Work Text:
Part 1: kittens run
The headline that greeted Lee Sanghyeok when he opened his phone posed a simple question: How many cups of coffee will the average South Korean drink in their lifetime?
Beneath it sat a normal distribution curve, complete with quartiles and annotated percentages. A diagram to pad out the space, more than to inform.
Sanghyeok supposed he had started drinking coffee later than most. Caffeine had never appealed to him as a student beyond its practical purpose, but as a newly minted office worker, he was making up for lost time. At the rate he was going, he would likely be in the top 10% of lifetime consumption before he turned forty.
Well, it had not always been that way.
Back in university, caffeine had been a necessity, a means of surviving sleepless nights spent chasing grades.
By now, the act of buying coffee had become less about staying awake than about giving himself permission to step away from his desk for fifteen uninterrupted minutes. A short window of time where he could stand in line and watch strangers pass by, and pretend his inbox did not exist.
The coffee itself, at this point, had become almost incidental. True appreciation of the flavour eluded him. Did caffeine even affect him at this point? Sanghyeok couldn’t really tell.
Regardless of its effect, every weekday evening, sometime after seven, when the office tower had begun to empty and the revolving doors admitted more departures than arrivals, Sanghyeok would descend forty-three floors to the cafe tucked into the marble lobby below.
A trip for his coffee, and the person making it.
The cafe itself stood in sharp contrast to its immediate surroundings aka. the hustle and bustle of the corporate building.
While the lobby was all polished stone and gleaming glass, filled with brisk footsteps and clipped conversations, the atmosphere inside the cafe was noticeably softer.
Warm amber light washed over wooden shelves lined with coffee beans and potted herbs. The rich aroma of roasted espresso and freshly baked pastries alone was enough to transport Sanghyeok to a different world, one far removed from deadlines and responsibilities.
By that hour, the cafe was also almost always empty. It was like night and day compared to the morning rush. The cacophony of work conversations, weary analysts ordering six-shot lattes, assistants balancing trays on their way back upstairs - all had long since faded. Most office workers were thinking about dinner, not another cup of coffee.
It was precisely why Sanghyeok preferred this hour.
Comfortable silence, he had discovered, was surprisingly difficult to find in Seoul.
The bell above the cafe door chimed softly as Sanghyeok stepped inside. Without looking up from the espresso machine, the young barista behind the counter called out, "The usual?"
Sanghyeok blinked, the familiar greeting pulling him out of the haze of work-related thoughts, before giving a small nod.
"...Maybe a little sweeter today."
Only then did the barista glance over his shoulder.
A grin spread effortlessly across his face, wide enough to reveal the slightly uneven front teeth that gave him an almost cat-like charm, made all the more endearing by the round glasses half-sliding down his nose.
"Dae-Sang-Hyeok," he drawled dramatically. "Wanting something sweeter? Was today that bad?"
"I don't know," Sanghyeok admitted. "But I trust you to make something better than whatever happened upstairs."
The barista let out a soft giggle, already reaching for a bottle of syrup.
"I'll take that as a compliment, hyung."
Despite the weight of a twelve-hour workday still settled across his shoulders, Sanghyeok found his shoulder dropping just slightly lower. The ability to unwind just a little was becoming a tried and tested occurrence in this cafe.
The barista's name was Jeong Jihoon.
Twenty years old, he worked the evening shift while preparing for his university entrance examinations.
Tall and all elbows, he seemed on the verge of outgrowing the cafe uniform. Often Sanghyeok would notice him in button-ups that never quite fit, sleeves that were always too short to reach his wrists even before he habitually rolled them to his elbows.
A dark apron hung loosely around his frame, while his hair, more times than not, looked as though he'd run a hand through it as a stress response.
He was also a student who insisted, almost daily, that the national exams had been designed as a form of torture. (A sentiment shared by pretty much every high school student in their country.)
"I understand derivatives," Jihoon had declared one evening as he wiped down a counter that was already spotless. "What I don't understand is why someone looked at calculus and thought, 'You know what? We should make this worse?'"
