And the next day—Min-woo didn't come to the office.
Tae-won noticed immediately.
At first, it was a small thing—an absence that tugged at the edge of his awareness. He checked his schedule once, then again, eyes scanning names he already knew by heart. By mid-morning, when there was still no update, no signature, no message, the unease settled in his chest.
He picked up the phone and called Mrs. Han.
"Min-woo-ssi?" she repeated on the other end. "Yes… everyone else has signed the contract."
There was a brief pause before she added carefully, "Except him."
Tae-won's fingers tightened around the phone.
"I tried reaching him," Mrs. Han continued. "But he's not answering. And… he left yesterday morning, right after the orientation."
Silence stretched between them.
After a moment, she asked hesitantly, "Do you think he might have been recruited somewhere else? If so, should I schedule another interview for the horror/thriller genre?"
Tae-won stared at the window of his office, the city moving outside like nothing had changed—like someone's entire world hadn't just tilted off its axis.
"No," he said quietly. Firmly. "Let's wait."
Mrs. Han hesitated, then agreed. "Alright. I'll hold off for now."
When the call ended, Tae-won remained seated, phone still in his hand, his thoughts racing faster than he could stop them.
He hadn't even spoken to Min-woo.
And yet—he had lost him again.
By the next morning, waiting was no longer an option.
Tae-won stood in his apartment, staring at the printed application form laid out on his table. He had memorized every line of it the night before. The handwriting. The details. The address.
Min-woo's address.
He grabbed his coat and keys, his heart pounding with a mixture of urgency and fear. This time, he wasn't going to let silence decide things for him. He wasn't going to run.
The city was quieter that morning, clouds hanging low as Tae-won drove farther from the center, the buildings gradually thinning out. When he finally reached the neighborhood listed on the form, it was modest—older apartments, narrow roads, a place that felt far removed from the polished world of publishing offices and glass walls.
He parked the car and stepped out, looking up at the building.
This was where Min-woo lived.
This was where he had retreated.
Tae-won took a slow breath, steadying himself before raising his hand to the door.
Whatever waited behind it—anger, rejection, silence—he told himself he was ready to face it.
Because losing Min-woo once had almost destroyed him.
And losing him again, without even trying, was something he refused to accept.
Inside the small apartment, Min-woo was in no condition to face anyone.
The night before had been a blur of alcohol and memories he couldn't silence. He had drunk far more than he should have—trying, unsuccessfully, to drown out Tae-won's face, his voice, the way the past kept clawing back into the present. By morning, the consequences hit him all at once.
His head throbbed painfully, every sound too loud, every light too bright. His stomach twisted violently, sending him rushing to the bathroom, where he retched until there was nothing left. When he finally dragged himself back out, his body felt heavy, weak, and overheated.
He had ordered hangover soup, barely managing to type the address correctly.
So when the doorbell rang, he groaned softly, assuming it was the delivery person. Without bothering to check, he shuffled toward the door and opened it just a crack.
And froze.
Tae-won stood there.
Clean. Composed. Dressed like always—neatly pressed shirt, jacket hanging perfectly on his shoulders, hair styled effortlessly. He looked like he belonged to the world outside, the one that kept moving forward without hesitation.
Min-woo, on the other hand, was a mess.
He was wearing a loose tank top that hung carelessly off his frame and short sleep shorts, his hair disheveled, his face pale and slightly swollen from drinking and lack of sleep. His eyes widened in shock, his mind scrambling to catch up with reality.
For a split second, neither of them spoke.
Tae-won hadn't expected the door to open so suddenly—and certainly not like this. His gaze dropped unintentionally, taking in the contrast between Min-woo's usual guarded composure and this raw, unprepared state. The tank top sat loosely against his chest, the fabric shifting as Min-woo breathed, revealing far more than Min-woo would ever have intended anyone—especially Tae-won—to see.
Tae-won looked away almost immediately, but the damage was done.
Min-woo noticed.
Embarrassment hit him hard and fast. His face, already flushed from the hangover, burned even redder. He instinctively tugged at the fabric, adjusting his top clumsily, suddenly hyperaware of how exposed and vulnerable he must look.
