Min Yu had always moved through life like a soft breeze—felt, but rarely seen.
Even now, as the neon haze of late-evening Seoul flickered across his face, he slipped through the narrow alley behind Wolhwa Clinic with the same quiet determination he carried everywhere. His backpack, frayed at the straps, was stuffed with textbooks, part-time work uniforms, a half-finished assignment, and a small parcel of herbs for his grandmother's worsening cough.
The air was cool enough to bite.
He didn't mind. He had grown used to biting things—cold weather, harsh hours, university demands, sleep deprivation, and the gnawing fear that his grandmother might not make it through another winter.
But she was all he had.
So Min Yu pressed on.
He adjusted his mask, bowed politely to the elderly shopkeeper sweeping dust from her storefront, then crossed the street toward the bus stop. His phone buzzed—a lecture PDF, overdue reminders, and three messages from Professor Han about his missing essay.
I promise. I'll get it done tonight, he thought, even though his shift didn't end until 1 AM.
He sank into the bus seat, tucked between a dozing construction worker and a university freshman loudly complaining about her boyfriend. The city rushed by in streaks of orange and white light. Min Yu closed his eyes briefly and allowed himself a single exhale.
That was when the world shifted.
A black sedan—sleek, polished, unmistakably expensive—cut across the intersection with a sharp, predatory grace. People turned to stare. The bus slowed in instinctive deference. In the passenger window, caught for the briefest moment, Min Yu's gaze met someone else's.
Cold eyes.
Sharp jaw.
A face too perfect, too controlled, too intense.
Even with only half a second of eye contact, Min Yu felt a jolt—like something ancient had reached out and brushed his soul.
The sedan vanished, but the imprint of the moment lingered like a ghost touch on his skin.
---
Grandmother's Room
Home smelled of broth and old wooden floors.
Min Yu placed the herbs on the table, pulled off his damp sweatshirt, and hurried to the bedroom.
"Halmeoni, I'm home."
His grandmother lay propped up against pillows, pale but smiling. Her silver hair was braided neatly, her eyes soft even in fatigue.
"You're late," she rasped.
"I ran from the bus stop," Min Yu lied with a grin.
"You always say that." She lifted a trembling hand. "Come here."
He sat beside her, letting her touch his cheek. Her fingers, cool and fragile, traced the places she always worried over.
"You work too much. You study too hard. You don't sleep enough." She clicked her tongue. "If I had known, I would have asked the heavens for a stronger grandson."
"Yah. I'm plenty strong," Min Yu murmured, leaning into her touch.
"Yes, yes," she said. "All bones and stubbornness."
He stayed with her until her breathing settled into a slow rhythm, then covered her with an extra quilt. Only then did he slip back into the living room, brewed a cup of cheap coffee, and opened his laptop.
Assignments.
Shift in forty minutes.
Bills.
Life.
He rubbed his temples.
He didn't know that fate—cold, sharp, and inconveniently handsome—was about to step into his path and crush every semblance of stability he clung to.
---
Baek Hoa
Across the city, in the penthouse overlooking the Han River, Baek Hoa pressed his palm to the glass, watching cars crawl like ants far below. The Baek Group's emblem glowed from multiple skyscrapers in the skyline—his family's empire, his burden.
He preferred the night.
Fewer people.
Fewer expectations.
Fewer opportunities for someone to look too closely.
A manager approached carefully, like someone wary of a dangerous animal.
"Sir, the board meeting tomorrow will require—"
"I know," Hoa replied, voice icy enough to end the conversation.
The manager bowed and retreated.
Hoa loosened his tie. He had university classes in the morning, business obligations all afternoon, and a family dinner in the evening where his father would remind him—again—that he existed only as the next heir.
He should be used to the pressure.
He wasn't.
He was good at hiding that, though.
His phone vibrated. A message.
A location update.
A photograph of a slim, soft-featured young man stepping off a bus carrying too many responsibilities for such thin shoulders.
Min Yu.
The same gentle face he'd glimpsed earlier.
The name flickered across the screen again as the investigator he'd hired—without admitting why—sent a short report.
Lives in Gwangcheong District.
Part-time at two cafés.
Caretakes elderly grandmother.
Scholarship student.
No known debts or affiliations.
Hoa stared at the image.
Why had those quiet eyes shaken him?
Why did that stranger's presence feel like a loose thread in a tapestry he couldn't allow to unravel?
He didn't understand it.
He hated not understanding things.
He tapped the window frame twice—an old nervous tic he despised—and forced himself to look away.
"Keep watch," he texted back. "Discreetly."
He turned off his phone and tried not to think about the warmth in Min Yu's gaze as the two locked eyes across the intersection.
But he failed.
---
Collision
The café was loud, hot, and packed with exhausted university students seeking caffeine-based salvation. Min Yu wiped down tables and balanced trays with practiced grace.