Sanghyeok stirred his coffee thoughtfully, perched on the counter seat that no one really took unless the cafe was full. Or, if they wanted to chat with the barista.
"That's a surprisingly common opinion."
Jihoon looked up. "Oh? You studied it too?"
"As part of my degree. Economics."
Jihoon's eyes widened.
"The really difficult economics?"
Sanghyeok considered that for a moment before answering with complete seriousness.
"I suppose you could say the marginal cost of studying it was quite high. Haha."
There was a beat before Jihoon let out an exaggerated groan, dropping his forehead into one hand with a thunk.
"You're one of those people."
"What people?"
"The smart ones who make awful jokes with a completely straight face."
Sanghyeok nodded as though accepting a compliment.
"I've been told it's an efficient way to filter my audience."
Jihoon snorted.
"I don't think that's what you're filtering, but okay, hyung."
The cafe, empty save for a handful of customers, was once more back into its familiar rhythm.
Shut his eyes, to take in the hiss of steaming milk, the whir of the espresso machine, and Jihoon's laughter spilling so freely that it seemed to warm the room as much as the lights overhead.
It came easily, bright and unrestrained, carrying with it a lightness that made Sanghyeok realise (belatedly, when he was back at his desk) that the tension coiled across his shoulders had quietly slipped away somewhere between that laughter and the latte cooling in his hands.
Their conversations settled into an unspoken routine over the months since they had first met.
It was an organic development, for they never arranged them, nor did either wait for the other. Yet Sanghyeok's work somehow concluded just in time for Jihoon's evening shifts, and Jihoon, in turn, seemed to know exactly when the elevator from the executive floors would deposit this exhausted office worker into the lobby.
Sometimes, when Sanghyeok arrived with his tie loosened and dark circles beneath his eyes, Jihoon would silently place an extra shot of espresso beside his usual latte.
Eagle-eyed Sanghyeok noticed, always.
"I didn't order this."
Jihoon let out a nervous hiss, hands bunching into his apron.
"I know. Um. It's on the house?"
"I can't accept that."
"You accepted it yesterday."
"I paid for it."
"You tried. I may have just charged you the regular amount but you were way too busy, distracted, to notice.”
Sanghyeok leaned against the counter and leveled Jihoon with a flat glare. The younger barista seemed to cower slightly against his intense look, but he quickly straightened up to his full height, and with it he could loom over Sanghyeok and offer a righteous stare back.
"...That sounds dishonest." Sanghyeok finally offered.
"It sounds efficient. No one will know, I won’t get into trouble."
Sanghyeok regarded him over the rim of his cup.
"You'd make an excellent consultant if you plan to enter the field."
Jihoon pulled a face.
"I'd rather keep my soul, thanks. I have other plans."
Little by little, fragments of each other's lives surfaced between visits.
Jihoon came from an ordinary middle-class family whose finances had become strained after their family business failed. He had enlisted earlier than most of his peers, completing military service to buy himself and his family some time to consolidate their financial situation. Now he was retaking his national exams for the second time.
"My parents kept apologising," he admitted one evening, tracing idle circles across the countertop with a damp cloth. "Thought they were ruining my future."
"And what did you think?"
Jihoon shrugged.
"I thought they’d sacrificed enough already."
In his words, Sanghyeok heard no self-pity. Only acceptance, so natural it had quietly become resignation. He studied Jihoon for a long moment before muttering, "You were raised well."
Jihoon's ears turned pink.
"You always say embarrassing things so seriously-”
"I'm being sincere."
"That's the embarrassing part, hyung."
In return, Jihoon learned that Sanghyeok had grown up with scholarships dictating every major decision of his youth.
He had attended prestigious schools, landed a number of coveted internships, and managed to get his foot into the door of one of South Korea’s conglomerates. A remarkably straight path to success, it seemed from the outside, but only a handful knew how carefully every step had been calculated.
And how much effort it took to stay afloat in a ruthless corporate environment.
