Chapter Text
જ⁀➴
The first hint of dawn filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows, brushing soft gold over the edges of Jeongguk’s apartment. Beyond the glass, Seoul wakes with a quiet, steady hum of distant traffic. Inside, however, everything is still. Predictable. Faint streaks of the early light stretch across smooth concrete floors and the clean lines of minimalist furniture—no excess, no clutter, everything in its rightful place.
At precisely 6:29, Jeongguk’s eyes open.
He stays still, lying on his back as he watches the digital clock on his nightstand tick over.
6:30.
The alarm chimes once before his hand moves to silence it. The gesture is fluid, practiced—he’s never late, never in need of a reminder. His body runs on habit, trained to precision.
Jeongguk sits up, the sheet slipping down his bare torso, muscles flexing with the motion. The morning air is cool against his skin. When his feet meet the wooden floor, the faint chill grounds him, the same way it does every morning. He moves through the dim light in nothing but grey pajama pants, crossing the short hallway that leads to his bathroom.
The space mirrors the rest of the apartment—simple, efficient, immaculate. The mirror greets him with the same reflection it has for years: dark hair falling loosely over his forehead, sleep clinging faintly to the corners of his big, clear eyes. Eyes that always seem too curious for someone who has spent so long mastering control.
He squeezes toothpaste onto his brush, the rhythmic sound of bristles filling the quiet. When he leans forward to rinse his mouth, the light catches the small indentation on his lower lip—the ghost of a ring he used to wear. His gaze flicks briefly to the ink swirling up his right arm, peeking through the reflection like a secret.
The tattoo sleeve, once bold and reckless, now lives mostly beneath pressed shirts and buttoned cuffs. The lip piercing closed years ago, but he never filled it. These are remnants of a younger version of himself—impulsive, untethered, unplanned. He doesn’t resent that boy. If anything, he acknowledges him each morning with quiet acceptance.
You can’t know where you’re going unless you remember where you’ve been. Or something like that.
After washing up, Jeongguk pads back into his bedroom, takes a measured gulp of water from the glass on his nightstand, and slips into his running clothes. The next door opens into what used to be a spare room, now converted into a private gym—minimal, clean, efficient.
He steps onto the treadmill and starts the machine without hesitation. The timer ticks from zero, and his pace falls perfectly into rhythm. His breathing syncs to the mechanical whir beneath his feet, his mind blank except for the counting: fifteen minutes, no more, no less.
He adjusts the treadmill’s speed and stares straight ahead—at Wonho’s poster, specifically. The one he tells himself is purely for fitness inspiration (it isn’t).
When the treadmill slows, he’s already reaching for the towel draped over the handle, wiping the light sheen of sweat from his forehead. The routine continues seamlessly—shower, oatmeal with sliced banana, the faint hum of the news playing in the background, and a perfectly timed glass of orange juice that never grows lukewarm before he finishes it.
By the time he’s dressed, the morning sun has fully stretched its arms across the skyline. Jeongguk stands before the mirror near the door, adjusting the cuff of his black suit jacket. The fit is impeccable—tailored to his frame, the sleeves calculated to hide every trace of ink. His charcoal-grey shirt is buttoned neatly but left open at the collar, an understated rebellion against rigidity.
He looks composed, professional—the kind of man people trust to make precise decisions about their money, their future. His colleagues like to tease him for being the youngest at Kim² Financial Holdings, but also the most reliable. Their “golden dongsaeng,” they call him.
Jeongguk never minds. Efficiency has its rewards.
He grabs his keys from the counter and heads for the elevator, the soft click of polished shoes echoing down the hallway. When the elevator doors part with a quiet chime, his reflection glances back at him in the brushed steel.
In the basement, he unlocks his car with a press of the key fob. The black Lexus RX responds with a gentle blink of headlights, the sound crisp against the concrete silence. Jeongguk checks his watch—7:30 AM sharp.
Right on time.
By 8 AM, he’ll be at his desk with his first report open, coffee refilled, and the day unfolding exactly as planned.
The Lexus glides out of the basement, its quiet engine blending with the low hum of morning Seoul. The city is already alive—neon signs dimming into daylight, cafés pulling up their shutters, commuters moving with caffeinated purpose. A thousand stories unfolding in parallel.
The sky blushes with the pale warmth of spring, and sunlight slips between glass towers like liquid gold. Friday mornings always hum with a particular kind of energy—a mix of hurry and relief. People rush to get through their final workday, already half-leaning toward the weekend.
Jeongguk drives in silence, his left hand steady on the wheel, his right resting near the gearshift. He doesn’t need music; he prefers the quiet hum of the city outside his window, the sense of order it brings when everything moves exactly as expected.
When the familiar sprawl of Kim² Financial Holdings comes into view, he slows, pulling up to the barrier at the underground entrance. The attending guard bows slightly.
Jeongguk returns a polite nod, a practiced half-smile.
The barrier lifts, and he drives down into the sleek, echoing expanse of the parking basement. He parks neatly in his designated slot—first row, third from the elevator—the same one he’s used for years.
Shutting off the engine, Jeongguk lingers for a moment, checking his reflection in the rearview mirror. His hair falls cleanly into place, his shirt collar crisp, not a wrinkle out of line. He takes a deep breath, adjusts his watch, and gathers his things—phone, ID badge, laptop bag.
“Let’s get it,” he mutters under his breath, the words more habit than motivation.
The parking lot is still half-empty, lights humming softly above polished concrete. Most employees won’t arrive for another half hour. No one gets paid extra for enthusiasm, he knows. But Jeongguk doesn’t come in early for approval. He comes in because discipline is its own kind of currency—one that always pays off. Responsible people build reliable lives. And reliable lives don’t fall apart.
The elevator dings softly when it reaches him. Inside, the mirrored walls reflect his solitary figure—clean-cut, composed, the picture of quiet ambition. By the time the doors open again, he’s on the top floor, where steel and glass rule the space.
“Morning, Jeongguk-ssi!”
Jieun straightens from behind the reception desk, her smile quick and hopeful. The soft pink of her lipstick matches the tulips blooming in a small vase beside her monitor. In her hands, she holds out a takeout cup, steam curling delicately in the morning air.
“I thought you might want coffee. You always come in early.”
Jeongguk pauses, then accepts the cup with a polite smile. “Thank you. That’s very kind of you.”
Her fingers brush his as she lets go, and he feels the briefest hesitation before she draws back. “It’s nothing,” she says, laughing softly. “Just trying to keep our star analyst running.”
“Then I owe you one,” he replies out of courtesy, the words automatic but not unkind. He lifts the cup in a small gesture of thanks before checking his watch. “See you later, Jieun-ssi.”
He continues down the hall, footsteps echoing against polished tile. Behind him, there’s a faint, almost inaudible sigh.
Jeongguk’s office waits at the end of the corridor—a sleek space of glass and shadow, overlooking the sprawl of Seoul’s skyline. It’s not ostentatious, just meticulously arranged: a sleek glass desk, a pair of armchairs, a potted monstera by the window that somehow survives despite his erratic watering habits. The sunlight glances off the framed artworks on the wall and scatters across his polished desk.
He earned this space, every square inch of it.
