Chapter Text
The thing about knowing your soulmate is that it's technically impossible to keep them a secret, certainly not from the said soulmate, even if they don't know it's you doing it.
The mechanics are laughably simple, just think about your soulmate, talk about your soulmate behind their back, whisper their name into your pillow at 2 AM like a complete loser, and somewhere, somehow, they'll feel it. A tickle in the nose and then a sudden, unprovoked sneeze. Maybe a little cough if the universe is feeling dramatic that day. You don't even know if your thoughts caused their sneeze, or if they were just thinking about their soulmate who might be someone else entirely. It's basically divine radio static.
But people have built empires on less, and Zhang Hao? He has built a three-year delusion.
Monday mornings at Meridian Logistics hit different. The office occupied the fourteenth floor of a glass-and-steel tower in Gangnam, all chrome accents and LED panels displaying motivational quotes that nobody had updated since 2019. ("Synergy is the key to success!" the screen by the elevator currently blared, which Hao thought was rich coming from a company that couldn't even synergize its own coffee machine into working.)
Hao's division took up the east wing, a maze of modular desks and frosted glass partitions that somehow managed to look both expensive and deeply depressing. Their team, Team 3, was nestled in the corner near the emergency exit, which Hao had long suspected was not a coincidence given how often their team leader made them want to flee.
He dropped his bag onto his chair at exactly three minutes before official clock-in time, a precision he'd perfected over three years of trying to look casual and not at all like someone who'd sprinted from the subway station because he hit snooze twice.
"You're late," said a voice to his left, flat and familiar and already annoying at not-even-nine-AM.
"I'm three minutes early," Hao replied, not bothering to turn around as he booted up his monitor. He could picture Sung Hanbin's face without looking. "And even if I was late, who died and made you the attendance police?"
"Section 4, Article 2 of the Employee Handbook," Hanbin said, and Hao could hear the smirk. "Punctuality reflects professional integrity. Also, your shirt is buttoned wrong."
Hao's hand immediately flew to his collar. It wasn't. He whirled around anyway, just in time to catch Hanbin's tiny, triumphant quirk of lips before it vanished behind his mug.
"You're the worst," Hao hissed at him.
"But here we are," Hanbin said, gesturing vaguely at their adjacent desks with his free hand, "Desk mates of destiny."
"Don't say that to me before I've had coffee."
"There's coffee in the break room. You know, if you hadn't spent your morning commute daydreaming about—" Hanbin paused, "—certain team leaders, maybe you'd have time to get some."
Hao felt his ears go hot. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Sure, hyung. The way you literally sighed 'Jiwoong-ssi' into your phone screen sometimes, of course it's normal. Very 'I respect him as a professional superior.'"
"I was checking the weather!" Hao hissed, glancing around to make sure nobody from the adjacent pods had heard. "And don't call me hyung, you menace."
"But you're a year older than me," Hanbin said, like this was a personal affront he relished bringing up daily. "Which makes you my hyung. Which means you should be setting a good example. Starting with"—he reached over and plucked a stray thread from Hao's sleeve, because apparently personal boundaries were just a suggestion in Hanbin's world—"not showing up looking like you got dressed in a wind tunnel."
Hao opened his mouth to deliver what was definitely going to be a devastating comeback, but then the frosted glass door to the conference room swung open, and his brain short-circuited like the office coffee machine.
Kim Jiwoong had arrived.
If the universe was going to design a man specifically to ruin Zhang Hao's life, it couldn't have done better than their team leader. Jiwoong was someone with a face that belonged on a billboard selling luxury watches or possibly expensive cologne. He moved through the office confidently like he's someone who had never once buttoned his shirt wrong, who probably woke up with his hair already perfectly styled, who definitely did not spend his morning commute composing imaginary confessions to his subordinates.
"Good morning, Team 3," Jiwoong said, and his voice was warm honey and professional authority and oh no, he's wearing the navy suit today, Hao's brain supplied helpfully, immediately followed by: I would commit crimes for this man.
"Morning," chorused the rest of the team—Gyuvin from the next pod, Matthew who handled vendor relations, and Taerae who was somehow always already working despite never seeming to arrive before anyone else.
Hao managed a strangled "Good morning, Jiwoong-ssi.”
