We reached the elevator. The doors slid open with a dignified ding, and we stepped inside.
Silence.
The kind of silence where you can hear your own breathing... and your own doom.
I stared at the floor numbers as they lit up, willing the ride to end quickly.
"So," he said at last, "how long have you been with the company?"
"Oh, uh... almost two years," I managed, my voice a little too high-pitched.
"Mm." He nodded. "Do you enjoy your work?"
"Yes! Love it. Love... fabrics. And clothes. And... thread."
Thread. Wow, Jiwoo. Smooth.
The corner of his mouth twitched, like he was trying not to laugh.
"Thread is important," he said with a straight face.
Was that... a joke? Was he teasing me? Or was he testing me before delivering my professional death sentence?
My brain, naturally, decided it was the latter.
The elevator dinged again before I could respond, and we stepped out.
I followed him through the wide corridor toward the executive offices, the sound of my shoes tapping against the polished floor making me feel like I was marching toward judgment.
He suddenly slowed down and stopped.
He turned to me, his expression unreadable.
My stomach dropped. Here it is. The confrontation. The "I know what you did" moment.
"Yes, Mr. Kang?" I said, my voice cracking like I'd just hit puberty for the second time.
"I've been meaning to ask..." he said slowly, looking at me with that unreadable expression.
Oh god. Oh god. He knows. He's going to say it. He's going to say...
"...why did you submit that particular design for the winter line?"
I blinked. "Huh?"
He tilted his head slightly. "The sketch you sent in last month. It's... different from your usual work."
Oh. Sketch. He meant my design sketch. Not the comic.
I almost collapsed in relief.
"Uh... I-I just... felt inspired?" I stammered. "You know... shapes. Textures. Unspoken... tension?"
His brows rose. "Tension?"
I took a deep breath and quickly backpedaled. "Yes, I mean... fabric tension! The way it drapes... naturally..."
A pause. Then, unexpectedly, the faintest smirk tugged at his lips.
"I see. You're more... passionate about your work than I realized."
Passionate. Great. In my mind, that's now engraved on my tombstone.
We entered his office — a sleek, intimidating space with glass walls, a massive desk, and a view of the city that screamed power. He gestured for me to sit.
"I've reviewed your portfolio, Mr. Han," he said, settling into his chair.
My brain still refused to believe "portfolio" meant designs and not the entire webcomic archive.
He leaned forward slightly. "You have... a unique style. I think it could be useful for a special project."
"A project?" I asked, trying to sound casual but sounding more like I'd just swallowed a marble.
"Yes," he said. "Something... bold."
He opened a folder and slid it toward me. Inside were photos of fabrics, design notes, and event plans.
"This is for Nova Muse's anniversary showcase," he explained. "I want you on the lead design team."
I stared at the papers.
Then at him.
Then back at the papers.
Mr. Kang, you... want me to design clothes for Nova Muse's anniversary show?
I blinked again. "Me?"
"Yes, Mr. Han, you heard me right."
I forced a laugh that probably sounded like a dying seal. "Oh! Yes! Of course! I'd be honored."
He smiled slightly. "Good. I like your energy, Mr. Han."
Energy. Ha. If he only knew 90% of that energy was anxiety and the other 10% was caffeine.
I was still processing the fact that I hadn't been fired, sued, or publicly humiliated when he suddenly stood up and started walking toward me.
Uh... why is he coming closer?
Why does it feel like we might almost..
No. Impossible. This isn't one of my comic panels.
I could smell his cologne now, expensive and sharp, like clean linen and secrets. My brain promptly short-circuited.
He lifted a hand toward me.
Was he... about to hit me?
I froze, heart pounding so hard it felt like my ribs might crack.
And then...
He patted my hair.
"Mr. Han, you're so clumsy. You had a flower petal on your head," he said, smirking faintly.
Oh. A petal. Right. That's... totally normal. Not intimate at all.
But why did his hand feel warm?
And why was he looking at me like that ?
For one weird, suspended moment, our eyes locked.
The air between us felt heavy, even though the AC was blasting Arctic temperatures.
Five seconds.
Ten.
Maybe more.
Then...
His phone rang, shattering the moment.
I yanked myself back to reality. Jiwoo, get it together. This isn't your comic scene.
He glanced at the screen, and I saw his expression shift suddenly serious. He answered the call, his tone low and clipped.
"...Okay. I'll be there."
He hung up and turned to me. "I have an urgent meeting. We'll talk later."
Before I could respond, he walked out, phone pressed to his ear, his voice low, tense.
Just before the door closed, he glanced back.
Not his usual cold look.
But with something else.
Something I couldn't name.
The moment the door slammed shut, leaving me alone, I instinctively reached up and touched the spot where his hand had been.
Warm. Still warm.
Then
Lub-dub. Lub-dub.
Huh? What was that sound?
I scanned the entire room like an idiot until it finally hit me.
Oh. Right. My heart.
The sound was coming from my own chest.
But why was it racing like this?
When I glanced at the mirrored wall of his office, I nearly choked. My reflection stared back — cheeks flushed so red I looked like a tomato abandoned under the afternoon sun.
"What's wrong with me?" I whispered, breath hitching.
This wasn't ordinary embarrassment. No, this was sharper, heavier, something that pressed against my ribs and refused to be ignored.
I swallowed hard, refusing to name it. Refusing to believe it.
Then again... if it isn't that...
Then what is this feeling?
— To be continued