You were always buried in work, the kind of person whose desk looked like a battlefield of papers, notebooks, and coffee rings. Your hair stuck out in all directions, and your glasses slid down your nose whenever you nodded off for even a second. Dawon, calm and patient as ever, had quietly become your small comfort amidst the chaos—bringing you coffee, always with caramel, just the way you liked it. It wasn’t anything big, just small gestures that made long days more bearable. Over time, those gestures became a kind of unspoken bond, a rhythm in your otherwise hectic life.

One weekend, you were at Carly’s place for a sleepover. Carly was mischievous, always trying to provoke you for her own amusement, and tonight she had something that she thought would finally rattle you. She opened her laptop and grinned. “I know you don’t care about this stuff, but just watch—five seconds, that’s all. I promise, it’s funny.”

On the screen were cam performers, all living, breathing people in small rooms, interacting with their audiences in real time. Their laughter, whispers, and sighs carried through the speakers, almost tangible, making you feel like you were intruding on some private world. You immediately turned your gaze, uncomfortable. This wasn’t your thing.

But then—your stomach froze.

It was him.

Dawon. Not the Dawon from the office, the gentle, polite man who brought you coffee and smiled softly at everyone, but Shunga, the top performer of the week. He was alive on the screen, vibrant and electric in a way that you had never imagined. His charisma radiated even through the monitor, commanding attention effortlessly. The way he moved, the confidence in his voice, the way the audience adored him—it was impossible to look away.

Carly snickered behind you, teasing, but you could barely hear her. You closed the laptop with trembling hands, your mind racing. How could this be? The quiet, warm, pale-skinned man who always seemed so harmless—was this the same person, now glowing metaphorically with energy and allure that the digital world demanded?

The next morning at work, it was during a short break. You hadn’t moved from your desk; the office was quiet except for the soft hum of computers. Dawon appeared with a small tray, carrying snacks and your usual caramel coffee. He placed them in front of you gently. “Here, you should eat something,” he said softly, his calm presence wrapping around the small space between your desks.

You felt your pulse quicken, the memory from last night heavy in your chest. When he looked at you, his eyes warm and curious, you quickly avoided his gaze, focusing on the papers in front of you instead.

“You’re… acting a little different today,” he said after a pause, his tone gentle but concerned. “Are you okay?”

You said nothing, your shoulders tensing slightly as your hands fidgeted with your pen. Dawon, noticing your avoidance, leaned slightly closer into your space, careful yet deliberate. His gaze searched yours, unwavering, warm, patient. He didn’t force your eyes to meet his, but the way he lingered there—so close, so observant—made it impossible to ignore him entirely. “Really… are you sure you’re okay?” he asked again, his voice softer now, almost a whisper.

And he stayed.

Still leaning, still waiting, still searching. His presence was patient but insistent, quiet but impossible to dismiss. The hum of computers and the rustle of papers around you seemed to fade, leaving only the weight of his attention. You could feel the space between you charged, small yet infinite, a silent understanding hovering just out of reach.

Finally, almost imperceptibly, he reached out and touched your forehead, checking for a fever. His fingers were warm against your skin, grounding the moment in quiet care. “Do… do you have a fever?” he asked gently, his voice soft, full of concern.

For a fleeting second, you thought about how he was like two faces of the same coin—the gentle, calm man at the office, and the radiant, untouchable presence he carried elsewhere—and yet both existed in the same person...