"Do you ever regret it?" Jihoon asked one rainy evening, as water streamed down the building windows in silver ribbons. Sanghyeok had recalled it to be a rather bleak day, the kind when he stared down impossible deadlines and wondered the purpose of it all, "Working so much."
“Hm.”
Sanghyeok's gaze drifted back to the window, watching droplets chase one another down the glass. Somehow, this question felt like it deserved a bit more deliberation. Eventually he shook his head.
"I've never really thought about it."
"You should."
He looked back at Jihoon.
"Why?"
Jihoon shrugged, as though the answer were self-evident.
"Because you're twenty-four. You're younger than most of the customers who come in here."
"..."
"But every time you sit down..." Jihoon leaned forward conspiratorially, lifting his hand to cover one side of his mouth while lowering his voice. "...you sigh like someone twice your age."
"I do not sigh."
"You do!"
"I exhale."
"Those are the same thing. They are.”
Sanghyeok clicked his tongue softly.
"Aish."
Jihoon's eyes lit up in immediate triumph.
"There! You just did it again."
"I clicked my tongue."
"I've been observing you for months, hyung. I'm basically an expert now. I can even predict it."
"You can?"
"Mhm."
He folded his arms with exaggerated confidence.
"I'm going to ask you another difficult question."
"...Go ahead."
"How many hours have you worked today?"
There was the briefest pause. Sanghyeok’s mind could not but dwell on the question, searching for an acceptable answer, and then-
“Aish.”
Jihoon doubled over the counter, clutching its edge as laughter escaped through pursed lips, while Sanghyeok watched with reluctant amusement.
"I maintain," he said once Jihoon had caught his breath, "that was entirely your fault."
"My fault! He says."
"You asked a leading question."
"I asked a normal question."
"It encouraged sighing."
Jihoon laughed even harder.
Against his better judgment, the corner of Sanghyeok's mouth lifted. Before he could stop himself, a small giggle escaped him too. It was soft and curt, almost swallowed by the gentle hiss of steaming milk, yet genuine enough that both of them paused.
Jihoon blinked.
"...You laugh too."
Sanghyeok raised an eyebrow.
"I wasn't aware that was in question."
"I've only ever seen you smile. I thought maybe that was your maximum setting."
For the first time that evening, Sanghyeok shook his head, not in disagreement but in quiet amusement.
"I'll try not to disappoint you."
"I don't think you could."
The words slipped out before Jihoon could catch them.
He froze. A faint flush climbed slowly to the tips of his ears as he busied himself with rinsing a perfectly clean milk pitcher, suddenly finding it far more interesting than looking at Sanghyeok.
Sanghyeok, mercifully for Jihoon, pretended not to notice.
The seasons shifted.
Cherry blossoms yielded to humid summer evenings, before giving way to autumn winds that swept leaves across the plaza outside the office tower.
If anything marked the passing of time more than the changing seasons, though, it was watching Jihoon grow taller.
His shoulders seemed to broaden over the months, his forearms gaining definition, though he retained a lankiness, as though he had yet to fully settle into his own height. His glasses were perpetually smudged with fingerprints, his smile unchanged: Crooked, earnest, revealing those feline fangs that somehow suited him better than straight teeth ever could.
Sanghyeok began arriving minutes earlier than necessary, extending his breaks. If asked, he would claim it was because the cafe was quieter before eight and he could afford to wait.
This argument ignored the (inconvenient) fact that Jihoon's shift started at seven-thirty.
A fact that gave him reason to hover, to while away a few extra minutes at the cafe, until he found himself waiting not for the coffee, but for the sound of Jihoon's voice and the crackle of his laughter as it softened whenever he spotted Sanghyeok already there.
He seemed pleased to see him, always.
For these reasons, Sanghyeok found himself looking forward to that sound more than the coffee itself.
The announcement came in early winter.
Sanghyeok closed his laptop, slipped it into his briefcase, and rose from his seat.
"I'll see you tomorrow."
"Sanghyeok-hyung."
He paused.
Jihoon rarely used his full name, the honorific being the first thing he defaulted to.
