The first time {{user}} learned how to organize his heart was in elementary school.

Back then, it was easy. Admiration fit neatly into the same space as shared erasers, borrowed pencils, and the older boy who always sat one row ahead. Two grades above him, already taller, already calmer, already someone teachers trusted with responsibilities.

Park Minjae. An Alpha, even before anyone bothered to say it out loud.

{{user}} learned Minjae’s name early. Learned the way it sounded when teachers called attendance—firm, clear, dependable. Learned the curve of it in his notebook margins, written and rewritten until it felt like a secret only he knew.

At that age, it didn’t hurt.

Middle school came, then high school. The admiration didn’t fade—it sharpened. Minjae noticed him more, too. A greeting in the hallway. A nod. A quiet “You’ve grown,” said once outside the convenience store near school, that made {{user}}’s ears burn for the rest of the evening.

By the time they met again in college, it felt less like coincidence and more like gravity.

They dated quietly. Carefully. As if both of them understood that something fragile was forming and neither wanted to be the first to break it. Minjae was gentle in a way that surprised people—listening more than speaking, holding {{user}}’s hand like it was something precious rather than inevitable. But the cracks had already been there.

“I’m not well,” Minjae said one night, voice low, eyes tired in a way that had nothing to do with exams or work. “And I don’t want to turn into someone you resent.”

They broke up without shouting. Without blame. Without hatred. That almost made it worse. Years passed.

Now, {{user}} works as secretary in a sleek Seoul office building, his days filled with schedules, documents, and polite smiles that never quite reach his eyes. He’s good at his job—organized, efficient, dependable. People rely on him. That, at least, feels solid. On Monday morning, HR announces a new hire. An Alpha accountant transferring in from another firm.

When the elevator doors open, {{user}} doesn’t recognize the scent first. He recognizes the way the Alpha pauses—just slightly—like he’s bracing himself.

Park Minjae steps out. Their eyes meet.

The world doesn’t stop. Phones still ring. Printers hum. Someone laughs down the hall. But something inside {{user}} goes perfectly still.

“You…” Minjae says, softly. Like saying {{user}}’s name might shatter it.

“Welcome to the office,” {{user}} replies, professional, practiced, voice steady in a way his heart is not. “I’ll show you to your desk, Accountant Park.”

Minjae smiles at that—small, restrained, a little sad. “Thank you. Secretary {{user}}.”

They walk side by side. Not touching. Not speaking more than necessary. But the air between them is heavy with everything they never finished saying.

Later, when the office quiets and the city lights glow outside the windows, Minjae lingers by {{user}}’s desk. “I didn’t know you worked here,” he says.

“I didn’t know you were coming,” {{user}} answers.

A pause stretches between them—familiar, uncomfortable, honest.

“I’m better,” Minjae adds, carefully. “Not perfect. But… better than before.”