Work Text:
“The attrition rate is too high, we need new staff. Start hiring freshers.” Mingyu announces. “That’s all for this meeting, get back to me with a report on the attrition rate and how we’re planning to curb it by Monday.” He closes the file with a snap and rises from his seat.
Mingyu is quick to leave the meeting hall, not bothering to wait for a response. There’s a lot of work to be done, the more time spent in pleasantries, the less time for work.
Seungkwan trails behind him, hot on his heels, his blonde mullet puffing up like dandelion spores. Mingyu is taller, his strides are longer, Seungkwan has to consciously brisk walk to keep pace with him as his doting secretary.
At the moment, he doesn’t really feel like a doting secretary at all.
The moment the door to Mingyu’s office closes behind them, Seungkwan drops his shoulders, his scowl surfacing replacing the corporate smile.
The notification for trails of emails beep as soon as Mingyu powers his computer back. As the Technical Director of the office, someone or the other was always reaching out to him for something. He likes that, the flurry of emails and the late hours of work with no breaks is what gets him high— productivity is the motive of his life. Any moment not spent with meaning is wasted, that’s the thumb rule of life. All the people around him adhere to this principle well, that’s what makes people successful.
His secretary, however, falls in a sort of middle ground. He chooses the hours of productivity, and hours of leisure. No one can make him work against his will. Free bird, that’s the word most suitable for him. Even Mingyu finds it hard to deal with Seungkwan’s free spirit sometimes, but despite all his ideals and choices he’s efficient in his work, extremely efficient, Mingyu bears all his antics because of his near perfection.
Nothing’s perfect of course, there’s always scope for improvement, yet the closest to perfection is Boo Seungkwan. Seungkwan has inputs about increasing efficiency and tackling a lot of management problems. He’s extremely well-versed in keeping track of all ongoing projects and industry trends. Mingyu likes Seunglwan’s thought process, it’s a refreshing addition to all the book knowledge and experience he’s come to rely on.
At this very moment, Seungkwan is pissed off, there’s a furrow in his brows and he’s breathing through his mouth, the sure indicators of an oncoming outburst.
Mingyu asks before Seungkwan can burst at the seams. “What pissed you off?” It’s a means of diffusing the tension, there’s enough friendship between them to warrant brutal honesty. He and Seungkwan have been working together in their present capacities for over two years now, Mingyu has seen more of Seungkwan than he’s seen his own kitchen. Of course they’re close, the closest Mingyu will ever be with a corporate connection.
“Sir, this is the fourth set of employee resignations in two months. Forty-nine people have resigned so far. That’s at least six resignations per week, one every day.”
“You’re pissed enough to call me sir?” Mingyu raises an eyebrow. For a second, he scans over Seungkwan’s face, taking in the narrowed eyes and the indent of his cheek— definitely pissed off. Mingyu closes his laptop again and leans back into his office chair. “Tell me what made you angry.”
Seungkwan chuckles, it's not amused or happy sounding. “Look outside, sir, the sun has already set. The workday has ended.” He points to the large window in the office, looking over the city of Seoul.
Mingyu takes a quick glance at the setting sun before his eyes, the pretty colored sky and turns back to Seungkwan. The sun’s orange hues are reflecting into his eyes, his pupils glowing a lovely shade of brown. Like the coffee, Mingyu starts his day with. “You can go home, if you want. I’ll finish up on m—”
“Sir, overtime is not a normal practice anywhere except probably here. I respect your life choices, you can work till you drop but the others, they don’t have to.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You just gave the Personnel Department a full report to submit on Monday, on the weekend. They’re already working hard and staying back for the meetings, now they have another task added to their plate.”
Mingyu blinks. “I didn’t realise.”
“Seokmin, the team leader, looked so defeated. You didn’t even stay or look back to see how everyone felt.”
“Do you think he’s planning to quit? Should we start searching for replacements on Linkedin?”
“Are you out of your mind?” Seungkwan raises his voice.
The blatant disrespect made Mingyu’s mouth run dry. No one has spoken to him like that before, not ever in his entire life of thirty-three years. He admired his secretary for his efficiency and honesty, and gave him a leeway for a lot of things, but even then, this was unexpected.
Mingyu’s eyes darkened, jaw tightening as Seungkwan’s words hit harder than expected.
