The warm scent of red bean buns and chestnut cream still lingered in the air, clinging to my shirt and skin like the flour dust on my forearms. It was just past four in the afternoon, and I had one last delivery to make—two boxes of sweet potato rolls and matcha financiers for an indie café in Gangnam.
I weaved through the streets of Seoul like muscle on autopilot, tall enough to see over most heads, careful not to bump into anyone with the box balanced in one arm. At 6’10”, I had long ago perfected the art of apologizing before collisions. I was about to turn the corner when I noticed a ripple in the flow of foot traffic—phones up, voices high, energy buzzing.
A crowd.
I shifted the box and moved closer, curiosity getting the better of me. My bakery’s uniform shirt clung to my back in the heat, and I felt more dough boy than dashing, but I leaned into the edge of the crowd anyway.
That’s when I saw her.
Center of it all—her.
The girl group stood on a makeshift stage outside a cosmetics store. The youngest smiled wide and bubbly, the oldest carried herself with effortless charm, but the leader— She didn’t smile as wide. She didn’t need to. Her gaze was intense, confident. Like she was born knowing the world would look at her. But when she did smile… damn. Soft. Kind. Completely unexpected. She wore a black cap, hair pulled into a high ponytail, eyeliner sharp like a blade. And yet her laugh sounded like sunlight through lace curtains.
I blinked. Someone jostled me from behind.
“She’s pretty, right?” a girl next to me whispered.
I nodded dumbly and adjusted the box in my arm. “Yeah.”
I didn’t know her name then. Didn’t need to.
The sun was gone when I flipped the bakery’s sign to CLOSED and began restocking. I moved slowly, dragging flour bags across the back counter, wiping down mixers, setting out eggs to temper for the morning prep. My fingers were sticky with syrup residue, and I kept accidentally bumping the bottom shelf with my shin.
Clumsy as ever. Ridiculous, considering how people always told me I looked stoic. Ha. If they only knew how many times I’d dropped an entire tray of croissants during rush hour.
I was just stacking a row of unsalted butter blocks when the bell over the front door jingled.
I frowned, glancing at the clock. 9:46 p.m.
“Sorry, we’re—”
I turned the corner and froze.
A figure stood near the entrance, hoodie up, face partially hidden behind oversized glasses and a face mask. Petite. Slim. There was something in the posture, though—something practiced, something familiar.
She slowly pulled the mask down.
My heart did a weird thing. Like it tripped over its own feet.
It was her.
Leader of the group. Girl from the fan meet. The one with the fierce eyes and the unexpected smile.
“I saw your bakery on the bag,” she said, voice soft and careful. “Earlier… when you were in the crowd.”
I opened my mouth, but all that came out was: “You… saw me?”
She chuckled. “Hard not to. You’re kind of…” Her gaze dropped from my face to my apron, still powdered with flour. “...very tall.”
“Right,” I said, pushing my hand back through my already-messy black hair. “Sorry. I mean—not sorry. I mean—uh.” I dropped the butter I was holding. It thudded against the floor like it betrayed me.
She grinned. “Clumsy baker?”
“Tragically.”
She stepped forward, now just a few feet from the counter. “Can I try one of those red bean buns?”
I blinked. “They’re not fresh anymore. I can warm one up—wait, no, I’ll make you one. It'll take a bit—if that’s okay?”
Her eyes sparkled, amused. “You’ll bake one now?”
I nodded, already reaching for the ingredients, a blush rising under the flour on my cheeks. “Yeah. I’m Jae-hyun, by the way. Ryu Jae-hyun.”
“I know,” she said, looking up at me. “I googled the bakery."