When he joined the company seven years ago, Kim²FH was barely a mid-tier firm with more ambition than clients. Jeongguk had started as an intern during his final year of university, building financial models that no one asked for but everyone ended up using. After graduation, he transitioned immediately to a full-time role. By the time he was twenty-six, his market analyses had helped the firm secure two major clients and triple its investment portfolio. Kim Namjoon and Kim Seokjin—the husbands behind the name “Kim squared”—had rewarded him with this private office and a promotion to Senior Analyst.
Now, at twenty-eight, he’s not just reliable. He’s indispensable.
Jeongguk sets his coffee cup down, wakes his monitors with a flick of the mouse, and exhales at the sight of his inbox: fifty-eight unread emails.
“Of course,” he murmurs, taking a sip of coffee.
The caffeine is warm, steady—predictable. Just the way he likes it.
By 10 AM, Jeongguk’s already halfway through his second report of the morning. Numbers fill the twin monitors before him—market trends, client portfolios, projections stacked neatly in color-coded graphs. His fingers move without hesitation across the keyboard, efficient and rhythmic, the soft clack of keys syncing with the faint hum of the city beyond the glass.
The door opens without a knock.
“Working hard or compensating for something?”
Jeongguk looks up just as Min Yoongi steps inside, unhurried as always. His coat is gone, shirt sleeves rolled neatly to the elbows, and a faint crease marks the corner of his mouth—the closest he ever gets to smiling this early. He sinks into the armchair opposite the desk, the movement economical, deliberate.
“Morning to you too, Hyung,” Jeongguk says, arching a brow.
Yoongi exhales through his nose, eyes flicking toward the ceiling. “Morning, sure. Not for me, though. The new trainees are trying to murder me through incompetence.”
Jeongguk suppresses a grin. “What did they do this time?”
“‘Do’ is generous,” Yoongi deadpans. “One of them sent me a spreadsheet with a column labeled ‘vibes.’”
That earns a quiet laugh from Jeongguk. “You said you wanted to mentor the new batch.”
“I said I didn’t mind. That’s not the same thing.” He rests an arm over the back of the chair. “Remind me why I volunteered again?”
“Because you hate chaos, but you like fixing it.”
Yoongi gives him a look—long-suffering but fond. “That’s dangerously insightful for a man who still eats oatmeal every day like he’s in training for the Olympics.”
“It’s efficient.”
“It’s tragic,” Yoongi corrects softly, though his tone is teasing.
Jeongguk shakes his head, trying and failing to hide his smile.
This is how it’s always been with Yoongi—the quiet back-and-forth that feels like breathing, steady and familiar. When Jeongguk started his internship at the firm, Yoongi had already been two years in, the rising star who handled complex portfolios with unnerving calm. Everyone admired him, but Yoongi had been the one to notice the quiet kid who stayed late, recalibrating formulas long after everyone else had left.
What started as mentorship turned into camaraderie. What followed was friendship—understated, loyal, unwavering.
“You really shouldn’t let them get under your skin,” Jeongguk says now, clicking through a new file. “They’re just starting out.”
“Starting out, sure. But I can’t start their neurons for them.”
Jeongguk chuckles, shaking his head. “You say that every time.”
“And yet,” Yoongi says, leaning forward, “you’re the one who fixes their reports behind my back.”
Jeongguk pauses, caught. “I just—sometimes—”
“—can’t help yourself,” Yoongi finishes for him, smiling faintly. “Yeah, I know. You’re allergic to inefficiency.”
There’s an easy silence between them, broken only by the faint hum of Jeongguk’s computer. Then Yoongi sighs, stretching his arms over his head. “Let’s go for drinks later. I need to remind myself that the world exists beyond spreadsheets.”
Jeongguk glances at the corner of his monitor where his digital planner sits open, already color-blocked and pristine. He doesn’t have plans beyond work hours—he never does.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Sure.”
“Good. I’ll pick the place. You pick up the tab.”
Jeongguk huffs out a laugh. “That’s not how invitations work.”
Yoongi smirks, eyes glinting. “It is when you make more than me.”
Before Jeongguk can reply, a familiar voice interrupts from the door.
“Gentlemen.”
Namjoon stands there, tall and composed in his navy suit, a tablet tucked under one arm. “Morning meeting in five. Jin’s already setting up.”
Yoongi tilts his head. “Tell him not to start without me—I need to correct his grammar again.”
Namjoon chuckles. “You can fight about commas after we finish quarterly reports.” He nods toward Jeongguk. “You too, Gguk-ah. Five minutes.”
The door closes, leaving the faint echo of Namjoon’s measured footsteps behind.
Yoongi stands, smoothing a wrinkle from his sleeve. “You ready?”
Jeongguk shuts his laptop and straightens his tie. “Always.”
“Of course you are.” Yoongi’s tone is soft—half fond, half exasperated—and he claps a hand on Jeongguk’s shoulder as they head out. “One day, you’ll let yourself be five minutes late. Just for the thrill of it.”
Jeongguk glances sideways. “That sounds… inefficient.”
“That’s the point.”
The hallway hums with polite chatter as they make their way to the conference room, glass walls reflecting the muted pulse of the skyline beyond. Inside, Namjoon and Seokjin are already seated—Namjoon reviewing figures on his tablet, Seokjin sipping from a porcelain mug that probably costs more than the trainees’ monthly stipends.
“Ah, there they are,” Seokjin says, smiling warmly. “Our finest duo. Come, sit before Namjoon decides to start talking about market volatility again.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Namjoon replies mildly, though his lips curve in amusement.
Yoongi sinks into his seat with a quiet sigh. “For the record, I’d rather talk about volatility than train interns.”
“That’s because volatility listens,” Seokjin teases.
The room fills with quiet laughter as Jeongguk flips open his notebook, pen poised. The meeting flows easily—data updates, forecasts, and client feedback—and Jeongguk contributes with his usual precision, concise but confident. His work speaks louder than his words.
When the last slide fades, Seokjin leans back, expression softening. “Jeongguk-ah, I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again: you’ve exceeded every expectation this quarter. The restructuring of the Hanseong portfolio was brilliant. Namjoon and I couldn’t have asked for a better result.”
Jeongguk inclines his head, polite but not boastful. “Thank you, Seonsaengnim. Just doing my part.”
Namjoon smiles, thoughtful. “You always do.”
Yoongi shoots him a side glance, lips twitching. “Look at you, teacher’s pet.”
Jeongguk murmurs without looking up, “Coming from the teacher.”
Namjoon chuckles, closing his tablet. “Alright, gentlemen. Let’s wrap it up. It’s Friday, and I’m sure we all deserve a lunch that doesn’t come from a plastic tray. Jeongguk-ah, stay behind a moment, will you? I need a word before we all go.”
Yoongi stands, stretching lazily. “Try not to get promoted again while I’m gone,” he mutters, though there’s unmistakable fondness beneath the teasing.
Jeongguk shakes his head, amused. “See you later, Hyung.”
As Yoongi leaves, Namjoon exchanges a look with Seokjin—the kind that speaks volumes without a single word. A quiet spark of mischief, tempered by something gentler.
Jeongguk notices immediately. “What?” he asks warily, setting his pen down. “Is there something wrong?”