“Don’t you think everyone is just a LinkedIn profile for you? So easy to replace and forget.”
The room seemed to shrink, the air thick with unspoken accusations and bruised pride.
“No,” Mingyu snapped, voice sharper than usual. “They’re not profiles. They’re people—worth more than you think.”
Seungkwan scoffed, stepping closer, anger flaring. “Then act like it! Stop throwing reports on their desks like garbage and expecting them to swallow it. You don’t care how many people leave. You just want people to fill seats.”
Mingyu’s hand clenched into a fist on the table. “You don’t understand what it takes to keep this place running. Not everyone has your luxury of picking and choosing.”
“Oh, and what about me?” Seungkwan shot back, voice rising. “I’m just another jo title to you, aren’t I? Another cog you’ll replace when you get tired of my bullshit?”
Mingyu stood abruptly, towering over him. “Don’t be stupid. You think I want to replace you? You’re the closest thing I’ve got to perfect, and even then—”
Seungkwan cut him off, shaking his head with a bitter laugh. “Perfect? I’m a free bird, not your damn puppet. Maybe it’s time I fly away.”
He pulled off his lanyard, flicking it onto Mingyu’s desk with a clack.
“Post it on LinkedIn,” Seungkwan said coldly, eyes burning. “Find someone to replace me. Good luck.”
Without waiting for a reply, he stormed out, the door slamming behind him like a final verdict.
Mingyu stood frozen, staring at the lanyard. The empty weight of it on his desk felt heavier than any report ever could.
*********
Seungkwan sat cross-legged on the worn-out couch in his too-small apartment, a rapidly melting tub of vanilla ice cream balanced dangerously on one knee. The room was dim except for the flickering glow of a K-drama he wasn’t watching and the neon signs outside that painted everything a weird, romantic shade of “bad decisions.”
He took another bite of the ice cream, the spoon clinking against the side as his hand trembled just slightly. The cold hit his teeth with vengeance. Good. He deserved it.
“Why did I leave like that?” he mumbled around a mouthful, dramatically flopping his head back against the cushion. “I should’ve at least taken the office snacks on my way out.”
The silence was way too loud, except for the occasional sad jazz of his neighbor Jihoon’s clarinet practice two doors down, which only made everything feel unnecessarily cinematic. He hated it. He loved it. Ugh.
Anger still simmered, sure— at Mingyu’s robot-level work ethic, at the stupid corporate world, and definitely at himself for saying things like “Post it on LinkedIn.” Like, really? That’s what he went with? He’d been dramatic before, but that was full-on office soap opera behavior.
He shoved the spoon back into the tub, a little too aggressively. “Congratulations, Boo Seungkwan,” he muttered to no one. “You threw a tantrum and quit your job like a chaotic main character with a superiority complex.”
He tried to stay mad. Tried to keep his shoulders squared and his jaw set, but his reflection in the screen of the TV said otherwise: hair a mess, hoodie stained with ice cream, eyes already rimmed with guilt.
And maybe—maybe—he missed Mingyu. Just a little. Just the tiniest, most microscopic bit.
But still, he said, just a little too loud for an empty room, “No. I’m not going back. Not yet.”
The universe, in return, let his spoon slip from his fingers and fall into the tub, now more soup than solid.
He sighed. “Great. Even the ice cream’s giving up on me.”
*********
Mingyu sat in his pristine office, the overhead lights dimmed like he was brooding in a noir film instead of a high-rise corporate tower. His desk, usually a battlefield of productivity, looked untouched — except for one item sitting right in the middle like a ghost from the past.
Seungkwan’s lanyard.
It lay there, coiled like a snake that had just bitten him and slithered off.
He hadn’t moved it. didn’t know what to do with it. Throw it out? Burn it? Wear it and pretend Seungkwan was still here nagging him about ergonomics and drinking too much black coffee?
He sighed and leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling like it would drop divine wisdom or a functioning secretary.
“I am not affected,” he said flatly, to no one in particular. “I am calm. I am composed. People resign all the time. This is a business.”
His voice echoed in the empty office, sounding just a bit too hollow.
He gave it three seconds before he cracked and pulled open his laptop. Slack was still open. Boo Seungkwan — Offline.
Mingyu frowned and typed something into the chat box, hesitated, then backspaced the entire message. Five times.