Turning back, he found the younger man standing unusually still behind the counter, both hands gripping the edge so tightly that his knuckles had turned white.
"...Yes?"
"I wanted to tell you before today ended."
His voice, usually so quick and bright, faltered. The blush on his cheeks appeared before the words did.
"I...I got in."
Sanghyeok frowned ever so slightly. It wasn't confusion so much as anticipation.
"Into?"
"Seoul National University."
Sanghyeok's face immediately brightened with quiet satisfaction.
"I knew it."
Jihoon blinked.
"You...did?"
"You worked too hard not to."
Jihoon's smile broke across his face before Sanghyeok added simply, "Congratulations."
The simple sincerity behind the words undid whatever composure Jihoon had been desperately trying to maintain. His smile widened until his eyes nearly disappeared into slits.
"I knew you'd understand what it meant."
"I do."
"It still doesn't feel real."
"It will."
"You think so?"
"I've been there."
Jihoon laughed quietly.
"...Right."
A comfortable silence settled between them. Eventually, Jihoon looked down at the polished countertop, fingers drumming it.
"My classes start next month. So, this is actually my last day here. My last shift."
Something unexpectedly heavy settled somewhere beneath Sanghyeok's ribs.
He had known, of course, that this day would come. People moved forward. That was how life worked.
Still…
"When you come back during holidays," he heard himself say, "let me buy you coffee."
Jihoon looked up so quickly he almost knocked over the stack of paper cups beside him.
"Really?"
"Consider it a celebration. A toast."
(A date)
Jihoon’s smile, this time, was almost bashful.
"I'd like that."
Stillness descended, but this one was long enough for both of them to realise neither wanted the conversation to end.
Jihoon drew a slow, bated breath.
"Could I..."
His fingers fidgeted with the hem of his apron before he looked up again.
"Could I have your number?"
The request pleased Sanghyeok more than he expected.
"Of course."
He reached automatically into his coat pocket and retrieved the first scrap of paper he found - a receipt folded neatly between a handful of business cards.
Resting it against the leather cover of his notebook, he uncapped the fountain pen he habitually carried. He rarely brought enough ink with him for an entire workday, but there should have been enough left for a phone number.
As he finished the last digit, the elevator chimed somewhere beyond the gates. Almost at the same time, his phone buzzed insistently in his pocket. It had to be work, calling for his attention. Today’s timing was not ideal for a chat, let alone a long one. But Sanghyeok wished for more time.
"I'm sorry," he said, tearing the receipt free with barely a glance. "I have to run."
Jihoon accepted the slip of paper with both hands. His face was adorn with reverence, as though he had received something far more valuable than a hastily scribbled phone number.
"Thank you."
"Good luck, Jihoon."
"And..."
Jihoon looked down at the receipt before meeting his eyes again, his smile gentler now than the cheshire grin Sanghyeok had grown used to.
"...Thank you. For everything."
Sanghyeok gave a small nod before turning back toward the marble lobby. He disappeared through the restricted access gates with the brisk stride of someone single-minded in his destination.
But in his haste, he failed to notice the smear of still-wet ink his hurried hand had dragged across the final four digits of his number.
And only when the doors had closed behind him did Jihoon lower his gaze to the receipt, and his smile faded instantly.
See, the first seven digits were perfectly legible. But, to his dawning horror, he had only now discovered that the last four had bled into one another, the black ink feathering across the thin paper until they became a blur. A blurred, unintelligible mess.
With trembling hands, Jihoon tilted the slip toward the light, turned it upside down, then held it closer for inspection.
Nothing.
Not a single digit could be deciphered with any certainty.
For several long moments he simply stood there, receipt shaking faintly between his fingers.
He fucked up.
"Jihoon!"
His coworker's voice managed to reach through his spiralling thoughts.
"Table three's waiting!"
"Coming."
Jihoon folded the receipt with painstaking care, pressing the crease flat with his thumb, as though it might somehow make the ink return.
For one reckless moment, he almost sprinted after Sanghyeok.