Namjoon lifts his hands in a pacifying gesture, dimples appearing as he smiles. “Nothing’s wrong,” he assures. “Actually, we just wanted to ask you something. It’s not work-related.”
That alone makes Jeongguk suspicious. “Okay…”
Seokjin leans forward slightly, his elbows resting on the conference table. “Jeongguk-ah, you’ve been with us for what—six years now?”
“Seven, Seonsaengnim.”
“Seven,” Seokjin repeats, nodding thoughtfully. “And in all those seven years, you’ve never taken a single real vacation. Not one.”
Jeongguk blinks, uncertain where this is going. “I’ve taken breaks—”
“National holidays don’t count,” Namjoon interjects smoothly, his tone warm but teasing. “We’re talking about leaves. You’ve got at least six months’ worth accumulated, Jeongguk-ah.”
Jeongguk frowns, though not out of guilt—just confusion. “I didn’t see the need. Work’s fulfilling. And I’d rather earn as much as I can while I still have the energy to. That way, I can retire early and actually enjoy a worry-free life later. Just like everyone else.”
Namjoon and Seokjin exchange another look, this time softer.
Seokjin hums quietly. “So you’re saving all your joy for retirement, huh?”
“I wouldn’t put it like that,” Jeongguk says, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. “It’s just... practical.”
“Sure,” Namjoon says easily. “Practical. But don’t you ever want to do something spontaneous? Travel, maybe? See Tokyo in the spring or Paris in the fall?”
Jeongguk hesitates, considering the question as if it’s in another language. “Not really,” he admits after a beat. “I’m fine where I am.”
Seokjin leans back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. “You’re fine, yes. But are you... happy?”
Jeongguk’s eyebrows furrow slightly. “I’m—content,” he says carefully. It’s the truth, or at least what he believes is supposed to be true.
Namjoon smiles knowingly. “Content’s good. But you know, life isn’t just about minimizing risk, Jeongguk-ah.”
Jeongguk opens his mouth to argue, but Seokjin cuts in, voice lighter now. “What about dating, then? Anyone special? You can’t tell me there’s no one.”
Jeongguk laughs quietly under his breath. “No, no. I’m not seeing anyone. I prefer to avoid... unnecessary complications.”
“Unnecessary complications,” Namjoon repeats, shaking his head with a chuckle. “Half the floor has a crush on you, and you think that’s the problem?”
“I think workplace dating is a bad investment,” Jeongguk replies, perfectly straight-faced.
Seokjin groans dramatically. “Investment. He really does think in spreadsheets.”
Namjoon’s eyes gleam suddenly, and Jeongguk knows that look—it’s the look Namjoon gets right before pitching something he knows sounds ridiculous but will somehow make perfect sense by the end.
“Well,” Namjoon says slowly, “if you’re so worried about uncertainty... what if we told you there’s a way to make dating guaranteed?”
Jeongguk blinks. “Guaranteed?”
Seokjin reaches into his blazer pocket with theatrical flair and slides a small business card across the table. “Guaranteed,” he echoes, grinning.
Jeongguk picks it up. The design is sleek and minimalist, printed on thick ivory stock.
SeoulMatch Co.
“Your SeoulMate, Guaranteed.”
www.seoulmatchco.sk
He reads the tagline out loud and laughs, short and incredulous. “You’re kidding me.”
Namjoon grins. “We’re not.”
“You’re seriously endorsing a dating service?”
Seokjin looks faintly offended. “Not just a dating service,” he says, gesturing between himself and Namjoon. “This dating service.”
It takes Jeongguk a second. Then his eyes widen. “Wait—you’re telling me—”
Namjoon nods, the corner of his mouth curving into a fond smile as he glances at Seokjin. “We met through them. Ten years ago. A friend suggested it when I was too busy to socialize, and Jin was... well—”
“Desperate,” Seokjin supplies with a grin.
“I was going to say optimistic,” Namjoon says dryly, and Seokjin nudges him in the ribs.
They laugh softly, their shared warmth filling the room in a way Jeongguk can’t quite define.
He looks between them—two people who somehow make seriousness and playfulness look like they were designed to coexist. It’s disarming, that kind of easy happiness.
“You’re serious,” Jeongguk says again, half in disbelief.
“As a market crash,” Namjoon replies, grinning. “Just... consider it, okay? Take some time off. Meet people. You can’t keep living in spreadsheets forever.”
“Think of it as a life investment,” Seokjin adds brightly. “Low risk, potentially high reward.”
Jeongguk shakes his head, smiling despite himself. “If I ever date, I’d rather sign a contract first.”
“Then this is perfect for you,” Namjoon says. “They practically make you do that.”
Seokjin laughs, and Namjoon pats Jeongguk’s shoulder as he rises. “Come on, let’s grab lunch before the trainees eat everything from the break room again.”
Jeongguk slips the card into his coat pocket. He tells himself it’s just to humor them—that he’ll probably forget about it before the day ends.
But even as he follows them out of the room, he feels the faint weight of it pressing against his chest pocket—a quiet, persistent reminder that even the most calculated lives can be easily nudged off-balance.
જ⁀➴
The rest of the day passes in clean, efficient lines. Numbers slide neatly into place, charts find their symmetry, and the low hum of the office fades as one by one, people pack up and head home to lives that exist beyond these walls.
Jeongguk stays.
By the time the clock on his monitor hits 7:04, the building has thinned into silence. The city outside glows in shades of gold and violet, its skyline reflected in his office glass like a world just out of reach. He’s still typing—not because it’s urgent, but because stopping feels stranger than continuing.
The conversation from earlier lingers, soft but insistent. Namjoon’s gentle tone, Seokjin’s grin, that glossy business card tucked into his wallet. Guaranteed, it had said. The word should comfort him—predictability, results, certainty—but instead, it feels like a promise too clean for something as unpredictable as love.
A knock breaks the quiet.
“Still here, huh?”
Jeongguk looks up. Yoongi leans against the doorframe, sleeves rolled to his elbows, coat slung over his shoulder. His hair is a little messier than it was this morning, but he wears that same calm, unreadable expression that always makes people underestimate him—right until he opens his mouth.
Jeongguk gives a small smile. “Just finishing up.”
“Of course you are.” Yoongi steps inside, dropping lazily into one of the armchairs. “Some of the guys are heading out for dinner. You wanna tag along? We can go drinking right after.”
Jeongguk hesitates, his cursor blinking accusingly at him from the open spreadsheet. “I’ll meet you at the bar instead.”
Yoongi’s mouth curves, halfway between fond and exasperated. “Naturally. Can’t risk being seen eating real food with other humans.”
Jeongguk huffs a quiet laugh. “Something like that. Just text me where to meet you.”
Yoongi pushes himself up with a small groan. “Fine. But don’t flake out on me. I’m counting on you for moral support after the day I just had with the trainees.”
“I’ll be there,” Jeongguk promises.
Yoongi studies him for a moment, something knowing in his gaze. Then he nods once and leaves, the door closing softly behind him.
For a few minutes, Jeongguk just sits there, fingers hovering over the keyboard. The office hums with the quiet pulse of the city—air conditioning, distant traffic, the faint hum of lights. Everything feels a little too still.
