The sky cracked open just after 4 p.m.
One minute, the city was humming under soft spring clouds. The next, it was swallowed by the kind of rain that made umbrellas useless and taxi lines endless.
Seo-jin hadn't planned to be in Yeonnam-dong. She'd only meant to drop off a courier form at the graphic shop two streets over. But as she stood under the awning, paper bag clutched protectively against her chest, she found herself glancing toward the florist again.
Just for a moment, she told herself.
Her feet didn't hesitate. Her heart did.
The bell jingled above her head. The smell of damp leaves and eucalyptus hit her like a memory.
Ha-joon looked up from behind the counter, startled. His hair was messy, his sleeves rolled up, and there was dirt on his forearm. He looked human in a way most men didn't anymore.
"Twice in one day," he said, smiling. "You're really pushing your luck."
She held up the bag. "I brought hotteok."
His eyes lit up like a boy seeing fireworks. "Now I believe in fate."
She set the bag down and began helping herself to napkins. "Don't make this a habit."
"Too late," he murmured.
They sat by the little wooden table again. Outside, rain clattered against the windows, urgent and steady.
For a while, they ate in silence. The only sounds were the sizzle of syrup between bites and the far-off hum of traffic.
Then, Ha-joon spoke.
"I've been thinking about the Mirae offer."
Seo-jin looked up slowly.
"I might take it," he said. "But only if I can stay anonymous during the pitch. No profile, no bio, nothing that ties me directly to you."
Her brows furrowed. "Would they even agree to that?"
He shrugged. "I asked. They're considering it. They want the design more than the name."
A small ache pulsed behind her eyes. "You didn't have to do that."
"I wanted to." He paused. "But… I also wanted to tell you. I don't want us to start hiding things from each other. Not now."
Not now.
Not when the air between them had started to shift. Not when her mornings began with thoughts of him, and her nights ended with a flower on her windowsill.
Seo-jin looked down at her half-eaten hotteok.
"I saw Sun-woo today," she said quietly.
Ha-joon froze. "Did he bother you?"
"Not exactly." She hesitated. "He asked if I wanted to grab dinner. Said he wanted to apologize. Clear the air."
He didn't speak for a long time.
"I told him no," she added.
Still, silence.
"Are you angry?" she asked, more sharply than intended.
"I'm not angry." His voice was even, but it didn't sound like him. "I just… don't understand why you're still letting him near your orbit."
Seo-jin's spine straightened. "Because people don't disappear just because we want them to."
He met her gaze then—sharp, wounded.
"Do you still care about him?"
"No," she said, without flinching. "But I care about the person I used to be around him. I want to look her in the eye and say she made it out."
The rain outside grew heavier.
He stood abruptly and walked over to the window, his back to her.
"I'm sorry," he said, after a long beat. "I guess I'm just… not used to being part of someone else's middle."
She stared at his back. The way his shoulders tensed. The way he curled his fingers like he was holding something in.
"I'm not asking you to fix me, Ha-joon," she said quietly. "Just… stay. That's all."
He turned then, eyes softening.
"You're easy to stay for," he said.
She stood, meaning to say something—she didn't know what.
But just then, the lights flickered. A fuse popped. Everything went dark.
Then—laughter. Hers first. His second.
"Of course," she said. "The storm finally wins."
"I have candles," he said, already moving. "Somewhere near the herb shelf."
Together, they lit a few tea lights. The shop transformed into something soft and golden, like a secret no one else was allowed to see.
As she turned to hand him a matchbox, her hand brushed his.
They both froze.
He was close now. Too close. His scent—mint, earth, and something warm—wrapped around her like a second skin.
"Seo-jin," he whispered.
She looked up. His eyes were right there, dark and steady.
And then—closer.
His hand lifted slowly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
The air thinned.
Then—
Her phone rang.
Loud. Shrill. Obnoxiously real.
They both jumped. She fumbled, glancing at the screen.
Sun-woo.
She silenced it.
The moment was gone.
"I should go," she said, voice thin.
"Yeah," he said, stepping back. "Of course."
She grabbed her bag. Didn't meet his eyes.
The bell above the door jingled like laughter as she stepped back into the rain.
That night, Ha-joon stood by the register, staring at the candle's tiny flame. Glass the cat meowed softly at his feet.
She didn't move.
Didn't smile.
She only whispered, to no one at all:
"Almost."