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The headquarters of Seoul Monocle was a monolith of glass and cold ambition. For Kim Namjoon, the Editor-in-Chief, it was a sanctuary of logic. He lived his life by the red pen, excising fluff and correcting errors until everything was perfect.
"The new intern from the elite arts program is here," Jimin, the fashion coordinator, whispered as he peeked into Namjoon’s office. "He’s... well, he’s a lot. He’s already rearranged the breakroom because the 'Feng Shui was offensive.'"
Namjoon didn't look up from a series of architectural drafts.
"As long as he can spell 'haute couture' and doesn't spill coffee on the archives, I don't care if he rearranges the parking lot. Send him to the basement to organize the 2016 vintage records. I don't want to be disturbed."
-----
For the next three days, Namjoon and his new intern were ships in the night. Namjoon stayed late; the intern arrived early. Namjoon only saw the results of the work: impeccably filed folders, notes written in a surprisingly elegant, loopy script, and, occasionally, a single high-end chocolate left on his desk with a post-it note that read: *You look like you're vibrating at a frequency of 'Imminent Heart Attack.' Eat this.'
Namjoon found the notes infuriatingly familiar, yet he brushed it off as the arrogance of a Gen Z hire.
------
The collision finally happened on a rainy Thursday. The office was frantic. A cover shoot had fallen through, and Namjoon was in a state of controlled fury. He marched toward the archives, his coat billowing behind him, only to collide head-on with someone carrying a precarious tower of hatboxes.
Fabric and cardboard exploded everywhere. Namjoon stumbled back, his glasses sliding down his nose. "For God's sake, watch where you’re—"
"Watch where 'I'm going?'" a voice indignant and sharp snapped back. "I was stationary! You’re the one stomping around like a disgruntled Godzilla!"
Namjoon froze. He adjusted his glasses, his vision snapping into focus. The man sitting on the floor, surrounded by vintage fedoras, was breathtaking. He had a face that belonged on the cover, not behind the scenes—wide, expressive eyes, a soft jawline, and a pair of shoulders that seemed to defy the laws of physics.
But it wasn't the beauty that stopped Namjoon’s heart. It was the way the man pouted when he was angry—a specific, stubborn jut of the lower lip.
"Do you have any idea how much these pieces cost?" Namjoon asked, his voice losing its edge, replaced by a strange, hollow ache in his chest.
"I know exactly how much they cost, which is why I was moving them to the climate-controlled room," the intern retorted, standing up and brushing off his slacks. He finally looked Namjoon in the eye.
The silence that followed was suffocating. The office noise—the ringing phones, Taehyung’s loud laughter in the studio, the hum of the AC—faded into a dull roar.
Namjoon felt as though the floor had turned into water. He looked at the man’s hands. On the right pinky was a tiny, faint scar from a clumsy accident with a pocketknife during a camping trip in 2015.
"Seokjin?" Namjoon whispered. The name felt like a prayer he hadn't said in a decade.
The intern’s eyes searched Namjoon’s face, tracing the bridge of his nose, the sharp line of his jaw, and finally landing on the small dimple that peeked out as Namjoon’s mouth trembled. Seokjin’s face went pale, his hands dropping to his sides.
"Joon?" Seokjin’s voice was barely audible. "Kim Namjoon? The boy who used to cry over broken crab shells at the beach?"
The intensity of the realization hit like a physical wave. Ten years ago, they were the golden couple of Gwacheon High. They had promised each other a lifetime, only for Namjoon’s sudden move to America and a catastrophic failure of communication to tear them apart. Namjoon had spent years wondering why Seokjin never answered his last letters; Seokjin had spent years wondering why Namjoon never came back for him.
"You’re the Editor-in-Chief," Seokjin said, his voice trembling with a mix of awe and a decade’s worth of resentment. "I’ve been working for you for four days, and I didn't even know it was you."
"You grew up," Namjoon stepped closer, the space between them crackling with unresolved electricity. "I thought you went to acting school. I thought you’d be famous by now."
"I decided I’d rather write the stories than act them out," Seokjin said, his eyes shimmering. "But I see you’ve become exactly what you said you would. The boss. The man in charge. Still breaking things, I see." He gestured to the scattered hatboxes.
"I didn't break us on purpose, Jinnie," Namjoon said, the old nickname slipping out with a raw vulnerability that would have shocked his staff.
Before Seokjin could respond, the elevator dings. Jungkook and Taehyung burst out, arguing over a lens cap, but stopped dead when they saw the EIC and the new intern standing in a heap of hats, looking like they were about to either fight or burst into tears.
"Uh, Boss?" Jungkook ventured. "We need you in the studio."
"Get out," Namjoon said, not taking his eyes off Seokjin.
"But the lighting—"
"Out!"
Once the doors hissed shut again, the tension snapped. Namjoon reached out, his hand hovering near Seokjin’s waist before he finally committed, pulling the older man into the shadows of the archive hallway. He pressed Seokjin against the cool stone wall, his body acting as a shield against the rest of the world.
"I waited at that bus station for six hours, Seokjin," Namjoon murmured, his face inches from Seokjin’s. "I wrote you every day for a year."
"I never got them," Seokjin choked out, his hands curling into the fabric of Namjoon’s expensive blazer. "My mother... she didn't want me tied to someone across the ocean. She intercepted everything. I thought you forgot me the moment you touched down in New York."
Namjoon’s heart shattered and rebuilt itself in the span of a breath. He leaned in, resting his forehead against Seokjin’s. The scent of Seokjin—pine and something uniquely him*
—invaded Namjoon’s senses, undoing years of disciplined stoicism.
"I never forgot," Namjoon whispered. "I looked for you in every crowd. Every time I edited a piece about soulmates or 'the one that got away,' I was thinking of you."
Seokjin let out a shaky laugh, a tear finally escaping. "You always were a closet romantic, even under that scary editor persona."
"I’m not your boss right now," Namjoon said, his voice dropping to a gravelly, intense register. "I’m just the boy who loved you in the library. And I’m going to kiss you now, and if you don't want me to, you have exactly three seconds to move."
Seokjin didn't move. Instead, he tilted his head up, his lips brushing against Namjoon’s in a teasing, agonizingly slow invitation. "You always talk too much, Joonie. Just do it."
The kiss was a collision of past and present. It was desperate, fueled by ten years of 'what ifs' and 'if onlys.' Namjoon tasted like coffee and stress; Seokjin tasted like the strawberry mints he always chewed when he was nervous. It wasn't the polite kiss of two professionals; it was a reclamation. Namjoon’s hands moved to Seokjin’s hair, pulling him closer as if trying to merge their souls back into the unit they had been in their teens.
When they finally broke apart, both were breathless, the air between them thick with a new, terrifyingly beautiful promise.
"So," Seokjin panted, a smirk slowly spreading across his face as his confidence returned. "Does this mean I get a promotion? Or am I still on hat-sorting duty?"
Namjoon laughed, a deep, resonant sound that seemed to chase the shadows out of the cold office. He tucked a stray hair behind Seokjin’s ear, his gaze softening with a devotion that made Seokjin’s knees weak.
"You’re fired as my intern," Namjoon said, echoing his thoughts from earlier but with a newfound heat in his eyes. "I’m taking you to dinner. And then I’m taking you home. And tomorrow, we’re going to figure out how to fill the last ten years."
Seokjin smiled, that dazzling, world-stopping smile that Namjoon had memorized a lifetime ago. "Fine. But you’re paying. And I’m still not doing that Joseon summary."
Namjoon leaned in for one more lingering kiss. "Deal."