He rubs his eyes, and suddenly the fatigue hits—heavy and dull.
At 9:02, he finally powers down his monitor. The screen goes black, his reflection faintly ghosted in the glass. He reaches for his jacket, draping it over one arm, and steps out into the corridor.
The floor is dim, most lights already off. The only sounds are the soft squeak of the janitor’s mop and the low buzz of the vending machine down the hall.
“Working late again, Jeongguk-ssi?” the janitor calls with a chuckle, wringing out the mop.
Jeongguk offers a polite smile. “Just wrapping up for the week.”
“Every week, you say that,” the man replies good-naturedly. “It’s Friday, you know. Go enjoy yourself for once.”
Jeongguk laughs quietly, dipping his head. “I’m trying.”
He steps into the elevator, the doors sliding shut on the echo of the man’s chuckle.
Down in the basement, his Lexus waits in its designated slot, glossy and obedient beneath the white overhead lights. Jeongguk slides into the driver’s seat, the leather cool against his palms. The act of driving home is mechanical—familiar turns, predictable lights, muscle memory steering him through the evening traffic.
By the time he pulls into his apartment’s basement parking, the city has fully slipped into night. The air above still carries that distinct Friday buzz—the sound of distant horns and laughter, the faint scent of fried street food mingling with exhaust.
He guides the car into his spot, cuts the engine, and then simply stays put, letting the sudden, quiet hum that follows wash over him. After the city’s constant noise, the return to silence is a strange, profound comfort.
He finally moves, grabbing his jacket and tossing it over one arm before stepping out onto the cold concrete. The soft beep of the locked car confirms his presence, and he adjusts his coat, the quick, practiced motion signaling the end of his workday.
As he heads toward the elevators, the doors slide open. He steps into the empty car and presses the lobby button. Just as the doors begin to hiss shut, his phone buzzes. He pulls it out, the screen’s glow sharp against the dim elevator lighting.
YOONGI:
Tony Montana’s.
Get your ass here asap.
Jeongguk huffs a quiet laugh, his thumb hovering over the screen. He checks his watch—9:32 PM. The bar is a fifteen-minute walk, tucked just a few blocks down the main street. Close enough to be an easy 'yes,' and close enough that he doesn't have to worry about the car.
He taps out a quick reply as the elevator begins to rise.
JEONGGUK:
Already on my way.
The elevator doors open, and he walks out into the block’s front doors.
The streets are alive in that Friday-night way that makes Seoul feel both too big and perfectly small. Neon signs blink lazily in the spring air; laughter spills from restaurant doors; couples brush shoulders as they pass. Jeongguk walks through it all at an unhurried pace, hands in his pockets, the rhythm of the city settling around him like a low, familiar heartbeat.
For once, there’s no rush. No deadline waiting on the other side of the evening. Just the simple, foreign thought of being out.
When he reaches Tony Montana’s, warm light spills onto the pavement—a golden haze against the dark. The low thrum of music, dominated by smooth R&B, seeps through the brick walls, mingling with the sound of chatter and clinking glasses.
The moment he steps inside, the air wraps around him—thick with laughter, perfume, and that distinct sweetness of spilled beer. It’s crowded but cozy; the walls are lined with dark, worn brick or rough wood paneling, and the lighting comes from exposed Edison bulbs hanging low over the tables. The booths along the perimeter are full, forcing most patrons to cram around small, circular metal tables clustered across the slightly sticky floor. It feels lived-in, loud, and delightfully disorganized.
Yoongi spots him instantly from across the room, one hand raised in lazy greeting from a corner booth. There’s a bottle of beer already waiting on the table, beads of condensation trailing down the glass.
“Oh, bless you, Hyung,” Jeongguk says with a low laugh as he slides into the booth, picking up the bottle and taking a long, grateful gulp.
Yoongi watches, one brow lifting as the younger man nearly drains half the bottle in one go. “And here I thought I was the one who needed a drink.” He sets his own glass down and looks closely at Jeongguk. “You’ve been quiet since the Kims pulled you aside after the meeting. Everything alright, or are you still mulling over whatever they cornered you about?”
Jeongguk exhales, setting the bottle down with a soft clink. “It’s ridiculous, I tell you. Beyond ridiculous.”
Yoongi leans back, rolling the bottle between his palms. “Elaborate.”
“They think I’m… working too much,” Jeongguk says, a little incredulous, as if the very idea tastes foreign in his mouth. “They heavily implied that I need to ‘get a life’ and even went as far as suggesting—” he pauses, his face twisting as if he can’t believe he’s saying it out loud, “—a dating service.”
That earns a short, surprised laugh from Yoongi, low and warm. “Well,” he says, taking a sip, “they’re not entirely wrong.”
Jeongguk blinks at him. “Oh God, not you too—”
Yoongi lifts a finger. “I’m just saying. I’ve been trying to get you to loosen up for years. Go out more. Mingle. Maybe even—dare I say it—date someone.”
Jeongguk frowns lightly. “I have dated before, you know.”
Yoongi’s eyebrow arches. “Yeah, past tense. I’m talking about now.”
“I’m fine,” Jeongguk says quickly, which only makes Yoongi’s smirk deepen.
“Sure,” Yoongi drawls. “You know, Jieun’s single. You could always—”
“I’m not going to date anyone from the team.”
“Jieun’s at the front desk,” Yoongi points out, tone maddeningly reasonable. “Technically, she’s not really part of the team so there shouldn’t be any complications.”
“Hyung.”
Yoongi snorts into his drink, the sound low and fond. “Alright, alright. Message received. No office romance.” He tips his beer in mock surrender. “But at least think about what they said, yeah? You’ve been running on the same treadmill for years, Gguk-ah. Wake up, work, eat, sleep, repeat. You’re only twenty-eight—you’ve got time to be more than just your job.”
Jeongguk leans back, fingers tracing the condensation on his bottle. “I’m content.”
“Content,” Yoongi repeats, as though testing the word. “That’s just another way of saying you stopped looking for anything better.”
Jeongguk glances up, startled by how gently it’s said. Yoongi’s gaze isn’t teasing anymore—it’s steady, threaded with quiet sincerity that only surfaces when he really means something.
“Look,” Yoongi continues, “I’m not saying you have to fall in love right away. Just… give it a chance. Sign up for this matchmaking thing. Try dating again. Let yourself want something that isn’t a quarterly report.”
Jeongguk huffs a soft laugh, trying to disguise how the words settle somewhere heavier in his chest. “You sound like Namjoon-hyung.”
“Please,” Yoongi mutters, rolling his eyes. “If I start quoting self-help books, you’re allowed to hit me.”
That draws a real laugh out of Jeongguk—quiet but genuine, like something easing loose between them.
The conversation drifts after that, slipping into lighter things: office gossip, new music releases, the intern who keeps misplacing reports. It’s easy, familiar, the kind of talk that doesn’t demand much. Bottles clink softly between them, the amber liquid shrinking with every pour.
Outside, the city hums—muffled traffic, the low thrum of neon against the windows. Inside, the air grows hazy with warmth and noise; someone at another table bursts into laughter, a song changes on the speakers.
