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It had started as a joke.
Yoo Sangah, freshly bored between deadlines and too many meetings that should’ve been emails, had once caught sight of Kim Dokja’s unlocked phone left on his desk during a lunch break. She hadn’t meant to pry, but when the screen flickered on—revealing a hilariously unfortunate selfie of him mid-blink—she’d cackled to herself before changing it to a zoomed-in version of that exact photo.
The next day, he noticed.
He didn’t say anything, just side-eyed her with that deadpan look he’d perfected from years of corporate survival. Then he changed it back and left his phone out again.
So she did it again.
And again.
It became a game, a stupid little tradition. Over time, her collection grew: Kim Dokja picking at a paper cut, Kim Dokja shoving an entire rice ball into his mouth like a child, Kim Dokja caught sneezing so violently it looked like a war photo.
She was careful not to cross a line. Just enough embarrassment to make him groan under his breath and mutter, “You’re mean,” without actually meaning it.
To be fair, she never used anything truly awful. Not the photo of him napping on the train with his head leaning her way, lips parted, peaceful in a way she’d never seen before. Not the one of him with a soft smile as he helped her carry groceries home after their failed attempt at cooking together. And definitely not the blurry one from their first date, where she’d leaned into his side and accidentally snapped a photo while trying to unlock her camera.
That one, she kept for herself.
It was cute, sure, but more than that, it felt private. And Yoo Sangah didn’t exactly have a track record of being vulnerable. Not since college, at least.
Still, the wallpaper game endured.
Today, it was supposed to be business as usual. Kim Dokja was gone. He said something about “another cursed meeting” he couldn’t escape. His phone was left on the seat beside his half-drunk americano, screen facedown.
She took a sip of her own drink and glanced at the phone.
Unlocked.
Too easy.
Yoo Sangah looked around once, then slid the phone toward her with a grin.
This time, she was going to use a masterpiece. She’d recently snapped one of him caught in a yawn, one arm stretched high, the other cradling his laptop like a newborn. The lighting was atrocious, and it gave him the appearance of a sleep-deprived wizard. In other words, utter perfection.
She pressed the power button and the screen flickered on.
Her smile faltered.
It wasn’t his usual wallpaper.
Not a solid gray background or a pretentious landscape, not even one of her stupid sabotage photos. It was a picture.
Of her.
Her alone.
Taken from the side—mid-laugh, scarf loose around her neck, hair tousled from wind. That exact moment from their first date. She hadn’t realized he’d taken it. She hadn’t even known he’d looked at her like that. She looked ridiculous, off-guard, sincere in a way she rarely let herself be. The light had caught the corner of her eye, and she almost looked… glowing.
Her finger hovered over the screen, unmoving.
He could’ve changed it by accident. Maybe he was too lazy to set a new wallpaper. Or maybe he just hadn’t noticed.
But no. That wasn’t Kim Dokja. The man noticed everything. He was picky in the most aggravating, meticulous way.
And he had chosen this.
Yoo Sangah stared at it for a second too long, long enough that she forgot to swipe to the settings. Her thumb trembled slightly.
She slowly set the phone down, careful like it might break, and pulled her hand back.
The door chimed.
Kim Dokja walked in, looking predictably tired and wearing the same crumpled shirt he’d worn on Monday. His tie was askew, and there was a smudge of ink on his wrist. His eyes scanned the room and landed on her.
“Sangah-ssi,” he said, walking over. “Sorry I had to leave for a moment.”
She cleared her throat and offered a small smile. “You’re only gone for fifteen minutes. It’s nothing”
He took his seat, glancing at his cup, then at her. Her smile entered his vision.
He gave her a long look. “So you saw it.”
She blinked. “Saw what?”
“My phone.”
A pause. Yoo Sangah didn’t know what kind of reaction she was supposed to have. She didn’t think this would ever actually come up between them.
“I didn’t change it,” she said.
“I know,” he replied leisurely. “You usually would’ve by now. I was testing you, by the way.”
She narrowed her eyes. “That’s manipulative.”
“It worked,” he said, and she hated how smug his voice was. “That picture…”
“It was kinda blurry,” she said too quickly.
“Still.” He glanced down at his coffee. “I like it.”
Something about the way he said it made her heart thump against her ribs.
She stared at him, studying the slope of his shoulders, the way his fingers fidgeted against the rim of the cup. It wasn’t like him to bring things like this up. They danced around the idea of dating even after it happened—never labeling, never saying too much, just sharing pockets of time between spreadsheets and train rides home.
“I didn’t think you were the sentimental type,” she said finally.
“I’m not,” he answered, then added, “but you look beautiful, so I thought: why not?”
Her face warmed.
Yoo Sangah didn’t get flustered easily. She prided herself on staying composed, on keeping her head cool no matter the situation, but right now, sitting across from Kim Dokja with his ridiculous honesty and annoying calm, she felt stripped of all her usual defenses.
“I thought changing it would be mean.”
“It would have, I think.” He said.
They sat in silence for a moment, the city noise filtering in through the windows, background music from the café humming low in the background. It felt strangely intimate, like the first time she’d let herself admit she liked him.
“Do you want to take another one?” he asked.
Her brows raised. “Another stupid photo?”
“No,” he said, quieter now. “A real one. One that’s not blurry. One where you’re looking.”
She tilted her head. “At who?”
“At me,” he said. “I mean, or we can take a picture together. We never really have one.” He didn’t wait for her response and slid over, lifting his phone. They leaned in close, his shoulder brushing hers. She could smell the faint scent of soap and the cheap fabric softener he never bothered to switch out.
The photo clicked.
She blinked at the screen. It wasn’t perfect. Their heads were slightly tilted, her hair was out of place, and his eyes had that ever-present tiredness in them.
But they were both smiling.
“I’ll make this my wallpaper,” she said.
“You’d change it in two days.”
She smiled. “I won’t.”