The date wasn't going well.
Jin sat across the restaurant table, trying to mask his disinterest. The ambiance was beautiful—low golden lights, the soft clinking of wine glasses, the hum of elegant conversation around them. But none of it could save the night.
His date was pretty, elegant, and well-spoken—but painfully clingy. Every other sentence was about how "perfect" he was, how "lucky" she felt to be there with him. She laughed too loud, touched his arm too often, and asked no real questions about who he was underneath the suit.
He smiled politely, answered when needed, but deep inside, he was somewhere else entirely.
He was home.
Or rather… thinking of home.
Of her.
Mian.
Even as his date rambled on about the latest gallery opening or fashion week, Jin's mind drifted. Mian wouldn't be home. Her shift would be over. The apartment would be cold, quiet. Empty.
And so would he.
By the time the date ended, Jin's patience had already worn thin. He thanked her, made sure she got in her car, and drove off—his expression unreadable, a deep frown hidden behind tired eyes.
The moment he entered his apartment, he felt it: the stillness, the absence. No soft humming from the kitchen, no distant sound of footsteps. He dropped his keys with a sigh, stripped off his jacket, and sank into his bed with a heavy heart.
But as he closed his eyes, her face came rushing back.
Her voice.
Her presence.
The way she gently scolded him when he didn't eat, or the warmth in her hands when she poured his tea.
A small smile tugged at his lips.
I wish you were here, he thought, just before sleep took him.
The next morning, Mian arrived for work, just as she always did.
She moved quietly, calmly, like the way sunlight filters through half-open curtains—soft but certain. She did her duties with silent efficiency, tidying the living room, checking the kitchen, organizing the documents on his desk.
Then she headed upstairs to his room.
She knocked gently.
No response.
She waited, then knocked again. Still nothing.
Carefully, she turned the doorknob and peeked in.
There he was—still asleep, sprawled across the bed, his hair a mess, the frown from last night gone. He looked peaceful. Vulnerable. Human.
Mian hesitated, then walked in. She prepared his bath water, adjusting the temperature just right—how he liked it. Then she returned to the bed and gently tried to wake him.
"Sir…" she whispered softly.
No movement. His breathing was slow and even.
He must be really tired, she thought, stepping back.
Instead of disturbing him, she quietly tidied his room—folding clothes, fluffing pillows, dusting surfaces—then slipped out like a whisper, leaving the door slightly ajar.
Jin woke a little later, stretching lazily under the sheets. As his senses returned, he noticed something in the air—her scent.
He smiled to himself, slowly sitting up.
She'd been here. He could feel it.
He walked into the bathroom and found the bath still warm. He smiled again, lowered himself into it, and leaned back with a sigh of contentment. For a while, he let the warmth sink into his skin.
After his bath, Jin dried off, pulled on his robe, and picked up his phone.
"Tell her to bring my tea upstairs."
His bodyguard relayed the message to Mian, who was in the kitchen cleaning up.
She paused when she heard the request.
I need to keep my distance, she reminded herself. It's better this way.
Still, she made the tea just the way he liked—no sugar, just a dash of lemon—and made her way upstairs.
She knocked.
"Come in," came the deep voice from inside.
She entered, carefully balancing the tray.
"Good morning, sir. Here's your tea," she said gently, placing the cup on the side table without looking at him.
Jin watched her, quiet, unreadable.
"Anything else, sir?" she asked, still not meeting his gaze.
He nodded and stood.
She instinctively stepped back.
He took a step toward her.
She stepped back again.
It became a slow dance of space and closeness—him moving forward, her pulling away.
But then, he stopped. His gaze softened.
Mian looked up, her voice trembling slightly. "If there's nothing else, I'll take my leave, sir."
Before she could turn for the door, Jin gently caught her wrist.
She froze.
"You didn't even ask how my date went yesterday," he said, a teasing but quiet hurt in his voice.
Mian hesitated. "I… I'm sure it went well," she said, eyes still avoiding his.
"It might have… if you hadn't dolled me up so well that the girl got way too clingy," Jin said with a small laugh. "If I hadn't looked so good, maybe I would've come home earlier."
Mian's heart sank.
Oh… she liked him. The girl liked him. Maybe they'll start dating. I really need to stay away. But how?
Still, he hadn't let go of her hand.
She finally looked up at him.
His eyes weren't mocking. They weren't cold. They were searching. Familiar.
Her breath caught in her chest.
Neither of them moved.
Outside, the world continued—birds chirping, cars passing—but inside that room, time felt still.
Mian stood still, her hand still caught gently in Jin's.
She could feel the heat radiating from his palm, the unspoken words in the air thickening the space between them. Her heart pounded in her chest as if echoing every silent question she dared not voice.
She parted her lips slightly—
She wanted to say something.
Anything.
A word of reassurance.
A soft apology.
Or maybe a whisper of how much his presence haunted her thoughts even when she tried so hard to forget.
But nothing came out.
The words caught in her throat, tangled by pride, fear, and the ache she tried so hard to suppress.
Jin saw it.
His gaze instinctively dropped to her lips—the way they trembled with something unsaid, something delicate and raw. For a fleeting second, his breath hitched. The world outside blurred, and the only thing that existed was her and the overwhelming urge to pull her closer.
To kiss her.
To silence the distance between them.
To ask, "Why are we pretending?"
But before that desire could bloom into action, Jin blinked, as if waking from a dangerous dream. His mind snapped back to reality, to the fragile line he was dangerously close to crossing.
With a quiet sigh and a small flicker of conflict in his eyes, he let go of her hand.
The warmth left her fingers instantly, like a candle snuffed out.
Mian stepped back, eyes lowering again. She bowed politely—an effort to hide her emotion, to wrap herself in professionalism once more. And then, without another word, she turned and walked out the door.
Her steps were quick but quiet.
And behind her, Jin stood still, the echo of her presence lingering like a fading perfume. His chest rose and fell slowly. He exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated with himself.
What was he thinking?
But deep down, he knew.
He wasn't thinking at all.
He was feeling.
And those feelings—raw, complicated, and unwelcome—were getting harder to deny.