Here's a fun fact no one tells you:When you accept a job offer from a company that also happens to contain your ex–almost–kind-of–best friend–love-interest–ghost-boy—your entire digestive system becomes a stress puddle.
I didn't even sleep the night before.I just laid in bed, googling things like:
"How to look confident when dying inside"
"Business casual but emotionally unavailable outfit ideas"
"Can you get fired for crying in a supply closet on day one"
But I showed up.Hair curled. Blouse tucked. Lip balm shiny.Fake it till you make it, right?
The office was... intimidating.
It smelled expensive. Like imported coffee beans and ambition. The kind of place where everyone walks fast and no one carries emotional baggage unless it fits in their tote.
I was shown to my desk in the Creative Department—a sunny little corner near the window, surrounded by cheerful plants and people with excellent posture.
"Hi! You must be the new content strategist!"A woman with seafoam green nails and the energy of a golden retriever greeted me. "I'm Yujin. Welcome!"
She gave me a sticky note that said "YOU GOT THIS 💪" and a chocolate-covered almond.
I almost cried.
I was five minutes into pretending to look busy when I felt it.
That eerie sixth sense.Like someone was watching me. Judging my font choices.
I looked up.
Chin Gi Hei was standing by the glass conference room wall, mid-conversation with someone in a suit, but his eyes?
Locked on me.
For a second, I froze.He tilted his head just slightly. Like he was trying to read my thoughts again.
I immediately minimized my screen, which was currently open to a Google Doc titled:"things NOT to say to your boss even if he's HOT."
Great start.
Later that morning, he called a creative briefing.
I didn't even know what a "creative briefing" was, but I followed the herd like a duckling in heels and prayed no one asked me anything too complex—like my name.
Chin was already at the head of the table when we walked in, sleeves rolled up, talking strategy with that CEO confidence that should honestly be illegal in someone under 35.
He greeted everyone. Even me.
"Seo Yeon," he said, like it tasted strange in his mouth. "Glad you could join."
I nodded. "Would've RSVP'd sooner if I knew you were serving existential crises."
Someone chuckled. Not him.
But his mouth twitched.
I counted it as a win.
The meeting was... a blur. I understood about 60% of it. Maybe 50%. There were slides. Timelines. Buzzwords like "brand voice optimization" and "consumer touchpoints" which I may have misheard as "consumer toe points" because I hadn't eaten all day.
At one point, Chin handed out printouts.Our fingers brushed.
Of course they did.Because the universe writes fanfic and I'm the main character now.
After the meeting, I tried to make a quick exit, but he caught up to me by the espresso machine like it was a scene from a painfully awkward office drama.
"You settling in okay?" he asked.
I turned slowly. "You mean apart from the minor identity crisis and the vague threat of spontaneous combustion? Super."
He smiled. A real one this time.
"It's good to see you here," he said. "Really."
That "really" did something weird to my lungs.
Before I could reply, he was called away by some Very Serious Business Person, and I was left staring into my coffee cup like it held the answers to my trauma.
By lunchtime, I'd made exactly three acquaintances, written half a tweet thread I couldn't post because it violated several NDAs, and discovered the office bathroom mirror had excellent lighting for dramatic self-reflection.
I leaned in, whispered to my reflection:"Get it together, Seo Yeon. You cannot develop feelings for someone who once fell asleep on your shoulder with a chicken nugget in his mouth."
But feelings don't ask for permission.
And memories?They come back whether you want them to or not.
Like the way he used to tie his hoodie strings in a bow.The way he used to look at me like I was a question he wanted to spend forever answering.
Ugh.
At 3:47 p.m., he sent me a Slack message.Just one line:
"Want to stay after hours tomorrow to brainstorm the new campaign?"
My stomach flipped.Or imploded. Or evaporated. I'm not entirely sure.
I typed a reply. Deleted it. Rewrote it.
Settled on:
"Sure. I'll bring my brain. It's slightly unhinged but full of ideas."
He replied instantly:
"Unhinged is exactly what we need."
So. That's fine.I'm fine.
Just brainstorming after hours with the guy who broke my seventeen-year-old heart and now says things like "good to see you" and means it.
No big deal.
Totally professional.
Completely normal.