Mi-Ho stared at his reflection in the window of his office. The glass held a distorted version of him—one that looked far too composed for the storm brewing inside.
Behind him, the door creaked open.
It was Hana.
She didn't say anything at first. Just stood there, arms folded, eyes lowered.
"Are you going to keep avoiding me?" she finally asked.
Mi-Ho didn't turn around. "You needed space."
"No," she said, stepping closer. "You needed distance."
The truth stung. He clenched his jaw.
"I thought I could protect you by keeping things light. By pretending this was just a favor for our mothers. But it's not just that anymore, is it?" Hana's voice trembled slightly.
Mi-Ho turned now, slowly. "What are you saying?"
She took a breath. "I'm saying I see through you, Mi-Ho. Behind the control. Behind the sarcasm. You're just as scared as I am."
Silence stretched between them like a tight wire.
And then he laughed. Bitter and low.
"Of course I'm scared," he said. "I've lost people I loved before. Loving you? It feels like walking into fire with my eyes wide open."
Hana stepped forward again, now only inches from him. "Then maybe," she said gently, "we can burn together."
His hand lifted slowly—hesitating—before brushing a strand of hair from her face. His thumb lingered at her cheek.
"You make me forget the rules I built for myself."
"And you make me want to dream again," she whispered.
No kiss.
No confession.
Just truth, hanging between them, raw and unfiltered.
And that was enough—for now.