"Yu! Two iced Americanos!"
"Yu! A customer needs change!"
"Yu! The machine is jammed again!"
He smiled and moved faster.
His body hurt. His mind hurt more. But Min Yu endured pain with quiet resilience—like a candle refusing to go out in the wind.
He didn't realize someone had entered until the café fell into a sudden hush—odd enough to make him look up.
A man stepped inside.
Baek Hoa.
Sharp suit.
Expression carved from stone.
Eyes that chilled and scorched at the same time.
The kind of presence that didn't enter rooms—he dominated them.
Min Yu froze.
The tray in his hands trembled.
It wasn't recognition alone.
It was something deeper.
As if the air thickened between them, pushing the world aside so only the two of them remained.
Their eyes met again.
Hoa's gaze sharpened.
Min Yu's breath caught.
"Well?" the shift manager hissed at him. "Take the order!"
Min Yu forced his legs to move, stepping toward the counter as the stranger approached it from the other side. When Hoa spoke, his voice was low, clipped, and dangerously calm.
"One black coffee."
Min Yu swallowed. "Y-yes. Of course."
Hoa leaned forward slightly.
Too close.
Too intense.
"You're Min Yu," he stated, not asked.
Min Yu blinked. "How… did you…?"
But Hoa's expression didn't waver.
"Deliver it to table six."
And then he walked away.
As if the conversation was already finished.
As if he expected Min Yu to obey.
Min Yu exhaled shakily.
He didn't know whether to feel irritated… or unnerved… or strangely drawn in.
---
Gravity
Table six sat in the far corner, half-hidden by a frosted partition. When Min Yu approached with the steaming mug, Hoa's gaze lifted slowly, trapping him again.
Min Yu set the cup down, but Hoa's hand brushed his wrist unintentionally—or intentionally—with just enough contact to ignite something hot and confusing beneath Min Yu's ribs.
"Sit," Hoa commanded softly.
"I… can't. I'm working."
Hoa tilted his head. "I'll wait."
"You don't have to."
"But I want to."
The honesty startled Min Yu more than the command.
Before he could decide on a response, a customer shouted for help. Min Yu stepped back automatically.
Hoa's voice followed him, quiet but sure.
"We'll talk. Don't run."
---
Break Time
Min Yu slipped outside into the cool night air, heart pounding. He leaned against the brick wall and tried to calm himself.
Why was he reacting like this?
Why did that man—
The door opened.
Baek Hoa stepped out.
Min Yu stiffened. "Y—you can't be here. This area is for staff only."
Hoa stepped closer.
Too close.
Close enough that Min Yu felt his warmth, smelled his cologne—earthy, expensive, and unsettlingly addictive.
"I came to talk," Hoa said.
"About what?"
"You."
Min Yu's breath stuttered. "W-why?"
Hoa studied him with a predator's patience.
"You have a softness people overlook," Hoa murmured. "A resilience they don't understand. And eyes that see more than they admit."
Min Yu swallowed hard. "You don't know me."
"Not yet."
The implication hit Min Yu like a physical touch.
There were footsteps behind them. A coworker poked out to call Min Yu back. He jolted, stepping away from Hoa instinctively.
Hoa's expression tightened into displeasure—but only for a moment.
"Min Yu," he said softly, almost as if tasting the name. "I'm not finished."
Min Yu turned back to the café.
His cheeks were warm.
His heart was unsteady.
And something dark and magnetic followed him back inside.
---
A String Pulled Tight
The rest of the shift passed in a blur.
When Min Yu finally stepped outside at 1:03 AM, the street was empty—
Except for a black sedan parked beneath the streetlight.
The window rolled down slowly.
Baek Hoa.
"Get in," he said.
Min Yu shook his head. "I don't even know you."
"Then let me fix that."
"I—I can go home alone."
"You shouldn't walk alone this late."
"That's not your problem."
Hoa's gaze sharpened. "It is now."
Min Yu took a shaky step back. "Stop acting like… like you have some claim over me."
Hoa didn't flinch.
"I never said I had a claim," he replied, voice low. "But I'm not letting you walk home at this hour."
Min Yu was about to refuse again when a group of drunken men shouted across the street. The sound made him instinctively step closer to the safer presence—unfortunately, Baek Hoa.
Hoa opened the passenger door without breaking eye contact.
"Get in," he repeated softly. "Please."
The unexpected politeness broke Min Yu's resolve.
He climbed in.
The door shut with a heavy, fated click.
As the sedan pulled into the night, Min Yu felt it—
A shift in the air.
A path he couldn't undo.
A dangerous thread wrapping around his quiet life.
And Baek Hoa's gaze, reflected faintly in the window, promised:
This is only the beginning.