Time stretches without them noticing. Yoongi’s tie has loosened, Jeongguk’s sleeves are rolled up, and the earlier tension feels like it’s been quietly dissolved into the bottom of their glasses.
A little while later, the door swings open and a group of men tumble in, loud and familiar. One of them spots Yoongi immediately.
“Hyung! We made it!”
Yoongi twists in his seat, grin spreading wide. “Yijeong-ah! Didn’t think you’d actually show up!”
The group pulls a few chairs from a nearby table, the scrape of wood and chatter briefly overtaking the music. Yijeong leans against the their booth, clapping Yoongi on the back before signaling toward the billiard tables in the back, where the green felt glows faintly under the overhead lights.
“Come on, we’ve got a spot open,” he says. “Loser buys the next round.”
Yoongi laughs, half rising from his seat before glancing at Jeongguk. “You coming?”
Jeongguk shakes his head, half-smiling. “I’ll just finish this and head home. Been a long week.”
“Alright,” Yoongi says, tone understanding. He reaches out, gives Jeongguk’s shoulder a light, sympathetic pat. “Don’t brood too much. I’ll check in on you later.”
Jeongguk waves him off, but there’s affection in it. “Yeah, yeah.”
He watches Yoongi walk away—watches how easily he fits into the crowd, laughing with Yijeong, shoulders brushing, heads close over the pool table as they line up their shots. There’s a comfortable ease in the way they move together, something warm and unspoken that doesn’t need defining.
Jeongguk turns his attention back to his beer. Around him, the bar hums with life—clinking glasses, bursts of laughter, soft music weaving between conversations. Every booth is full. Every corner, occupied. People leaning in, hands touching, stories spilling freely.
And him? He sits alone in the middle of it all, quietly watching.
It doesn’t bother him. Not exactly. It’s just… noticeable tonight, in a way it usually isn’t. Maybe it’s the beer, or Yoongi’s words still lingering in his head. Maybe it’s the sight of everyone else fitting somewhere.
He exhales, long and quiet, then tips the bottle back and finishes the last of his beer. The liquid burns slightly going down, leaving a faint warmth that doesn’t quite reach his chest.
After a moment, he signals the waiter, pays for both his and Yoongi’s tab, and slips out into the cool night.
The streets are calmer now, the neon lights softer, their glow catching in puddles left from an earlier drizzle. His footsteps echo faintly against the pavement as he walks home, hands shoved into his coat pockets, the taste of beer still lingering on his tongue.
Behind him, Tony Montana’s fades into the distance—its laughter, its music, its warmth.
Ahead of him, Seoul stretches endlessly, bright and busy and alive.
And Jeongguk walks through it, steady and alone.
By the time he reaches his apartment building, the streets have quieted to a low murmur of distant traffic and wind. The security guard at the lobby nods at him out of habit; Jeongguk nods back. Upstairs, the digital lock blinks green, and the door clicks open to reveal a dark, silent apartment that smells faintly of coffee and paper.
He toes off his shoes at the entrance and sets his keys neatly on the console table. His phone buzzes once.
YOONGI:
Thanks for the beers.
Got home safe?
He quickly types back.
JEONGGUK:
Yeah.
Don’t let Yijeong-hyung beat you at pool.
A few dots blink in reply, then stop. Jeongguk smiles faintly to himself, pockets the phone, and exhales.
The apartment feels cavernous tonight. Every surface gleams, every object in its place, everything as it should be—and yet somehow, it feels like walking into a museum version of his own life.
He toes off his shoes by the door and pads to the sofa, dropping onto it with a quiet sigh. The leather creaks beneath him, and the silence settles thickly around him, familiar and heavy.
A low rumble from his stomach cuts through it.
Right. Dinner.
He pulls out his phone and opens Baemin, scrolling through the endless parade of glossy food photos—ramyeon slick with chili oil, bubbling kimchi jjigae, crisp golden dakgangjeong. His thumb hesitates, hovering as if the choice actually matters.
Something quick. Something easy. Something greasy enough to soak up what’s left of the beer sitting warm in his stomach.
He ends up ordering the same thing as always—Shake Shack burger, fries, milkshake, and a side of chicken bites.
For one. Always for one.
While waiting, he flicks on the TV, landing on Culinary Class Wars—his comfort show, the one where chefs shout at each other over stolen scallops and poor planning. The familiar chaos hums through the room, all sizzling pans and bleeped-out swearing. It’s noise—manufactured and harmless. But it fills the quiet well enough.
The doorbell rings twenty minutes later. He pushes himself up, a soft groan escaping as he crosses the cool floor. The delivery guy hands over a warm brown paper bag, the smell of fried chicken and grilled beef rising in a comforting wave. Jeongguk murmurs a polite thank you before retreating inside.
He eats at the coffee table, the light from the TV flickering across his face in quick bursts of color—blue when the flames flare, gold when the judges smile, white when the camera cuts to slow-motion shots of steam. The food is greasy and hot, just enough to settle the faint buzz in his head and dull the edge of the night.
When the last fry is gone and the episode fades to credits, silence creeps back in like a tide returning to claim what’s left. The wrappers rustle faintly in the air-conditioning, an echo of what little sound remains.
Jeongguk leans back against the sofa, stomach full but unsatisfied, gaze catching on the dark TV screen. His reflection stares back—soft, tired, framed by the city’s glow beyond the glass. For a fleeting second, he imagines another set of wrappers beside his, a second drink sweating on the table. Someone humming in the kitchen, a laugh drifting from the hallway. Something alive that isn’t him, isn’t the TV.
But, of course, there’s no one.
It wasn’t like he hadn’t tried.
He’d had a serious girlfriend once—someone who laughed too loudly, who booked flights to Jeju at midnight just because she wanted to see the sea, who bought handbags on a whim and called it self-care. Six months of soft chaos before her spontaneity crashed headfirst into his spreadsheets. She said he took life too seriously. He said she treated it like a game.
Later, a brief fling with a guy who told him to “stop planning love like a project.” That ended the moment Jeongguk realized he didn’t know how not to.
When they broke up, he told himself it was mutual. But it wasn’t. He’d simply gone quiet, like he always did, and buried the mess somewhere he wouldn’t have to feel it.
He’d decided then that stability was better than heartbreak. That peace was just another word for control.
But tonight, the silence doesn’t sound like peace. It sounds like lack.
With a sigh, he rises and gathers the trash, methodically cleaning the space until it looks untouched again. When he’s done, he stands in the middle of his living room, the city lights faintly spilling through the blinds, and feels… suspended.
It’s Friday night. He should be looking forward to the weekend, but there’s nothing to look forward to. No plans, no one waiting. His routine tomorrow will be the same as always—groceries, laundry, a jog by Han River, a call to his mother. He checks his phone anyway, more out of habit than hope.
The screen lights up to the same emptiness as always. No new messages. Just a line of unread notifications from the family group chat and Yoongi’s last text, now hours old.
The weight of it presses down quietly, not enough to crush, just enough to ache.
Yoongi’s voice echoes in his head:
“Just… give it a chance. Sign up for this matchmaking thing. Try dating again. Let yourself want something that isn’t a quarterly report.”
He exhales through his nose, almost a scoff. “Ridiculous.”