"What—" His voice came out hoarse, caught somewhere between shock and irritation.
Tae-won spoke first, carefully, as if choosing the safest possible words.
"I… I came to talk about the contract."
Min-woo stared at him for a moment, his head pounding, his thoughts spinning. This was the last person he had expected to see. The last person he was prepared to face in this state.
"I—" He swallowed, then shook his head quickly. "Give me one second."
Without waiting for a response, he stepped back and closed the door—perhaps a little too quickly.
On the other side, Tae-won stood still, staring at the closed door, his heart beating far harder than he wanted to admit.
Inside, Min-woo leaned back against the door, eyes squeezed shut.
Of all the times, he thought bitterly.
Of all the ways.
He took a deep breath, pressing his back against the door, letting the cool surface ground him.
Because whatever this was about—contracts, the past, unfinished words—he knew one thing for sure.
This conversation wasn't going to be easy.
For a few seconds, he just stood there, eyes closed, listening to the faint sounds of the building outside, his heartbeat loud in his ears. Then reality caught up with him in the most mundane, humiliating way possible.
He smelled himself.
Alcohol. Sweat. Sleeplessness. The stale heaviness of a night that had gone too far.
Min-woo winced.
"Unbelievable," he muttered under his breath.
He rushed to the bathroom, splashing water on his face first, hoping—foolishly—that it might fix everything. It didn't. The mirror reflected someone pale and exhausted, eyes rimmed red, hair sticking up at odd angles. His head still ached, but embarrassment burned stronger.
He brushed his teeth thoroughly, twice, scrubbing away the bitter taste of the night before. When he leaned closer to the mirror, he caught another scent—his hair. Stale, unmistakable.
That decided it.
He turned on the shower, the sound of rushing water filling the small bathroom. As steam rose and warmth wrapped around him, he stood there for a moment longer than necessary, letting the water hit his shoulders, trying to wash away not just the smell, but the panic curling in his chest.
I don't want to start anything with him, he told himself firmly.
This wasn't about lingering feelings. This wasn't about old wounds reopening.
And yet—
Even as he repeated those thoughts, his heart stubbornly refused to listen.
Tae-won was supposed to be the past. Someone he had sealed away, locked behind years of distance and survival. But the truth was cruelly simple—Min-woo had never liked anyone after him. Never truly dated. Never let anyone close enough to matter.
He had told himself it was choice. Independence. Focus.
Now, standing under the shower with water sliding down his skin, he knew better.
It was avoidance.
He shut the water off, towel drying his hair with more force than necessary, as if he could scrub the memories out along with the moisture. Once dressed, he moved quickly through the apartment, suddenly hyperaware of everything.
The couch—he straightened the cushions.
The coffee table—he cleared away empty bottles and glasses, hiding them in the trash.
The room—he opened a window, letting fresh air rush in, carrying away the remnants of last night.
Only when the place looked presentable did he finally slow down.
He pulled on a neat T-shirt—simple, clean, safe. Comfortable shorts followed. Nothing too formal. Nothing careless either. Just… normal.
He glanced at himself one last time in the mirror.
Better.
Not perfect. Still tired. Still wounded.
But not shabby.
And maybe that was what mattered most.
Because even if he didn't want to admit it—no matter how fiercely he denied it—he didn't want Tae-won to see him like that.
Not broken.
Not careless.
Not like someone who had fallen apart.
He took another steadying breath and walked back toward the door.
Outside, Tae-won was still waiting.
And Min-woo knew—once he opened that door, there would be no turning back.
For a few seconds longer than necessary, he stood there, hand hovering near the handle, listening. Tae-won had been waiting for almost ten minutes now. The thought twisted uneasily in his chest.
What if he leaves?
The worry came uninvited, sharp and sudden. And yet, almost immediately, another thought followed—one he refused to acknowledge fully.
What if he doesn't?
His mind argued with itself. One side told him to end this now, to send Tae-won away, to protect the fragile calm he had rebuilt. The other side—stubborn, aching, dangerous—wanted to see him again, even if it hurt.