His fingers hovered over the keyboard like it was a bomb. Or worse — like it was going to type “I miss you” all on its own.
He leaned forward again and opened a fresh tab, brows furrowed.
LinkedIn.
Just looking. Just looking.
He typed “executive assistant” into the search bar and instantly regretted it. Too many faces, none of them familiar. No one with the same chaotic brilliance, or the audacity to sass him in front of an entire board meeting and somehow get away with it.
He closed the tab and pushed the laptop away with a groan.
“Stupid,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. “He actually told me to post on LinkedIn. Told me. Who does that?”
His eyes flicked back to the lanyard. It was still there. Still smug. Still not Seungkwan.
The silence in the room suddenly felt sharp, like all the edges had been stripped of comfort and polished to ache.
Mingyu reached for the lanyard, let his fingers hover over it, then dropped his hand.
“No replacement,” he said under his breath, a bitter smirk tugging at his lips. “Not at work. Not in my heart.”
And with that, he slumped forward and banged his forehead softly against the desk.
Thunk.
Another thunk.
He stayed there.
Maybe just for tonight.
**************
Seungkwan hadn’t planned to be here.
He’d stormed out like a drama queen, declared his freedom, and promptly spent the next 72 hours in a haze of bad sleep, worse takeout, and mentally drafting a job application that included a handful references and one incredibly dramatic reason for leaving his last position. ("Irreconcilable differences with a megalomaniac who drinks productivity for breakfast" didn’t feel HR safe.)
But today, he needed air. And caffeine. And maybe a place where his own apartment wasn’t haunting him with echoes of "Post it on LinkedIn."
He was halfway through sipping a lavender latte he hadn’t even tasted when he felt it—that sixth sense that told him someone was looking at him.
He turned. And there he was.
Mingyu.
Dressed in a crisp white shirt that looked like it hadn’t known a wrinkle since 2018, eyes a little darker than usual, hair perfectly styled — and yet, somehow still managing to look like a man who hadn’t slept in three days.
They stared at each other across the café, frozen. For a second, Seungkwan thought about ducking under the table. Or climbing out the bathroom window. But it was too late. Mingyu was already walking toward him.
No lanyard in sight.
No replacement trailing behind him.
Just him.
Mingyu didn’t ask before pulling out the chair across from Seungkwan and sitting down. He looked at the untouched pastry on Seungkwan’s plate. “You’re not eating again,” he said softly. “That’s how I know you’re not okay.”
Seungkwan bristled. “I’m great, sir, I mean Mingyu. Thriving. Reclaiming my time. Finding inner peace.” Old habits die hard.
Mingyu blinked. “You’re drinking lavender. That’s a cry for help.”
Seungkwan huffed, crossing his arms. “What do you want, Mingyu?”
There was a pause.
Mingyu looked at him — really looked. The oversized hoodie. The faint dark circles under his eyes. The way he wouldn’t quite meet his gaze for more than a second.
God, he missed him.
Missed the quiet knock on his office door five minutes before every meeting. Missed the eye rolls, the color-coded folders, the sarcastic comments muttered under Seungkwan’s breath when someone from HR said something ridiculous. He missed the familiarity. The banter. The way Seungkwan’s presence made the days less like a long, cold march and more like... something warm.
The office had been silent without him. Too silent. Even the coffee tasted worse.
But he couldn’t say any of that.
Not here.
He settled for, “I wanted to check in. See how you were doing.”
Seungkwan raised an eyebrow. “Seriously? That’s your opening line? How did you know I would be here now?”
Mingyu rubbed the back of his neck. “I didn’t prepare a script.”
“Shocking,” Seungkwan deadpanned.
There was a beat of silence.
The café buzzed around them — laughter from a nearby table, the hiss of milk being steamed behind the counter — and yet somehow the space between them felt like it was holding its breath.
“Are you… looking for someone to replace me?” Seungkwan asked, voice a little too casual.
Mingyu blinked, caught off guard. “No. I haven’t hired anyone.”
“You haven’t?” Seungkwan tilted his head, suspicious.
Mingyu shrugged. “Too many candidates. None of them you.”
Seungkwan narrowed his eyes.
“I mean,” Mingyu corrected quickly, “None of them had your qualifications. Or efficiency.”
“Uh-huh,” Seungkwan replied, unimpressed.
Another silence. This one a little softer.