The revolving doors had already stopped turning. Beyond them, the marble lobby teemed with office workers in dark suits, all moving in urgency. Sanghyeok had long disappeared into the tide.
He could still catch him. Probably.
He only needed to ask reception - he roughly knew which company Sanghyeok worked for and what floor his office was on - or wait downstairs tomorrow evening, since he didn't have a shift. Or, if all else failed, scream Sanghyeok's name loudly enough for security to come and drag him out. Full-on K-drama dramatics.
But then what?
Hyung, your handwriting is terrible.
The number you gave me smudged. Could you write it again?
The words alone sent heat rushing to his face. The thought was dizzying, and not in a good way.
Perhaps Sanghyeok had only offered his number because…it was the polite thing to do.
Jihoon had asked, and refusing would have been awkward.
After all, Sanghyeok had always been kind - to the cashiers who got his order wrong, to the cleaning staff mopping the lobby after closing, to Jihoon, who was little more than a barista he happened to see a few evenings each week.
Kindness, Jihoon reminded himself, was not the same as affection. Jihoon had been foolish enough to toe the line, but not daring enough to cross it.
His crush had begun so quietly that he couldn't even pinpoint when it had happened. Perhaps it was the first time Sanghyeok remembered his name instead of simply his coffee order. Or when he listened so earnestly to Jihoon's complaints about calculus as though they were worthy of serious consideration. Or when he had said, with complete sincerity, You were raised well, in a way that made Jihoon feel seen rather than pitied.
Somewhere between those ordinary evenings, talking to Sanghyeok had become the best part of his shift.
He should have known better.
People like Lee Sanghyeok were never meant to be stagnant, to occupy mundane spaces. They belonged in glass offices high above the lobby, climbing with every passing year. Men driven by ambition.
Jihoon had been a stop at the end of a long workday. He did not know if he could have been more.
The smudged ink was nothing more than an accident, though perhaps, it was kinder this way.
Better to let a small, impossible crush remain exactly as it was: A memory warm enough to treasure, yet distant enough to be never be tested and disappointed by harsh truth.
Perhaps…
"Jihoon!"
His coworker's voice cut through his thoughts.
"The americano!"
"Coming."
He slipped the folded receipt carefully into his apron pocket instead of throwing it away.
Later that night, after the chairs had been stacked, the espresso machine cleaned, and the lights dimmed, Jihoon sat alone in the staff room with his backpack open on his lap.
He unfolded the receipt once more.
The ink was still hopelessly blurred.
A thumb traced the final four digits as though familiarity alone might reveal what his eyes could not.
With a small, self-conscious smile, he tucked the receipt between the pages of the notebook that held his Seoul National University acceptance letter. He kept it there for years, squirreled away like a journal entry.
He didn't dare hope to ever use it, nor did he fold it into a prayer, asking fate for another chance.
Years from now, when he looked back on this chapter of his life, he wanted to remember the man who had slotted his way into becoming the first crush Jihoon had ever nurtured.
Over the following weeks, Sanghyeok found himself checking his phone more often than usual. He even disabled his spam filter, just in case Jihoon had tried messaging him on KKT.
The period of university orientation came and went, then midterms.
No message ever arrived.
He told himself university had simply become busy. That Jihoon had changed his mind. The reason mattered less than the ghosting, really.
Life, after all, had little patience for unanswered hopes. There were promotions to earn, projects to deliver, and new deadlines every week.
Eventually, the evenings grew mundane again. A different barista greeted him downstairs with the same coffee, and seemed to make the coffee just as well.
Without the laughter, it never felt as warm.
Part 2: cats (brisk) walk
Four years later, Lee Sanghyeok finally moved from a cubicle into an office with windows.
The promotion had come faster than anticipated, much like every other milestone in his career. Though this time, there was no dramatic celebration, no speech marking years of hard work finally rewarded. Just polite applause from his bosses and colleagues.
Sanghyeok met their eyes and saw calculations instead. Their plans already forming, as they weighed how best to leverage him with his promotion. Such was the corporate world.
