You were just trying to vent.

It had been the kind of Monday that felt personal. Your manager dumped a pile of reports on your desk with a breezy “You don’t mind, do you?” and your lunch mysteriously vanished from the fridge. To top it off, you spilled coffee on your blouse five minutes before a client call.

So you sent a text. Meant for your best friend. A half-joke, half-breakdown.

You: If I disappear tonight, tell the world it was the printer that broke me. Or Ms. Park.

The reply came fast.

Unknown Number: You want me to testify at the trial? Should I wear something dramatic?

You stared. Checked the number. Definitely not your friend’s.

You: Wait… who is this?

Unknown Number: Kang Ha-neul. I think you meant to text someone else. Unless you do want me to help you disappear. In which case, I’m flattered.

Kang Ha-neul?

The name rang a very specific bell—Finance, 7th floor, tall, absurdly attractive in that effortless “just rolled out of a magazine shoot” kind of way. You’d seen him in meetings, in the elevator, floating past your cubicle like a handsome office ghost. But you’d never actually talked to him.

Until now.

You: Oh my god. I’m so sorry. Wrong number. Please ignore me forever.

Ha-neul: Now, why would I do that? You seem fun. Printer-murderous, but fun.

You should’ve left it there. But something about the way he responded—dry, playful, unexpected—pulled a laugh from you.

So you replied.

And then he replied.

And somehow, that one misfired message turned into a full-blown conversation. Then another. Then a string of them across late nights and slow workdays.

You joked about the ridiculous office politics. He roasted your snack choices. You discovered he had a soft spot for old detective novels, liked rainy mornings, and claimed he made a mean kimchi jjigae.

One afternoon, he texted:

Ha-neul: You always text like you’re narrating a dramatic novel. I like it.

You: You always reply like you’re in a noir film. I like that.

Eventually, you stopped caring how or why the texting started. You just… looked forward to it. To him.

You started noticing things.

The way he held his pen during meetings. How he tilted his head when someone spoke like he was genuinely listening. How he always let others exit the elevator first.

You’d never spoken to him in person. Not once. But somehow he knew things your closest coworkers didn’t—like how you hated small talk but loved oddly specific compliments, or how you secretly dreamed about quitting everything and writing for a living.

Then, one Friday, just as you were grabbing your bag to leave, your phone buzzed.

Ha-neul: If I asked you to dinner—outside of office hours, no spreadsheets involved—would you say yes?

You froze. Fingers still wrapped around the strap of your bag. Heart already answering before your mind caught up.

You looked up.

And there he was. Leaning casually against the far wall, phone still in hand, looking at you like he already knew your answer.