“Anyway,” Mingyu said, standing slowly. “Didn’t want to interrupt. Just… saw you and thought I’d say hi.”
“That’s it?”
“Yeah.”
Seungkwan didn’t respond, just gave a small nod and turned his eyes toward the window. Mingyu hesitated for a second, like he wanted to say more — something real, something that might make the moment less awkward — but nothing came out.
So instead, he reached into his pocket and slid something onto the edge of the table.
A packet of those stupid honey butter almonds Seungkwan always stole from the office snack drawer.
“Figured you might be missing these,” he said.
Seungkwan looked at the packet, then up at him. “I think they’re expired.”
“I picked it from your office desk.”
Mingyu smiled faintly. And with that, he turned and walked out of the café, hands in his pockets, the doorbell jingling behind him like a period at the end of a sentence that neither of them knew how to finish.
*******
The bell above the café door jingled again as Mingyu walked out, and just like that, he was gone — all pressed shirts, tired eyes, and unresolved feelings left trailing in his wake.
Seungkwan stared at the little yellow packet sitting on the edge of his table.
Honey butter almonds.
Expired honey butter almonds.
He picked it up slowly, turning it over in his hand like it was something precious. Or radioactive. Honestly, maybe both. The corner was already slightly crumpled, like Mingyu had been fidgeting with it the entire time he was talking.
“Dumbass,” Seungkwan muttered under his breath, though the word came out far softer than he intended.
He set the almonds down and leaned back in his chair, letting his eyes drift back to the window.
He should’ve said more. Asked more. Pushed harder. Or maybe just… not frozen like a squirrel in headlights the second Mingyu had sat down.
But no, instead he’d just sat there with his latte and all his “I’m totally fine and thriving” energy while his ex-boss — ex-something — stood in front of him looking like a man who hadn’t slept in a week and smelled vaguely like existential crisis and luxury cologne.
And then he left. Like always. Just left.
Seungkwan let out a groan and thunked his head softly against the table.
Why did it still hurt?
He hadn’t even been expecting a grand gesture. No violin strings, no weepy reunion. He just… thought maybe Mingyu would say something real. Something worth falling for again. But of course, Mingyu did what Mingyu always did — kept it clean, corporate, and efficient.
Except for the almonds.
The dumb, expired, probably-gross almonds.
Seungkwan picked the packet back up and stared at it again.
It didn’t mean anything. Obviously.
It definitely wasn’t Mingyu’s weird version of "I missed you."
Definitely not.
...Right?
He sighed and shoved the almonds into his tote bag, already imagining himself complaining about them to the friends he’d text later while definitely not mentioning who gave them to him.
Still.
He didn’t throw them out.
And somehow, that said more than either of them had.
************
Mingyu stared blankly at the quarterly performance dashboard on his screen like it had personally offended him.
He had zoomed in three times, clicked through four charts, and still couldn’t tell you what the numbers were. The reports might’ve been in Hangul, English, or hieroglyphs. All he knew was that they were not Seungkwan, and thus, irrelevant.
He sighed through his nose and leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, the corners of his mouth pulled down in a tight frown. Not angry. Not even really upset.
Just… annoyed.
Annoyed that his coffee was too bitter. Annoyed that his inbox was overflowing. Annoyed that no one reminded him his meeting with Legal had been rescheduled and now he’d shown up early like a rookie.
Most of all, annoyed that the chair across from his desk was empty.
He glanced at it for the fifth time in ten minutes, like if he stared hard enough, Seungkwan would just materialize — tote bag slung over one shoulder, eyes rolling, probably saying something like “That tie is a war crime.”
But the chair stayed empty. Silent. Judgment-free. Utterly useless.
He groaned and pulled his phone from his desk drawer, fingers already typing before his brain could catch up.
Mingyu [DRAFT]:
Hey.
Just checking in.
You forgot your water bottle.
I—
Delete.
Mingyu [DRAFT]:
So about those almonds...
I wasn’t trying to—
Delete.
Mingyu [DRAFT]:
I think I’m going to fire myself.
No one is as mean to me as you were and it’s really affecting the work culture.
Please come back and bully me professionally—
DELETE.
Mingyu tossed the phone onto the desk with a dramatic thunk and buried his face in his hands. “This is pathetic,” he muttered to himself. “I’m pathetic. I’ve become the sad male lead in a Netflix drama who gets ghosted and then emotionally implodes at work.”
