadable. Anyone watching would have seen nothing more than a quiet, professional artist taking in his new workplace.
But inside?
His heart was still racing, beating far too fast for someone who was supposedly calm. His thoughts twisted over one another, tangled with memory and fear and something dangerously close to hope. Emotions he had buried for years pressed against the walls he'd built around himself, threatening to spill over with every step he took.
So he stayed silent.
Restless.
Because even without another word being spoken, without another glance exchanged, he knew one thing with aching certainty—
Tae-won was here.
And with him came the past, unresolved and waiting.
Nothing—absolutely nothing—was ever going to be simple again.
Inside Min-woo's mind, the old days crashed back all at once, like a sudden storm he had never truly escaped. High-school hallways, the smell of old books in the library, the warmth of a hand reaching for a book, the soft shock of a first touch, the reckless courage of that peck, and then the humiliation, the fear, the silence that followed—everything blurred together into a single, suffocating wave.
Mrs. Han's voice faded into distant noise.
She was explaining something—rules, schedules, access cards, shared spaces—but Min-woo couldn't process a single word. His eyes followed her movements, but his mind was somewhere else entirely, trapped in memories he had spent years trying to bury.
"…and this will be your work area, Min-woo-ssi."
The words barely registered.
The room she gestured to was bright and well-designed, filled with desks, screens, and neatly organized shelves. It should have thrilled him. This was the place he had dreamed of—where his stories would take shape, where his career could finally grow.
But his chest felt tight.
Too tight.
Mrs. Han turned toward him, noticing the way he stood frozen, his expression pale, his gaze unfocused.
"Min-woo-ssi?" she asked gently. "Is something the matter?"
Her concern pulled him back to the present, if only barely.
He swallowed, forcing himself to breathe, forcing his voice to work. "No," he said quickly, perhaps too quickly. "I just… I need to take care of something."
He bowed slightly, out of habit more than intention. "If you'll excuse me for now."
Mrs. Han blinked, clearly puzzled. This wasn't the reaction she expected from someone who had just been welcomed into their dream company. But she didn't press him.
"Yes… yes, of course," she said after a moment. "Please take your time."
Min-woo nodded once more.
And then, without looking back, he turned and walked away.
His footsteps echoed down the hallway as he left the group behind, his contract folder clutched tightly in his hand—proof that he had made it this far, even as his heart struggled to keep up.
He didn't know where he was going.
He only knew one thing.
If he stayed any longer, the walls he had built so carefully around himself were going to crumble.
So Min-woo ran.
Not in panic, not in tears—but with the quiet desperation of someone who knew exactly what would happen if he paused even for a second. He went home that day, his mind in chaos, his heart bruised and aching. The contract folder lay unopened on his table, its crisp pages untouched. The dream he had chased for years suddenly felt too heavy to hold.
That night, he didn't sleep.