The days following their second encounter slipped by like pages in a half-read novel—slow, deliberate, each one turning with a quiet anticipation that Ji-eun tried desperately to ignore. She told herself it was nothing. A chance meeting. Two strangers exchanging polite words beneath the indifferent gaze of the city. Yet every evening, as the coffee house lights dimmed and the last customers shuffled out, her feet carried her toward the Han River almost against her will.
She arrived at the same bench each time, the one with the chipped green paint and the faint carving of initials someone had etched years ago. The wood was cool beneath her thighs, the river's murmur a steady companion. Ji-eun opened her sketchbook, pencil hovering, but the lines she drew were no longer abstract cityscapes or imagined hanok rooftops. Now they curved into the sharp angle of a jaw, the subtle arch of an eyebrow, the way dark hair caught the light like polished obsidian. She erased furiously when the resemblance became too clear, cheeks burning with embarrassment she had no audience for.
Min-ho, meanwhile, found himself inventing reasons to leave the glass tower earlier than necessary. Meetings were cut short with polite excuses; dinners with investors rescheduled. His assistant, Ms. Kim, raised one perfectly groomed eyebrow but said nothing. She had worked for the Han family long enough to recognize when the youngest heir was distracted—and this distraction carried a different quality. Not the sharp-edged ambition that usually drove him, but something softer, more uncertain.
On the fourth evening, the sky hung low with the promise of rain. Ji-eun arrived wearing a thin cardigan over her uniform, the sleeves rolled up to reveal wrists still dusted with flour from an afternoon baking mistake at the coffee house. She sat, knees drawn close, and began sketching the way the bridge lights fractured across the water—tiny prisms of blue and violet that danced like fireflies trapped beneath the surface.
Footsteps approached, measured and unhurried. She didn't look up immediately; some part of her already knew.
"May I?" Min-ho's voice was low, careful, as though he feared startling a bird.
Ji-eun lifted her gaze. He stood a respectful distance away, hands in the pockets of a charcoal overcoat. No suit tonight—just dark trousers, a cream turtleneck that made his skin look warmer in the fading light, and that same quiet intensity in his eyes.
She nodded, scooting slightly to make room. He sat, leaving a careful space between them—not too close, not too far. The bench creaked under his weight.
For several long minutes, neither spoke. The silence wasn't awkward; it felt earned, like the pause between breaths in a song. Ji-eun continued sketching, though her hand trembled faintly. Min-ho watched the river, elbows on his knees, fingers loosely clasped.
Finally, he broke the quiet. "You come here often."
It wasn't a question, but she answered anyway. "Most evenings. After work. It's... peaceful."
He nodded slowly. "I used to think the city never slept. But down here, by the water, it almost feels like it exhales."
Ji-eun glanced at him sideways. "You don't strike me as someone who needs to escape the city."
A small, self-deprecating smile touched his lips. "Appearances are deceptive. Even glass towers have shadows."
She let that settle between them. The first drops of rain began to fall—fat, lazy ones that pattered against the sketchbook page. Ji-eun closed it quickly, tucking it inside her cardigan.
Min-ho stood first, shrugging out of his overcoat without hesitation. Before she could protest, he draped it over her shoulders. The wool was warm from his body, carrying the faint scent of cedar and something expensive she couldn't name.
"You'll get sick," she said, even as her fingers curled into the soft fabric.
"So will you." He tilted his head toward a nearby pavilion, its curved roof offering shelter. "Come."
They walked side by side, steps falling into an easy rhythm. Raindrops drummed overhead as they reached the pavilion. Inside, the air smelled of wet stone and distant street food. Ji-eun leaned against one of the pillars, still wrapped in his coat, watching the river blur behind a silver curtain.
"Thank you," she said softly. "For the coat. And... for sitting with me these past few days."
Min-ho leaned opposite her, arms crossed loosely. "I should be thanking you. I haven't felt this... present in a long time."
She studied him then—really studied him. The way the rain had darkened strands of his hair, making them cling to his forehead. The faint lines at the corners of his eyes that spoke of too many late nights and not enough laughter. He looked younger in the dim light, less like the heir to an empire and more like a man carrying something heavy he hadn't asked for.
"Why do you come here?" she asked, the question slipping out before she could catch it.
He exhaled through his nose, a sound almost like a laugh. "At first? I told myself I was looking for peace. But honestly..." He met her eyes directly. "I was hoping I'd see you again."
Ji-eun's heart gave a painful thud. She looked away, toward the rain-swept river. "I'm not... interesting company, Min-ho-ssi. My life is very ordinary."
"Ordinary isn't a flaw," he replied quietly. "It's rare. Most people I know perform their lives like they're on stage. You don't."
