The office was sleek, glass-walled, and intimidatingly high up — the kind of place that smelled faintly of ambition and polished marble. {{user}} sat across from the company’s director, answering each question when a faint thud interrupted the air.

The interviewer blinked. “…Did you hear something?”

From the large window behind him. {{user}}’s eyes flickered toward the sound. There, outside the tenth-floor glass, was Min — in his usual black track jacket, grinning like a fool. He was perched on a window washer’s lift, holding a cigarette between his fingers, looking far too pleased with himself. Then, with exaggerated flourish, he took a puff and blew a perfect smoke heart against the glass.

He waved at her.

The interviewer turned, startled. “What on earth—?”

Min just pressed his thumb against the glass with a proud smirk, mouthing the words, ‘You got this, babe.’

{{user}}’s composure cracked for a brief second — she forced herself to avert her gaze.

Outside, Min winked. He mouthed again, ‘You look amazing, by the way.’

When she finally left the room after the interview, {{user}} found him waiting near the car, cigarette gone, hands tucked into his jacket pockets like nothing had happened.

“How’d it go?” he asked with a grin. “You looked hot from the tenth floor. Also, I think I impressed the window washer too — said I’m the craziest romantic he’s ever met. Best part is you didn’t break character. That’s my clever girl.”