At least he still had a few good friends. Even so, over the past year, something about it all had begun to feel dull.
Life continued.
Only now, the view from his desk overlooked the Han River instead of the neighboring office tower, and the projects that landed in his inbox came attached to budgets with enough zeroes to make younger associates nervous.
Sanghyeok, for the most part, remained unchanged.
He still arrived before sunrise and left long after the office lights had dimmed.
His preferences had not changed over the past four years: Coffee over energy drinks, spreadsheets over presentations, and solving problems over talking about solving them. A pragmatic, efficient worker.
His hair had been trimmed shorter than before, lending his already composed features an even sharper edge. Tailored charcoal suits had replaced the slightly ill-fitting jackets he had worn as a new associate, and the hesitant confidence of youth had settled into something more nuanced - an assurance earned through experience rather than ambition.
If there was any visible difference, it was that people now waited for him to speak before they did. He was on track to become someone others looked to for answers.
Which was precisely why he found mandatory intern supervision to be a spectacular waste of his time, and why he was at his director’s desk to ask him for waiver.
His director didn't even bother looking up from the document he was signing.
"You were simply the last name left."
Sanghyeok regarded him flatly.
"I have three client meetings tomorrow, Mr Kim."
"You'll have four."
His director smiled pleasantly.
"And one intern."
Irritating. But he bowed slightly and walked out. The sooner he could onboard his intern and throw him to an associate to babysit, the better.
Reception occupied the entire ground floor of the headquarters building.
The summer air outside shimmered with heat.
Inside, the building was cool enough that people instinctively straightened their jackets upon entering.
Sanghyeok descended from the executive floors with a tablet tucked beneath one arm, skimming through the intern profile that Human Resources had forwarded an hour earlier.
The name did make him pause.
Jeong Jihoon.
Twenty-four.
Seoul National University.
Business Analytics.
Top five percent of his cohort.
Excellent recommendations.
His brow lifted ever so slightly. Impressive.
The revolving doors whispered open.
There was someone stood waiting near reception. Tall. Much taller than Lee Sanghyeok expected.
The young man wore a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms, navy slacks pressed without a wrinkle, and polished black shoes that suggested he had spent rather a long time preparing for his first day. A leather satchel rested beside his feet while his attention remained fixed upon the phone in his hand, reading something with quiet concentration.
There was something strangely familiar about the angle of his posture.
The receptionist noticed Sanghyeok first and ushered him towards the man. Clearly, this was his intern.
"Manager Lee."
The young man looked up. For one suspended heartbeat, neither of them moved.
Recognition arrived gradually rather than all at once.
It began with the eyes, then the smile.
Not yet fully formed, but unmistakable, and Sanghyeok found himself staring, cataloguing the differences against his memory.
The glasses were gone. The uneven front teeth had long since been corrected, leaving behind an impeccably straight smile that should, by all accounts, have transformed his appearance. His features matured, and the awkwardness of early adulthood had softened into quiet confidence. Many, many changes.
But it hadn't changed his smiles, as he watched Jihoon’s eyes curve into narrow crescents.
He still somehow looked uncannily like a cat basking in sunlight.
He was, Sanghyeok realized with mild disbelief, also now properly looking down at him.
He grew. Even more?
An absurd observation, yet somehow the first one his mind supplied.
He approached.
"I'm Lee Sanghyeok."
A simple, professional greeting. He extended his hand. The young man froze for the briefest moment before quickly straightening.
"...Jeong Jihoon."
Their hands met. Warm and steady, his grip was firmer than Sanghyeok remembered.
"So it really is you," Jihoon murmured, almost to himself.
"I could say the same."
For reasons Sanghyeok couldn't quite explain, the years between them collapsed all at once. Amber light. Freshly brewed coffee. A crooked smile over a paper cup.
Waiting, for longer than he cared to admit, for a message that had never come.
He hadn't thought about any of it in years. He simply hadn't let himself. But now, it was all unravelling back to him, spooling in his gut.
