By noon, the sky over Nova City had turned silver.
Thick clouds gathered above the glass towers of Luma Group, promising rain — the kind that never asked before it fell.
Inside the office, Yoon Ha-rin was doing her best to drown herself in work.
Numbers. Slides. Reports. Anything to quiet the memory of Jae-hyun's words:
> "Maybe that's why mine smelled like jasmine."
She told herself it was nothing.
Coincidence.
Just a shared scent.
Just a dream.
But when the storm finally broke, and the first drops streaked down the tall windows, she felt that same ache in her chest again — the one that always came with rain.
---
In his corner office, Kang Jae-hyun stared out at the skyline.
The rain had blurred everything — roads, lights, logic.
He hated feeling uncertain. He'd built his life on control, on sharp lines and flawless timing.
And yet, when it came to her… every certainty bent.
He sighed, grabbed his coat, and headed toward the elevator.
---
Ha-rin nearly collided with him in the lobby.
Her umbrella had flipped inside out; her blouse clung damply to her sleeves.
The storm outside was merciless, turning umbrellas into sails and sidewalks into mirrors.
"Where do you think you're going?" he asked, stepping closer.
"Home," she said shortly. "Unlike some people, I can't teleport through thunderstorms."
"You'll get drenched."
"I'll survive."
She pushed past him — but the gust of wind that followed nearly tore the umbrella from her hand.
Before she could grab it, Jae-hyun's arm caught around her wrist.
"Come with me."
"I— what?"
"Basement parking. I'll drop you off."
"I don't need—"
"Yoon Ha-rin," he said, tone firm but low. "Don't argue for once."
---
They reached the car, both half-soaked.
The storm drummed above the roof like a heartbeat gone wild.
For a while, neither spoke.
Then, softly: "You're quiet," he said.
"So are you," she replied.
"Does the rain always make you look that sad?"
She turned to him, startled. "What makes you think I'm sad?"
He met her gaze. "Because you smile too carefully."
Her throat tightened. "You notice too much, Director."
He smiled faintly. "Maybe I've been trying not to — and failing."
Silence again. Only the rain, the scent of wet earth, and the hum of air between them.
Then, without meaning to, he said,
> "I dreamed of a river last night. I was drowning. Someone pulled me out."
Her hands went still on her lap.
"I think it was you."
"Jae-hyun…" she whispered, voice trembling.
"I don't know why I'm saying this," he continued, laughing softly at himself. "Maybe I've finally gone insane. But every time I see you, I feel like I'm standing at the edge of that river again. And the only thing I remember clearly is that same scent — jasmine and rain."
Ha-rin turned away quickly, blinking hard.
"Dreams aren't always true," she murmured. "Sometimes they lie to make us feel better."
"Then tell me this one's lying," he said quietly.
She couldn't.
Because in that moment — as thunder rolled and the car filled with the faint scent of her perfume — she knew he was remembering. Slowly, painfully, beautifully.
---
When they finally pulled up near her apartment, she reached for the door handle, but his voice stopped her.
"Ha-rin."
She froze. He'd never said her name like that before — not clipped, not mocking, but soft, almost fragile.
"If dreams could talk," he said, eyes steady on hers, "what do you think mine is trying to tell me?"
Her answer came out in a whisper.
> "That some yesterdays never end."
And before he could speak again, she stepped out into the rain, leaving him staring after her — heart pounding, pulse tangled between what he knew and what he was just beginning to remember.
---
That night, from her window, Ha-rin watched the storm ease into drizzle.
She pressed her palm to the glass, whispering to no one,
> "You're almost there, Jae-hyun. Just a little closer."
Below, the city lights shimmered against the wet streets.
And somewhere in the distance, the wind carried the same faint scent — the scent of their yesterday, still waiting for its ending.