He peeked through his fingers at the calendar on his computer. Two meetings, three emails flagged “URGENT,” and a growing to-do list he couldn’t bring himself to open.
“Fantastic,” he sighed, dragging his hands down his face.
Someone knocked on his door. He looked up sharply, hopeful for a half-second before a timid intern peeked in with a nervous smile.
“Director Kim? You wanted the revised budget spreadsheet?”
Mingyu blinked. “Did I?”
The intern nodded.
He cleared his throat and gestured vaguely toward the desk. “Right. Yes. Just… leave it.”
As the intern bowed and slipped away, Mingyu rubbed at his temple and muttered under his breath, “You’d never let me forget a spreadsheet.”
His eyes wandered to the empty chair again, and he reached for his phone.
Typed nothing.
Deleted nothing.
Set it down again.
And got absolutely no work done.
**********
There was a knock.
Sharp. Familiar. The kind of knock that used to come precisely two minutes before every meeting, followed by a sarcastic “You’ve got 120 seconds to look human before people come in.”
Mingyu didn’t bother looking up. He was sure it was someone else. Some interns. A courier. Maybe Death.
“Come in,” he said dully.
The door opened, and for a moment he didn’t register it. Just a blur in his peripheral vision. A shadow moving toward his desk.
Then he heard it. The quiet, unimpressed sigh.
“Your calendar’s a mess,” Seungkwan said, dropping a stack of papers next to Mingyu’s elbow like he’d never left.
Mingyu’s head snapped up so fast he almost gave himself whiplash.
There he was.
No grand entrance. No dramatic monologue. Just Seungkwan, dressed in a sleek black shirt tucked into loose beige trousers, hair slightly tousled like he’d been caught in a breeze or a bad decision.
“What… are you doing here?” Mingyu asked, trying way too hard to keep his tone neutral and not like his entire soul had just reattached itself to his body.
“Calm down,” Seungkwan replied, already halfway around the desk and tapping through tabs on Mingyu’s laptop with practiced ease. “I’m not back. I just… happened to be in the area. And heard through the gossip mill you missed your Finance sync, confused Legal with Compliance, and nearly responded to a phishing email.”
“I didn’t nearly—” Mingyu started, but Seungkwan raised a brow and held up his phone.
“You typed your full work password in an email reply and hit ‘draft.’”
Mingyu blinked. “…That was a test.”
Seungkwan rolled his eyes but hid a smile. “Of course it was.”
For a few minutes, they didn’t speak. Just the sounds of keys clicking, files being reshuffled, reminders being re-added. Seungkwan worked like he’d never stopped, fingers dancing over the keyboard, correcting chaos without comment. It was muscle memory, almost meditative. Mingyu watched, silently, a thousand things on the tip of his tongue.
Seungkwan glanced at the lanyard still sitting at the corner of the desk — untouched, unmoved.
“You kept that?” he asked softly.
Mingyu shrugged, suddenly very focused on pretending to clean his glasses. “Didn’t know where else to put it.”
Seungkwan’s mouth quirked. “How about in a drawer, like a normal person?”
“I don’t know what ‘normal’ looks like anymore,” Mingyu said under his breath.
Seungkwan stilled. Not entirely a joke, that one.
Their eyes met for a second. The kind of second that stretches. Hangs in the air. Loaded, electric, full of too many things neither of them was brave enough to say.
But Seungkwan only smiled—soft, unreadable—and closed the laptop with a snap.
“Well. You’re all cleaned up now.” He stood and brushed invisible lint from his shirt. “Try not to fall apart before Friday.”
“Where are you going?” Mingyu asked before he could stop himself.
Seungkwan paused. “Home.”
“Oh.”
He walked toward the door, but just before leaving, turned back.
“I’m not ready to come back. But I didn’t want to leave things a mess.”
Mingyu nodded slowly. “You didn’t. You never do.”
Seungkwan lingered a second longer, lips parting like he wanted to say something else—but then he just smiled, more to himself than to Mingyu.
And left.
The door closed behind him with a soft click.
Mingyu leaned back in his chair, staring at the now-tidy desktop, the faint trace of citrus and fabric softener still lingering in the air.
He didn’t open his laptop again.
He just sat there.
And let himself miss him properly this time.