Sanghyeok withdrew his hand.
"Follow me."
He turned toward the security gates.
"...Sanghyeok-hyung, please wait a moment."
He had already begun to turn away when Jihoon's voice stopped him.
It wasn't the words that caught him, but the weight behind them.
Sanghyeok looked back.
Jihoon looked unexpectedly nervous. Though, not the anxious, blushing way he remembered. He had the face of someone carefully choosing words that had been mulled for years to be spoken.
"There was something I always wanted to explain."
Sanghyeok waited. Jihoon opened his bag and fished out a notebook.
Tucked carefully between its pages was a transparent plastic sleeve. He lifted it up to Sanghyeok’s eye level.
Inside lay a faded receipt.
Keeping it in that position, Jihoon removed it with slow care before holding it out.
"I kept this. For you.”
Sanghyeok accepted it.
The paper had yellowed with age. The ink remained hopelessly blurred across the final four digits.
Understanding settled almost immediately. The reason why Jihoon didn’t reach out, was that he couldn’t.
"...I see."
Jihoon rubbed the back of his neck, laughing softly at himself, though there was a trace of bitterness beneath it.
"I couldn't read the number. I tried every combination I could think of."
Sanghyeok blinked.
"You what?"
"There are ten thousand possibilities…Oh no, no hyung, I didn't actually try all of them."
"Good. Only an idiot woul-"
"I stopped around two hundred. It occurred to me people generally don't appreciate strangers repeatedly calling them. Um.”
The same awkward wit.
Against his better judgment, Sanghyeok let out a ‘pffft’. It was, he could later claim, entirely involuntary.
Jihoon's shoulders eased at the sound, relief flickering across his face before he continued, the rest of his words tumbling out in a rush.
"I searched your company website afterwards. And there were like twelve Lee Sanghyeoks. I did know who you were from LinkedIn but-"
"I'm not surprised. This is a conglomerate."
Jihoon nodded.
"But those are only excuses. The truth is, I convinced myself we were just one of those encounters that were never meant to last. That I had to move on. That it simply wasn't meant to be."
Strange, how those words belonged to both of them. Neither had known the other had spent four years believing the same thing.
Sanghyeok turned the receipt over once more in his hands.
"I thought you chose not to contact me."
Jihoon's smile turned pained at that.
"Ah yeah…I kind of expected it-”
"I waited."
The admission escaped before he had fully considered saying it. His tone wasn't accusatory, simply matter-of-fact, but it was enough to make Jihoon stare at him in disbelief.
"You waited? You really did?"
"For a while. I assumed university had become busy. I kept wondering if you'd changed your mind."
"...Ah."
Neither of them spoke.
It was almost laughable, in hindsight, that four years of missed chances could be traced back to a few blurred digits on a receipt.
Finally, Jihoon shook his head, sighing.
"I can't believe that happened. I should've tried harder."
Sanghyeok folded the receipt carefully before placing it back inside Jihoon's notebook.
"You kept it, though. Even though you couldn't use it."
Jihoon's smile turned almost sheepish.
"It reminded me that someone believed I'd make it."
Words enough to transport Sanghyeok back to that final evening. The image was painted more clearly now: Jihoon standing behind the counter, cheeks flushed with excitement.
"I got in."
He had only spoken the truth. Yet hearing what those words had meant all these years later made his chest feel inexplicably lighter.
Gone was the lanky barista wiping countertops. In his place stood a man at the cusp of his professional career with an absurd level of confidence, whose posture carried assurance and earnestness.
Even his smile had changed. It was a little more restrained now, a little more polished - the kind one learned to wear in the corporate world. Yet it remained unmistakably Jihoon: earnest enough to draw others in, warm enough to make them stay.
You always seemed like someone with a fire in you, Sanghyeok found himself thinking. And you're standing here now. You kept it alive.
His laughter, he suspected, would be just as dangerously easy to return as before, if not more.
Sanghyeok cleared his throat.
"You'll be working under me for the next twelve weeks."
Jihoon straightened immediately.