Jiwoong paused by Hao's desk, and Hao's entire circulatory system relocated to his face. "Zhang Hao-ssi. I reviewed your quarterly analysis. That's very thorough, I think the board will be pleased."
"Thank you," Hao said, hoping he sounded professional and not like someone who had, in fact, spent forty-five minutes last night re-reading Jiwoong's company email signature for hidden romantic codes. (It just said "Best regards, Kim Jiwoong." but Hao had read it as "I love you, Zhang Hao" anyway. Delusion was a hell of a drug.)
"And Sung Hanbin-ssi," Jiwoong continued, turning that devastating smile to Hao's left, where Hanbin was suddenly the picture of perfect professionalism, all bright eyes and attentive posture. "Your inventory forecast was exceptional."
"Thank you!" Hanbin said, and his voice went all soft and earnest in a way that made Hao want to throw his stapler. Nobody should be that good at receiving praise. It was suspicious.
Jiwoong moved on to check in with the others, and Hao let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
"Woah, it's scary you literally stopped breathing. I was about to perform CPR,” Hanbin murmured, not looking up from his monitor.
"Please don't. I'd rather die."
"At least then you'd stop sighing wistfully every time he walks by."
Hao grabbed his empty coffee mug with perhaps more force than necessary. "I'm going to get coffee. And when I come back, I'm going to forget you exist."
"Good luck with that," Hanbin called after him. "We're desk mates! Destiny, remember?"
The weekly team meeting was scheduled for 10:15 AM in Conference Room B, which was the slightly smaller conference room with the weird fluorescent flicker and the whiteboard that still had "Q2 GOALS!!!" written on it from six months ago. Hao had strategically chosen a seat with a direct sightline to Jiwoong's usual position at the head of the table, because if he was going to suffer through forty-five minutes of supply chain logistics, he was going to do it while admiring the elegant line of his soulmate's jaw.
(Soulmate. The word still sent a little thrill through him, even after three years of one-sided pining. Hao had known the moment he'd first seen Jiwoong—this is him. This is the person the universe intended. He'd felt it in his bones, in the sudden stutter of his heart, in the way he'd spent the entire onboarding orientation thinking about those dark eyes and wondering if somewhere, in some conference room across the city, Kim Jiwoong had sneezed.
He had to have. The connection was too strong, too immediate. Hao just needed to be patient. Eventually, Jiwoong would feel it. Eventually, he'd look at Hao and know.)
"—so the Seoul distribution center is reporting a twelve percent inefficiency in their routing algorithms," Jiwoong was saying, clicking through a PowerPoint that was approximately eighty percent charts and twenty percent corporate suffering. "Zhang Hao-ssi, your team handled the initial analysis. Walk us through the bottleneck?"
Hao straightened, pulling up his notes. "Yes. The primary issue appears to be—"
He launched into his explanation, professional and composed, the part of his brain that was good at logistics taking over while the part that was disastrously in love catalogued the way Jiwoong nodded along, the thoughtful furrow between his brows, the way he tapped his pen against his lower lip when he was concentrating—
God, that lip, Hao thought, slightly hysterical. I would write poetry about that lip. I would learn Korean poetry specifically to write bad sijo about that lip—
"—and that's why we recommend reallocating the west district freight to the secondary hub," Hao finished, somewhat proud that he'd managed complete sentences while his internal monologue was having a meltdown.
"Excellent," Jiwoong said, and his smile was warm and approving and Hao was going to need a minute. "Any questions from the team?"
"I have one," Hanbin said, and Hao's eye twitched because of course Hanbin had a question, Hanbin always had questions, Hanbin always the one who asked follow-up questions in meetings just to hear himself sound smart. "Regarding the secondary hub's capacity—"
Hanbin launched into his query, all technical precision and sharp analysis, and Hao tried to pay attention, he really did, but then Hanbin's elbow knocked against Hao's as he gestured at the projection screen, and Hao's knee-jerk reaction was to mentally shriek PERSONAL SPACE, YOU HEATHEN, which naturally led to him thinking about how annoying Hanbin was, how he always left his empty coffee cups on Hao's side of the desk, how he hummed under his breath when he was focused, how he—
—absolutely just sneezed into his sleeve, mid-sentence.
"Excuse me," Hanbin said, looking vaguely surprised, reaching for a tissue.