But when he slips his hand into his pocket, his fingers brush against the faint crinkle of cardstock. He pulls it out—the SeoulMatch Co. business card, bent at the corner.
Your SeoulMate, Guaranteed.
The slogan makes him huff out a disbelieving laugh. “Guaranteed, huh?”
He turns it over, the embossed logo catching the light, and for reasons he can’t explain, carries it to his desk. His monitor flickers to life, screen illuminating the dark room in cool light.
Jeongguk pulls the website up on his monitor. He had expected something garish or desperation-tinged, but the landing page of SeoulMatch Co. is none of that. It's simple and elegant—all soothing white space and soft gradients, broken only by a single, carefully posed image of a smiling couple holding hands across the screen.
Beneath the logo, the text scrolls in a graceful, expensive-looking typography. Jeongguk reads the core message:
Matchmaking for connection. Coaching for confidence.
SeoulMatch Co. helps you find love—or learn why you haven’t yet.
The text continues, outlining the process with a direct, almost corporate efficiency that appeals to him:
Choose the service that fits your heart’s readiness.
Guaranteed results by your fifth date—or your money back.
Farther down, glowing testimonials slide across the page:
“Never thought love could be this easy.”
“They understood what I wanted better than I did.”
“Worth every won.”
At the bottom, a clean, green button pulses softly:
Book a consultation today.
Jeongguk stares at it.
“This is fucking crazy,” he mutters.
But his cursor doesn’t move.
He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms only to immediately uncross them, then runs a restless hand through his hair.
Close the tab.
That was the sensible, predictable thing to do. The thing he should do.
He wants to close the tab. He just can't seem to bring himself to do so.
Maybe it’s the leftover buzz from the beers earlier, or the Kims’ grins still echoing in his head—but reason feels lighter than usual tonight.
His mouse drifts—slow, deliberate—toward the glowing button.
Click.
જ⁀➴
The next morning…
The sky over Seoul is a clear, polished blue—the kind that almost dares you to have a good day.
It’s 10 AM, and Jeongguk’s Lexus hums smoothly down the wide streets of Cheongdam-dong, sunlight flashing across glass towers and boutique storefronts. To anyone else, this would be too early for a Saturday, especially after a night out. But Jeongguk doesn’t know what sleeping in feels like. His body has long since abandoned the concept of rest for routine.
By now, his morning has already been lived through with the precision of a checklist—laundry done, floors vacuumed, breakfast logged, jog completed. And yet, there’s an unfamiliar flutter under his ribs as he drives, the kind that not even the second cup of coffee (or maybe the third) has managed to settle. The confirmation text from SeoulMatch Co. had arrived at exactly 8 AM.
Your consultation is confirmed for 10:30 AM. See you soon!
He’d stared at the confirmation text for five whole minutes, his thumb hovering over the Send button right above the words "Cancel appointment" that he had already typed out. Then, like a man doomed by his own reliability, he sighed and got ready. Cancelling an appointment—even one he didn’t really want—felt fundamentally wrong.
Responsibility, it turns out, is a trap.
By the time he pulls into a metered spot near a row of glossy glass-front buildings, the clock on his dashboard reads 10:12. He kills the engine and just sits there for a moment, gripping the steering wheel as if it might provide moral support.
“This is so stupid,” he mutters under his breath, exhaling through his nose.
His reflection in the rearview mirror looks maddeningly composed—navy shirt neatly pressed, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, black slacks sharp enough to pass for a weekday meeting. A man dressed for professionalism, even when heading into what he still half-suspects is a scam.
Still, curiosity—mixed with caffeine-induced jitters—nudges him forward.
He steps out of the car, locks it, and straightens his shirt as if bracing for impact. The morning air is mild, scented faintly with cherry blossoms from a nearby street vendor. A few steps later, he’s standing before the glass façade of SeoulMatch Co., with a minimalist heart logo, the company name, and slogan all etched in silver script across the door.
He almost laughs. It looks even more ridiculous in person.
When he pushes through the glass doors, a gentle chime announces his arrival. The first thing he notices is how clean the air smells—cotton and white tea, like the inside of a hotel lobby. Everything gleams in subtle shades of white and pale beige, interrupted only by touches of gold trim and soft greenery. It’s sleek and modern, almost clinical—but not cold. There’s a hum of warmth beneath the surface, like a smile that doesn’t quite show teeth.
Jeongguk’s gaze sweeps across the reception area—an immaculate marble counter, a row of plush cream chairs, a discreetly placed coffee station. The place feels… intentional, as if someone designed it to make you let your guard down.
“Good morning!”
The voice is rich, bright, and immediately disarming. Behind the counter stands a man so striking it takes Jeongguk half a second to respond. He’s dressed in a charcoal-grey suit that fits a little too perfectly, his dark hair styled in an artful wave, and that grin—wide, boxy, and impossibly warm—belongs on a billboard.
“Welcome to SeoulMatch Co.!” the man continues. “Do you have an appointment today, or are you here to change your love life on impulse?”
Jeongguk blinks, momentarily thrown off. “Uh—appointment. Ten-thirty.”
The man’s grin widens. “Perfect. You must be Jeon Jeongguk-ssi.” He types swiftly into his tablet, the corners of his mouth twitching like he already knows a secret. “You’re right on time. Our consultants will be thrilled. Most people running late for these are the ones who need us most.”
Jeongguk lets out a soft, awkward laugh. “Guess punctuality is my only redeeming quality.”
“Oh, I doubt that,” the man says smoothly, sliding him a clipboard with a registration form. “I’m Kim Taehyung, by the way—front desk, emotional support, occasional fashion critic. Welcome aboard.”
Jeongguk mutters a quiet, “Thanks,” taking the clipboard like it might bite.
“Just a quick log of your details,” Taehyung explains, pointing out the blank lines. “Name, number, email, existential dread level—kidding. Just the first three.”
Jeongguk huffs out something close to a laugh and carefully fills in his information, his handwriting neat and angled. He pauses halfway through his email address when the door chimes again.
The sound is followed by a small flurry of noise—a rushed shuffle of sneakers, a breathless apology, and the soft jingle of metal tags.
“Sorry, sorry, I know I’m late!”
Jeongguk glances up—and his eyes widen.
A man with honey-blond hair bursts through the doorway, carrying a small corgi puppy in his arms like it’s an explosive he’s desperately trying not to drop. He’s all soft colors and loose lines: a blue oversized cardigan that swallows his frame, striped shirt, cut-off denim shorts, long white socks, and sneakers that have definitely seen better days. A backpack hangs off one shoulder, half-zipped, threatening to spill its contents at any moment.
Jeongguk’s brain, ever the efficient processor, momentarily fails to categorize what he’s looking at.
“My neighbor had an emergency,” he explains between breaths, “and needed me to dogsit Peanut Butter again—but I can't leave him alone all day because of work, and he'll cry, and it breaks my heart, so—”
“Peanut Butter?” Jeongguk echoes under his breath, looking mildly alarmed.
Taehyung, sitting behind the reception desk, rises to take the puppy—who immediately starts wagging his tail and licking his chin—with practiced ease. “Oh, I totally understand. He's adorable, of course you had to bring him.”