"Yes, sir."
"I don't intend to lower expectations because we've met before."
"I wouldn't want you to."
"I expect punctuality."
"You'll have it."
"Accuracy."
"Of course."
"And if you disagree with my decisions-"
"I'll tell you."
That earned him another look.
Most interns arrived nervous, intimidated by their seniors or dazzled by the promise of corporate life. Most left a few months later with tempered expectations, dulled eyes, and a reality check to boot.
Jihoon merely smiled back, open and unassuming.
Twelve weeks with him.
A corner of Sanghyeok's mouth lifted almost imperceptibly.
"I dislike people who agree simply because they're expected to."
Jihoon laughed.
"I remember. You once spent ten minutes explaining why asking questions is more useful than pretending to understand. Or ranting. Details are a little foggy now."
"Did I?"
The security gates chimed softly as employees passed through. Around them, the lobby buzzed with the beginning of another workday, entirely indifferent to two people quietly discovering that four lost years had been caused by nothing more dramatic than hurried handwriting.
"Come," Sanghyeok said at last.
Jihoon fell into step beside him. The elevator doors slid open. As they entered, Jihoon glanced sideways.
"...Can I ask something?"
"You just did."
Jihoon laughed.
"I walked into that one. But manager-nim…”
He folded his arms thoughtfully.
"Do you still make terrible jokes?"
"I've improved."
"I don't believe you."
"You'll have twelve weeks to evaluate that claim."
"I'll prepare a report, I believe it will help you. Immensely."
The elevator began its ascent.
Floor numbers blinked steadily upward.
Ground.
Three.
Seven.
Twelve.
The familiar mechanical hum settled into comfortable silence.
Standing shoulder to shoulder, Sanghyeok found himself studying the reflection in the polished elevator doors.
He had never believed in fate. Life, in his experience, was governed by preparation, opportunity, and choices made with clear heads rather than hopeful hearts. Coincidences were simply probabilities observed after the fact. Destiny was a story people invented to make randomness easier to swallow.
And yet, what were the odds?
Thousands of interns applied every year.
Hundreds entered the company.
Only one had once handed him coffee after long evenings, laughed at his terrible jokes, and made him wait for a message that could never come.
A man who was one of the most interesting and inspired individuals he had met.
(And perhaps, he wanted to broach the topic: Did Jeong Jihoon apply here to meet me?)
The elevator slowed, as the doors slid open onto the executive floor.
Sanghyeok stepped out first, though he glanced back once.
"There's one more thing."
Jihoon followed him out of the elevator and stopped a step behind, tilting his head curiously. Sanghyeok regarded him with the same composed expression he had worn for years, though something softer lingered beneath it now.
"I believe," he said evenly, "I still owe you a cup of coffee."
Jihoon's smile arrived slowly until his eyes disappeared into familiar crescents.
"Hyung, back when you offered it, weren’t you offering a date?”
An inhale.
"Yes."
No more smudged ink.
No more late-night thoughts about dashed hopes or what-ifs.
"I was."
There it was. That grin, as triumphant and sly as a cat.
Sanghyeok held his gaze for a moment before speaking.
"For the next twelve weeks, you're my intern."
Jihoon straightened instinctively.
"Yes, sir."
"I don't date people I supervise."
"That's a very reasonable policy."
"So let's keep things professional."
"For the next twelve weeks," Jihoon echoed obediently.
Sanghyeok gave a small nod.
“For the next twelve weeks.” He repeated back.
Jihoon hesitated, the corners of his mouth lifting.
"...And after that?"
The question hung in the air between them. Sanghyeok stared at his hands for a long, thoughtful moment. Then, almost imperceptibly, he hummed.
Jihoon smiled anyway.
It wasn't agreement, but it wasn't refusal either.
To him, that was enough.
People moved on. That was simply how life worked.
But moving on did not always mean leaving someone behind. Sometimes, it meant growing into different versions of yourselves, walking your own paths until one day, they crossed again.
And this time, instead of passing each other by, they could walk forward together.
{ end }