But Hao wasn't listening, because at the exact same moment, from the head of the table, Jiwoong had given a small, delicate achoo into his fist.
Uh?
Hao's brain ground to a halt like a Windows 98 computer trying to run modern software.
Two people had sneezed simultaneously, in the middle of a team meeting. While Hao was thinking about... well, technically he'd been thinking about how annoying Hanbin was, but before that he'd definitely been thinking about Jiwoong.
Okay, think, Hao's brain scrambled. Jiwoong sneezed because I was thinking about him. Obviously. The signal just took a while to reach him—cosmic traffic, maybe? Soulmate signals probably have rush hour too.
Jiwoong, for his part, looked mildly embarrassed, waving off the team's concerned murmurs. "Just a tickle in my throat. Please continue, Sung Hanbin-ssi."
Hanbin, still dabbing at his nose, nodded and resumed his question. Hao watched him with narrowed eyes. Allergies, he decided firmly.
But then Hanbin glanced at him, just a quick flick of dark eyes, and something in his expression made Hao's stomach do a weird flip that he absolutely refused to analyze.
The universe was apparently running a stress test.
Hao was reviewing freight manifests at his desk, trying very hard not to think about how Jiwoong's shirt sleeves were rolled up to his forearms, when Hanbin leaned over to borrow Hao's highlighter without asking, because manners were dead and Hanbin had killed them.
"I need the yellow one," Hao said.
"I'll give it back," Hanbin said, already marking up his own documents. "Don't be dramatic."
I am not being dramatic, Hao thought, viciously. You're the dramatic one. You and your stupid neat handwriting and your stupid perfect forecasts and your stupid face that looks like—
Hanbin sneezed. Three times in rapid succession, loud enough that Gyuvin looked over from the next pod.
"Bless you," Gyuvin called out.
"Thanks," Hanbin said, sounding congested. "Weird. I felt fine this morning."
Hao opened his mouth to say something probably snarky, but then there, across the office, Jiwoong sneezed into a tissue.
Hao's highlighter cap fell from his fingers.
What The Fuck, his brain said, sounding slightly unhinged.
"You okay?" Hanbin asked, peering at him. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"I'm fine," Hao said, perhaps too loudly. "Why wouldn't I be fine?"
"Because you're gripping your mouse like you're trying to strangle it?"
Hao realized it and immediately loosened up his grip, trying to laugh it off.
Hanbin's eyes did that questioning thing again, but he just handed back the highlighter and returned to his work. Hao spent the next twenty minutes staring at his spreadsheet without seeing a single number.
This time Hao was in the break room, waiting for the coffee machine to finish its death rattle and produce something vaguely caffeinated, when Jiwoong walked in. Jiwoong, who looked unfairly good even under fluorescent lighting. Jiwoong, who smiled and said, "Zhang Hao-ssi, working hard?" in that voice that made Hao's spine turn to jelly.
"As always," Hao managed, leaning against the counter in what he hoped was a casual, attractive manner and not like he was about to slide to the floor.
Jiwoong poured himself tea and they stood there in companionable silence that Hao's brain immediately turned into a marriage proposal.
He smiled at me, Hao thought, delirious. He's standing close. If I reached out, I could touch his sleeve. I could—
"—probably just needs to be recalibrated," Jiwoong was saying, and Hao realized with horror that he'd missed the entire middle of a sentence.
"I'm sorry, could you repeat that?"
"The routing algorithm," Jiwoong said patiently, not seeming to notice that Hao had been mentally composing their wedding vows. "I was saying it probably just needs to be recalibrated. Your analysis was correct, but the implementation—"
"Right! Yes. Recalibration. I'll get right on that," Hao said, nodding so vigorously.
Jiwoong smiled, and it was soft and fond and Hao's heart performed an entire gymnastics routine. "I appreciate your dedication, Zhang Hao-ssi."
Aww, he appreciates me, Hao's brain screeched. That's basically a love confession. That's a sign I’m always better than a certain person that keeps stealing my things or being nosy about whatever I do. Hah! Screw you, Sung Hanb—
At that exact moment, from the main office floor, Hao heard it: the distinct, irritated sound of Sung Hanbin sneezing twice.
And then, right on cue, Jiwoong lifted a hand to his nose and let out a delicate achoo.