The man beams at him, all sunshine and relief. “You’re a lifesaver, Taehyung-ah. Seriously. I owe you big time.”
“Don’t mention it. I’ll look after him and keep him entertained. He can help me evaluate clients’ vibes,” Taehyung teases, scratching the puppy behind the ears.
The blond laughs—a bright, unrestrained sound that seems to spill into every corner of the room. “Perfect. He’s a great judge of character.” Then, as if only now realizing they’re not alone, he turns—and their eyes meet.
For a second, everything stills.
The man’s smile is open and effortless, the kind that comes naturally to people who don’t second-guess their warmth. “Hi.”
Jeongguk blinks once. “…Hi.”
“See you later,” the man says cheerfully, and before Jeongguk can respond, he’s already slipping through the frosted glass door behind the counter, disappearing into the hallway like a gust of misplaced energy.
The silence that follows feels almost louder than before until Peanut Butter sneezes softly in Taehyung’s arms.
Jeongguk clears his throat. “Was that—uh—a client?”
Taehyung looks up, amusement flickering across his face like sunlight on ripples. “No,” he says, tone deliberately light but with a hint of smugness. “That’s one of our consultants.”
“Consultant,” Jeongguk repeats, slow. “Right.”
“Mm-hm. Not available for matching, too, in case that was your next question.”
Jeongguk straightens immediately, almost affronted. “I wasn’t—I didn’t mean—”
Taehyung’s grin is mercilessly knowing. “Sure you didn’t.” He pats Peanut Butter’s head, who yips approvingly, as if siding with him.
Jeongguk glares mildly at the puppy.
“Anyway,” Taehyung continues breezily, reaching for a slim tablet and a black clipboard, “let’s get you settled in. I’ll walk you through how this all works and see what service suits your needs before I set you up with your consultant.”
He gestures for Jeongguk to follow him toward a cozy sitting area to the side—a cluster of low tables and cushioned chairs separated by leafy partitions. The faint hum of soft jazz filters through hidden speakers, unobtrusive yet oddly comforting.
As Jeongguk trails behind him, the rhythmic tap of his polished shoes contrasts the light scuffle of Peanut Butter’s paws across the tile.
Taehyung gestures for him to take a seat, and Jeongguk lowers himself into the cushioned chair opposite him, the faint squeak of leather accompanying the motion. Peanut Butter immediately hops into Taehyung’s lap, curling into a loaf like he owns the place.
“Alright,” Taehyung begins brightly. He slides the tablet across the table toward Jeongguk. “Let’s walk you through what we offer, Jeongguk-ssi.”
Jeongguk straightens a little, fingers resting over his knees like he’s about to negotiate an investment portfolio rather than… this.
Taehyung swipes the screen with a flourish, the company’s logo giving way to three tidy panels, each labeled neatly with soft gradients and elegant fonts.
Matchmaking Service — ₩9M.
Match Registration — ₩5M.
Coaching Service — ₩7M.
“This is our holy trinity,” Taehyung says, tapping each one in turn. “All different paths to the same goal—connection.”
He gives Jeongguk a quick, appraising smile. “I’m guessing you’re here for one of the first two.”
Jeongguk arches a brow. “How do you even know?”
“Well,” Taehyung replies easily, “you’re punctual, put-together, exude mild anxiety—classic matchmaking energy.”
Jeongguk exhales through his nose, fighting the twitch of a reluctant smile. “I see.”
“So,” Taehyung continues, undeterred, “with the Matchmaking Service, we handle everything for you—matching, scheduling, reporting. It’s structured, efficient, and guaranteed. Think of it like—”
“A subscription plan for romance,” Jeongguk mutters.
“Exactly! Only more effective than Netflix,” Taehyung says, beaming. Peanut Butter yips once, as if in agreement.
Jeongguk glances at the corgi. “Does he get a commission too?”
“Only in treats,” Taehyung replies smoothly, scratching behind the pup’s ear. “Anyway, this is our most popular. It comes with five guaranteed dates—all curated based on compatibility, lifestyle, and personal preferences. You’ll have a consultant assigned to guide you, track your progress, and debrief after each date. By the end of the fifth, you’ll have either found your person…” He spreads his hands dramatically. “Or your money back.”
Jeongguk blinks. “You’re serious about the guarantee?”
“Oh, absolutely. We haven’t had a single client reach Date Five without success.”
Jeongguk tilts his head slightly. “Sounds like you’re betting on a perfect record.”
“Not betting,” Taehyung replies, grinning. “Maintaining.”
He swipes to the next panel. “Now, our Match Registration program is the flip side. That’s for people who want to be in the pool—potential matches for our Matchmaking Service clients. It’s more affordable, but also slower. Some people meet someone in a week, others… well.” He shrugs. “It’s kind of like waiting for your Hogwarts letter.”
Jeongguk hums noncommittally.
Taehyung swipes to the last panel. “Now, our Coaching Service is more of a hands-on experience. It’s for people who want to work on their approach—confidence, conversation, how to create moments that spark connection. Think of it as fine-tuning before you hit the field.”
He tilts his head thoughtfully. “Although, between us, you don’t strike me as the type who struggles with confidence. Maybe overthinks it, sure, but that’s different.”
Jeongguk gives him a look that says—thanks, I guess.
Taehyung smirks, clearly pleased with himself, like he’s just read Jeongguk’s entire personality off a balance sheet.
Jeongguk exhales through his nose, half in amusement, half in defeat. Typical. Even here, someone’s got him figured out in five minutes.
He shifts in his seat, gaze flicking back to the tablet. Numbers always make more sense than people, and this—this he can quantify. ₩9M is steep, but ₩5M just to wait? He’d rather throw money at something with a timeline attached. At least there, he could measure progress—five dates, five data points. It’s almost… efficient.
The coaching option barely registers. He doesn’t need lessons on how to talk to people; he talks to people all day. Reports, presentations, negotiations—it’s just context. If love really is a numbers game, then structure makes more sense than spontaneity.
Still, the absurdity of the situation is not lost on him.
He’s really sitting here, in a sleek white office that smells like cotton and citrus, being pitched a relationship plan by a man with a designer suit and a corgi.
He can almost hear Yoongi’s voice again: “Just give it a chance.”
He sighs softly. “I’ll go with the matchmaking service.”
Taehyung’s smile widens like a light turning on. “Brilliant!” Peanut Butter barks once more, apparently thrilled. “You’re going for our flagship. Excellent choice.”
As Taehyung inputs the selection, he adds casually, “Now, I do have to recommend—strongly, by the way—our one-hour coaching add-on before each date. It’s a flat rate of ₩1M for the service, taught by our top consultant. Helps with confidence, body language, reading signals—”
“I’ll take it,” Jeongguk interrupts, a resigned edge to his voice.
“Just like that?”
Jeongguk shrugs. “At this point, I might as well go all in.”
Taehyung grins. “I like your commitment.”
He turns the clipboard toward Jeongguk, showing a pristine printed contract. The embossed company logo glows faintly at the top.
“The terms are simple,” Taehyung explains. “Once you sign the agreement, we then require the ₩5M down payment upfront. This means you are committed to all five dates: no mid-way cancellations, no cold feet. Refunds are only applicable after the fifth date if no match has been made—though again,” he leans back slightly, pride slipping into his tone, “we haven’t failed yet.”