*******
Seungkwan hadn’t meant to be here.
He’d come as a favor to a friend — a quick appearance, thirty minutes max, smile for a few selfies, grab a drink, vanish. That was the plan. The suit was pressed, the cologne was subtle, and his mood? Tolerable.
At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.
The truth — the one he hadn’t said out loud, not even in his own head — was that a small, stubborn part of him had come for him.
For Mingyu.
Just to see. Just to confirm he was fine. That he still existed in the same city, in the same reality. Maybe even to see if Mingyu would look at him the same way he used to — like he was the only person in the room worth listening to.
That part? That part was the worst of all.
And now here he was, on a rooftop in Gangnam, attending a corporate event he wasn’t required to and regretting everything.
Until he saw Mingyu.
Leaning against a high table, drink in hand, hair swept back like he belonged in a luxury commercial for timepieces and unattainable emotional availability. He looked like he’d been carved from ambition and espresso. Sharp. Composed. Goddamn glowing.
And worse — he wasn’t alone.
A woman stood beside him. Sleek black dress. Flirty laugh. Fingertips brushing his sleeve like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Seungkwan froze mid-step.
His drink nearly sloshed over the rim of his glass.
He absolutely was not jealous. Not even a little. Not even an ounce.
He hated networking events. And rooftop lighting. And people named—whatever her name probably was. Probably something with a “Y” that didn’t belong there.
He hovered by the edge of the crowd, half-shielded by a decorative plant and deeply regretting every life choice that had brought him to this moment.
Then, as if summoned by pure gravitational pull, Mingyu looked up.
Their eyes met across the crowd — a flicker of recognition, then something else. Softer. Familiar. Lingering.
Mingyu straightened slightly, subtly leaning away from the woman, whose fingers were still hovering too close to his elbow. He didn’t smile, not yet. But his gaze didn’t waver.
Seungkwan felt his heartbeat thud annoyingly loud in his ears. He didn’t move.
Until she laughed again.
Too close. Too much.
And Mingyu chuckled — polite, practiced, nothing like his real laugh, but still. It was enough.
Seungkwan took a long sip of his drink and marched across the rooftop before his brain could veto the decision.
“Director Kim,” he said coolly, slipping into the conversation like a knife into warm butter. “Didn’t expect to see you mingling. You usually leave these events halfway through the appetizers.”
Mingyu turned fully to face him, and for a second, just looked. Like he was drinking him in.
“Seungkwan,” he said, voice softer than before. “Didn’t expect you here either.”
The woman smiled politely. “Friend of yours?”
Seungkwan smiled back, tight and shiny. “Oh, I used to work with him. We were practically joined at the hip. Like a tragic workplace romcom, but with more spreadsheets and passive-aggressive memos.”
Mingyu choked on his drink.
The woman laughed, slightly confused. “Sounds… intense?”
“Oh, it was,” Seungkwan said sweetly, locking eyes with Mingyu. “He can’t function without someone organizing his life. Just last week he almost sent our company password to a phishing email. Isn’t that right, Director?”
Mingyu coughed, eyes narrowed, but the corner of his mouth twitched like he was holding back a smile. “It was a test.”
Seungkwan arched a brow. “Of your own incompetence?”
The woman looked between them, a little stunned, suddenly sensing a shift in the air — like she'd accidentally wandered onto a battlefield she had no weapons for.
“Well,” she said brightly, “I should go find my team.”
“Great idea,” Seungkwan chirped.
She left with a confused little wave. The moment she disappeared into the crowd, the space between them crackled.
Mingyu turned back to Seungkwan, arms crossed loosely. “Are you always that territorial, or is it just when I’m being stalked by human perfume ads?”
“I’m not territorial,” Seungkwan sniffed, “I just happen to be violently allergic to unnecessary flirtation.”
“Right,” Mingyu said, amused. “And you just happened to walk across the bar at the exact moment she touched my arm?”
Seungkwan blinked innocently. “Coincidence. Or fate.”
They stood in silence for a beat. The city lights glittered behind them, wind tugging at their sleeves.
“I’m still not coming back,” Seungkwan said softly.
“I know,” Mingyu replied, just as softly. “I’m still not replacing you.”
Seungkwan’s throat tightened, but he didn’t show it. Instead, he handed Mingyu a fresh drink from a passing tray.