Hao's coffee cup froze halfway to his lips.
Okay, once again What The Fuck, he thought.
"What's wrong with today?" Jiwoong asked to himself, frowning slightly.
"Yeah! What's wrong? People sneezed simultaneously. Probably everyone needs more vitamin C," Hao squeaked. "You know how it is. Flu season. Everyone's sneezing. Ha. Ha."
Jiwoong looked at him strangely but didn't press the issue. When he left the break room, Hao leaned against the counter and tried to convince his heart rate to return to normal. He took a long sip of coffee that tasted like burnt regret and went back to his desk.
By 5:00 PM, Hao had constructed an elaborate mental framework of denial so impressive it could have been published in an academic journal.
The pattern was undeniable, if he was looking at it objectively—which Hao was absolutely, resolutely not. Every time Hao's thoughts drifted to Jiwoong (which was often; Hao was only human and Jiwoong's existence was a personal attack), Jiwoong would sneeze somewhere in the office. But also, every time Hao got annoyed at Hanbin (which was also often, because Hanbin existed in his personal space) Hanbin would sneeze too. Sometimes simultaneously. Sometimes in rapid succession, like a call-and-response.
Currently, Hanbin was on his fifth tissue of the hour, looking genuinely miserable, his nose red and his eyes watery.
"You should go home," Taerae said, walking by with a stack of files. "You sound terrible."
"It's okay, probably just allergies," Hanbin insisted, though his voice had taken on the stuffy quality of someone who definitely had more than allergies. "I'll be fine."
"You're not fine," Hao said, and was surprised to find he meant it. "You look like a tomato that's been left in the sun."
"Poetic," Hanbin said dryly, then ruined it by sneezing directly into his elbow. "But unnecessary. I have work to do."
"Your work will still be here when you're not actively dying."
"I'm not—" Another sneeze. From across the office, Jiwoong's voice carried through the glass: a soft, muffled achoo.
"Okay," Gyuvin said, looking around with his wide eyes. "Is there, like, a cold going around? Should I be worried?"
"Probably just the air conditioning," Matthew suggested, not looking up from his monitor. "It's set to arctic tundra in here."
Right! Air conditioning, Hao seized on. That explains everything. Two people with sensitive sinuses.
Then he goes back to his work trying not to trigger another sneeze by thinking about Jiwoong or someone else.
At 6:33 PM, Hao was one of the last ones left in the office, stubbornly pretending he wasn't staying late just in case Jiwoong also stayed late (he had; he'd waved goodbye ten minutes ago with a "Don't work too hard, Zhang Hao-ssi" that had made Hao's soul leave his body).
Hanbin was still there too, because apparently they were both masochists, typing away at his keyboard looking like someone trying to outrun a deadline.
Hao packed up his bag then, slinging it over his shoulder. He paused for a second, an unfamiliar tightness in his chest.
"You should actually go home," he said.
Hanbin looked up, surprised. "Wow, worried about me?"
"Don't flatter yourself. I just don't want your germs on my desk."
"Right," Hanbin said, and smiled. It was small and tired and somehow still annoying. "See you tomorrow, Zhang Hao."
"See you tomorrow," Hao muttered, and walked toward the elevator.
He was thinking about Jiwoong on the way down—obviously, he was always thinking about Jiwoong, Jiwoong with his perfect suits and his warm voice and his sneezes that definitely, absolutely, one-hundred-percent meant they were soulmates. Of course he was not thinking about Hanbin's red nose, or the way he'd looked confused and flushed all afternoon, or the fact that his sneezes had perfectly overlapped with Jiwoong's every single time.
The elevator doors opened. Hao stepped out into the lobby, pulling his coat tighter against the evening chill.
He pulled out his phone, opened his notes app, and typed:
Day 1,092: Jiwoong sneezed a lot today. The connection is getting stronger. Soon, he'll know—
He paused, thumb hovering over the screen. For just a second, an image flashed in his mind: Hanbin at his desk, tissue pressed to his nose, looking at Hao with those eyes that seemed to see too much and not enough.
Hao shook his head.
—soon, everything will make sense, he finished, and hit save.
Zhang Hao, a professional logistician and amateur romantic disaster, walked toward the subway station with his headphones in, playing the same playlist he'd been listening to for three years, completely unaware that the universe was laughing at him.