Heat crept up her neck. She hugged his coat tighter. "You don't know me."
"Not yet," he agreed. "But I'd like to. If you'll let me."
The words hung between them, fragile as the raindrops sliding off the pavilion roof. Ji-eun felt something shift inside her chest—a door cracking open after years of being bolted shut.
Before she could respond, her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out reluctantly. A message from her mother: *Soo-min's fever is back. Can you bring medicine on your way home?*
Reality crashed in like cold water. Ji-eun straightened, suddenly aware of how late it had become, how far apart their worlds really were.
"I have to go," she said, slipping his coat off her shoulders and holding it out.
Min-ho didn't take it immediately. "Keep it. It's raining harder now."
"I can't—"
"Please." His voice was gentle but firm. "Let me walk you to the station at least."
She hesitated, then nodded. They stepped back into the rain, his coat once more around her shoulders. He opened a sleek black umbrella he'd retrieved from somewhere—probably left in the pavilion earlier—and held it high enough for both of them. Their shoulders brushed as they walked.
The streets had emptied, neon signs reflecting in shallow puddles like spilled paint. Ji-eun stole glances at him whenever she thought he wasn't looking. He moved with effortless grace, yet there was a tension in his posture, as though he were holding himself back from saying more.
At the subway entrance, he stopped. The umbrella sheltered them both, creating a small, private world amid the downpour.
"Will you be here tomorrow?" he asked.
Ji-eun bit her lip. "I... usually am."
"Then I'll see you tomorrow." He smiled—that small, devastating dimple appearing again. "Goodnight, Ji-eun-ssi."
"Goodnight, Min-ho-ssi."
She descended the stairs without looking back, though every instinct urged her to. Inside the train, she pressed her forehead against the cool window, his coat still warm around her. The scent of cedar lingered, mingling with rain and the faint trace of her own shampoo. For the first time in years, she allowed herself to imagine what it might feel like to be wanted—not needed, not pitied, but simply *wanted*.
Across the city, Min-ho rode home in silence. The driver glanced at him once in the rearview mirror but said nothing. In the penthouse, he removed his damp shoes and stood by the window, watching rain streak the glass. His phone lit up with messages—board updates, investor queries, a dinner invitation from a childhood friend he hadn't spoken to in months. He ignored them all.
Instead, he thought of Ji-eun's hands—small, capable, stained faintly with graphite. The way her eyes lit when she talked about color and light. The quiet strength in her spine when she spoke of her family.
He had spent his life acquiring things—companies, properties, influence. Yet nothing had ever felt as precious as those stolen evenings by the river.
The next morning dawned gray and damp. Ji-eun woke to the sound of rain tapping the tin roof of their small hanok. Her mother was already up, folding laundry with mechanical precision. Soo-min lay curled on the futon, cheeks flushed, but his breathing was steady.
Ji-eun prepared a simple breakfast—rice porridge with a few slices of kimchi—and sat beside her brother, smoothing his hair.
"You were late last night," her mother observed without accusation.
"I got caught in the rain," Ji-eun said. It wasn't a lie.
Her mother nodded, eyes soft with understanding. "Be careful, my heart. Seoul is beautiful, but it can be cruel to dreamers."
Ji-eun swallowed. "I know, Eomma."
At the coffee house, the day passed in a blur of espresso shots and polite smiles. Her mind kept drifting to the bench, to the pavilion, to the weight of wool on her shoulders. When her shift ended, she hesitated only a moment before heading to the river—still wearing his coat, now carefully brushed and folded inside her bag.
He was already there.
Min-ho stood near the bench, hands in pockets, watching the water. When he saw her, relief flickered across his face so quickly she almost missed it.
"You're here," he said simply.
"I said I would be."
He smiled, and something in Ji-eun's chest loosened.
They sat together again, closer this time. No coat between them, no umbrella. Just two people and a river and the slow, careful beginning of something neither had expected.
As the sky darkened and the first stars appeared, Min-ho spoke of his childhood—not the polished version fed to reporters, but the real one. A mother who sang lullabies in a voice like wind chimes. A father who measured love in achievements. The emptiness that wealth could never fill.
Ji-eun listened, then shared fragments of her own story—her father's fishing boat lost to debt, her brother's bright dreams, the nights she stayed awake worrying about tomorrow.
Neither story was complete. Neither needed to be. Not yet.
When it was time to part, Min-ho walked her to the station again. This time, at the entrance, he reached out and gently tucked a rain-damp strand of hair behind her ear.
"Tomorrow?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Ji-eun met his gaze, heart hammering. "Tomorrow."
As she rode home, wrapped once more in his coat, she allowed herself one small, dangerous thought: *Maybe ordinary lives can hold extraordinary moments.*