“Don’t drink that one,” he warned. “I saw the guy mix it. Too sweet. Like your taste in potential disasters.”
Mingyu took it anyway. Their fingers brushed. Neither of them moved away.
“Stay for a little while?” Mingyu asked. Not pleading. Not desperate. Just… asking.
Seungkwan sighed.
“Ten minutes,” he said.
He stayed for forty-five.
**********
Seungkwan didn’t even work here anymore.
So why was he in the break room, pretending to be waiting for someone else, watching the coffee machine drip like it held all the answers to his emotional instability?
Maybe he was visiting an old colleague.
Maybe he was returning something.
Maybe he was just... a little pathetic.
He told himself it was a coincidence that he showed up mid-morning, right when Mingyu usually grabbed his second coffee of the day. Totally unplanned. Completely spontaneous.
He was halfway through debating whether to flee when the door opened.
There he was.
Mingyu paused the moment he saw him, like he wasn’t sure if he was hallucinating or being emotionally haunted by his own guilt. His tie was crooked — a rare sight — and his eyes looked tired in the way that said he hadn’t slept, but not because of work.
“Morning,” he said, walking in like nothing had happened.
“Hi,” Seungkwan replied, already annoyed at himself for sounding breathless.
They stood on either side of the coffee machine like strangers who’d once shared a lifetime. Neither of them moved. The silence stretched — awkward, brittle, full of things that clung to their throats.
“You left early,” Mingyu finally said, glancing at him sideways.
“I stayed forty-five minutes longer than planned,” Seungkwan replied coolly. “Don’t push it.”
A small smile tugged at Mingyu’s mouth.
“I was going to offer you a ride.”
“I would’ve said no.”
“I know.”
Another pause. The coffee machine beeped. Neither of them moved to take it.
Mingyu’s voice dipped low. “You looked good last night.”
Seungkwan stiffened, heartbeat flaring before he could catch it. “You always say that.”
“I always mean it.”
That silenced him. And it stayed silent long enough for Mingyu to grab the finished coffee, but instead of drinking it, he set it down and turned fully toward him.
His voice softened, unsure for the first time in days. “Are we okay?”
Seungkwan stared at the floor. Then the wall. Then finally met his eyes. “We’re not not okay.”
“That’s… helpful.”
“Is that what you wanted?” Seungkwan asked. “To go back to acting like nothing happened? Like there wasn’t a weird rooftop tension and too much eye contact and a woman who might still be crying in a corner somewhere?”
“I just—” Mingyu hesitated. “I don’t want to ruin whatever this is. Or was.”
Seungkwan's jaw clenched. “Too late for that.”
But his voice wasn’t cruel. It was tired. Sad. Honest.
Mingyu looked down at the coffee, then picked it up like it gave him something to hold onto.
“I’ll see you around?”
“Probably not,” Seungkwan said, not waiting for a response.
Seungkwan’s words echoed in Mingyu’s mind like a cracked record. Probably not.
Mingyu opened his mouth to say something—anything—but the weight of it all crushed the words before they formed. His grip on the coffee cup loosened, and the heat of the liquid slipped away as his mind spiraled.
“Wait—” he whispered, but Seungkwan was already turning, the door swinging open before Mingyu could move.
He stood frozen, breath shallow, heart pounding so loud he could barely hear the quiet hum of the office around him.
And then, as if in a trance, Mingyu let him go.
*********
Hours later, Mingyu found himself standing outside Seungkwan’s apartment building, unshaven and rumpled—hair tousled like he’d been wrestling with his own demons all day. The blazer hung off one shoulder, tie loosened, eyes bleary but burning with a desperate urgency.
He clutched a small, awkwardly wrapped gift in his hands—a peace offering, maybe, or a silent confession he wasn’t ready to voice yet.
The buzz of the intercom startled him into action. He punched in Seungkwan’s unit number, heart hammering against his ribs.
When the door buzzed open, Mingyu hesitated only a moment before stepping inside, every step heavier than the last.
At the door to Seungkwan’s apartment, he paused, inhaled shakily, then knocked.
The door cracked open, and there stood Seungkwan—surprised, guarded.
Mingyu’s voice was rough, almost breaking.
“I’m here because I can’t stop thinking about… everything. About you. About us.”
He paused, searching Seungkwan’s face for any sign of welcome or regret.
“I don’t know how to say this right, but I’m not ready to lose you. Not like this.”
Seungkwan’s eyes softened just a fraction, but his lips pressed tight.
Mingyu took a shaky step forward, offering the small package.
“For you.”
Seungkwan studied Mingyu, quiet but not quite convinced.
“So,” he said, voice smooth but challenging, “you show up at my door, looking like you lost a fight with your own conscience, and expect me to just... what? Let this slide?”
Mingyu’s throat tightened. “I’m not asking for that.”
Seungkwan crossed his arms, leaning casually against the doorframe, a half-smile teasing his lips. “Then what exactly are you asking for?”
Mingyu swallowed. His eyes flickered away for a heartbeat before locking back on Seungkwan’s.
“I like you,” he said, slow and deliberate. “Not as some... work thing. Not as just a friend.”
Seungkwan’s smile softened, but a flicker of something unreadable flashed behind his eyes. “It took you long enough.”
Mingyu’s heart thudded painfully in his chest. “I wasn’t sure how to say it. Or if I even could.”
“Yeah?” Seungkwan took a step closer, the air between them crackling. “Well, you’re pretty good at avoiding the hard stuff.”
Mingyu’s breath caught. “I’m trying now.”
For a long moment, neither moved. The space between them shrank until it was barely there.
Seungkwan’s voice dropped to a whisper, “Why now?”
Mingyu’s eyes searched Seungkwan’s face, vulnerability raw and shining through. “Because I realized I’m not willing to lose you. Not like this. Not without trying.”
Seungkwan’s gaze flickered down to Mingyu’s lips, then back up. The teasing smile faded, replaced with something softer, more real.
“I thought you’d never say it.”
Mingyu’s fingers twitched, nervous energy rising. “I wasn’t sure you wanted to hear it.”
“Say it again, I want to hear it,” Seungkwan challenged, voice low and urgent.
Mingyu’s lips parted, but before he could speak, Seungkwan closed the gap, pressing their mouths together in a slow, tentative kiss that said everything words couldn’t.
Mingyu froze at first—then melted into it, the years of bottled-up longing spilling free in that single, breathless moment.
When they finally pulled apart, Seungkwan’s eyes were bright with unshed laughter and promise.
“Welcome to the club,” he murmured, brushing a hand gently down Mingyu’s cheek.
Mingyu’s heart was racing, but for once, it was a good kind of chaos.
*********
Since that night, everything had shifted.
Back at work, Seungkwan slid effortlessly into his role, his sharp efficiency unchanged but now softened by a new ease. Mingyu, too, had changed. The relentless intensity that once defined him had dulled into something gentler, steadier. He still worked hard, but now there was room for pauses, for stolen smiles across the office, for moments that had nothing to do with deadlines.
It was as if the air between them had been charged with a quiet promise—one that made the humdrum of office life feel suddenly electric.
Seungkwan’s lips lingered against Mingyu’s, soft at first, then with growing urgency—like they were making up for all the words and moments they’d held back. Mingyu’s hands found their way to Seungkwan’s waist, pulling him closer until the world shrank down to just the two of them, the hum of the office fading into background noise.
Seungkwan’s breath hitched as Mingyu’s fingers tangled in his hair, the kiss deepening, electric and hungry. Time twisted around them, and for once, neither was running away.
But eventually, the pressure of reality seeped back in—the subtle beep of a phone, footsteps echoing down the hall. They broke apart, foreheads resting together, breaths mingling.
“We should—” Mingyu started, voice rough.
Seungkwan smirked, eyes sparkling. “Yeah, we should get back to work.”
Mingyu chuckled, a rare, genuine smile breaking through. “Guess the universe still expects us to be adults.”
They straightened their clothes, brushed off the traces of stolen moments, and slipped back into their roles—Technical Director and his ever-efficient secretary. But the air between them had changed, charged with secret smiles and quick glances that said, I know what we have.
As they passed by the conference room, Seungkwan caught Mingyu’s eye and raised an eyebrow, playful and daring.
Mingyu responded with a barely-there smirk, a silent promise that this was only the beginning.
Back at his desk, Seungkwan tapped out a quick message: “Coffee break at 3? I have some ideas to run by you.”
Mingyu’s reply was immediate and simple: “Wouldn’t miss it.”
And just like that, work wasn’t just work anymore.