Jeongguk’s eyes skim the contract. The language is tight, professional, as expected. He rereads each clause twice, because that’s what he does—he’s not the kind to sign things impulsively. His thumb hovers above the signature line for a long moment.
Five dates. Guaranteed or his money back.
It’s ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous.
And yet, here he is.
He exhales slowly. “You really haven’t failed yet?”
Taehyung meets his gaze with a confident smile, handing him a pen. “Not once.”
A beat of silence stretches between them. Then Jeongguk smooths the sheet, signs his name neatly along the line, and puts the pen down.
The black ink fades into permanence.
Taehyung grins, Peanut Butter gives a proud little bark, and Jeongguk sits back—unsure whether he’s just made a bold choice or the most expensive mistake of his life.
“Congratulations,” Taehyung says cheerfully, collecting the clipboard and tablet. “You’re officially part of the SeoulMatch family. Don’t worry, the initiation ritual is only mildly painful.”
Jeongguk huffs a laugh under his breath. “I’ll brace myself.”
Taehyung stands, gesturing for him to follow back toward the front desk. He produces a sleek little card reader with a flourish, sliding it across the counter. “Alright, that brings your total package, including coaching, to ₩10M.”
He taps the screen. “We’re ready for the initial ₩5M down payment. The remaining balance is due upon completion of the service—when we’ve successfully found your match.”
The word “successfully” sounds like a tax bracket, but Jeongguk still pulls out his black credit card. The soft beep that follows feels both satisfying and tragic. Somewhere, his responsible side weeps quietly.
He tells himself it’s an investment—in stability, in companionship, in finally shutting Yoongi and the Kims up.
If only it didn’t feel like he’d just bought a very expensive lottery ticket.
“All set!” Taehyung chirps, tucking the receipt neatly into a folder. “Come on, let’s get you profiled.”
They walk down a short hallway further in lined with framed photos—smiling couples caught in candid laughter, engagement shots, even a few family portraits. A few motivational quotes adorn the walls in minimalist fonts: Fortune and love favor the brave.
It all feels very… intentional. Too curated to be cozy, yet undeniably hopeful.
Taehyung stops in front of a glass door frosted with the company logo. “Here we are—Consultation Room Three.” He pushes the door open and gestures Jeongguk inside.
Jeongguk steps into the room, and Taehyung follows. Peanut Butter trots in after them, tail wagging like he owns the place. He sniffs the corner of the rug and lets out a small approving chuff before plopping himself beside a chair—a tiny, judgmental chaperone in corgi form.
“Coffee? Tea? Emotional support biscuit?” Taehyung offers.
“I’m good,” Jeongguk says, shaking his head. “Had… plenty of coffee already.”
“Ah, that explains the micro-vibrations,” Taehyung teases lightly. He bends, scooping Peanut Butter back into his arms. “Come on, little man. Let’s leave our new client to silently question his life choices in peace.”
The corgi yips, as if in farewell.
Taehyung grins over his shoulder as he heads out. “Go ahead and get comfortable, Jeongguk-ssi. Your assigned consultant will be with you in a moment.”
The door clicks shut behind them, and quiet settles over the room—bright, neat, and faintly sterile—while a soft instrumental hum floats through hidden speakers. On the wall hangs a framed photo of a same-sex couple holding hands at Namsan Tower, the caption below reading, “Thank you, SeoulMatch. You made it happen.”
Jeongguk stares at it for a beat longer than he intends, unsure if it’s meant to be comforting or haunting.
He straightens as the door opens again.
A different energy flows in—warm, unhurried, quietly radiant. The man who steps inside is the same one from earlier, only now dressed in a crisp white shirt and fitted black vest with matching pants. The honey-blond hair catches the light as he offers a polite bow, tablet cradled in his arm, a soft smile curving his lips.
Jeongguk's mind blanks for a beat.
Right. The puppy guy.
Except now, without the chaotic entrance and the corgi as a distraction, Jeongguk notices things he hadn't before. The way this man moves—fluid and unhurried, like he's never in a rush but always exactly where he needs to be. The slight tilt of his head when he smiles, the kind that makes it feel like he's sharing a secret. The way his eyes crinkle at the corners, warm and disarming in a way that bypasses every logical defense Jeongguk usually keeps up.
It's... distracting.
"Hi again," the man says easily, voice lilting with that kind of natural charm people can't teach. "I'm Park Jimin—your assigned dating consultant."
Of course he is.
Jeongguk stands a little straighter, trying not to look as startled as he feels. "Jeon Jeongguk," he replies. They exchange a small, polite bow, followed by a brief, firm handshake.
Jimin's hand is warm, his grip confident but not aggressive. Jeongguk finds himself noticing the silver rings on his fingers, the faint calluses on his palm—small details that don't fit the polished consultant image but somehow make him more real.
"I know," Jimin says with a teasing smile, and Jeongguk realizes he's been holding the handshake a second too long. He pulls back quickly, clearing his throat.
Jimin gestures toward the chair, amusement flickering in his eyes like he knows but won't say anything. "Please, have a seat."
Jeongguk takes the chair, grateful for something to do with his hands as he adjusts his watch. Jimin settles into the one opposite him with an easy grace that makes the movement look effortless.
"So—Matchmaking Service, with the one-hour pre-date coaching add-on," Jimin continues, glancing at the tablet. "That's quite the combo package."
Jeongguk clears his throat. "Figured… might as well go all in."
"Love that attitude," Jimin says brightly, tapping something on his screen. The way he says it—genuine, not patronizing—catches Jeongguk off guard again. Most people would make it sound condescending, but Jimin makes it feel like encouragement.
"Alright, we'll start simple. I'll just ask a few basic questions first to build your profile, okay?"
"Sure."
Jimin scrolls down, stylus poised. "Age?"
"Twenty-eight."
"Star sign?"
"Virgo."
Jimin hums approvingly, and something about the sound—low and thoughtful—makes Jeongguk's pulse tick up inexplicably. "Ah, makes perfect sense. Structured. Detail-oriented. Emotionally constipated."
Jeongguk blinks. "…Excuse me?"
Jimin looks up, grin playful but not unkind. "Kidding. Mostly." He taps his tablet again, and Jeongguk finds himself caught between indignation and reluctant amusement. "Let's continue, shall we? Your height?"
"One seventy-eight."
"Orientation?"
Jeongguk hesitates, fingers fidgeting slightly on his knee. "I'm bisexual… male-leaning, I guess," he says, voice quieter than before—like he's testing the words on his tongue for the first time in a while.
Jimin nods once, expression softening for a flicker. "Good to know," he says simply, jotting it down without fanfare. No follow-up questions, no judgment, just easy acceptance. It's... unexpectedly comforting.
"Occupation?"
"Senior financial analyst at Kim² Financial Holdings."
Jimin whistles low. "Ooh. So you handle the money while other people spend it, huh?"
"That's… one way to put it."
"Hey, we all have our talents." Jimin flashes another grin, tapping the tablet. There's something about the way he engages—quick-witted but never mean, teasing but never cruel—that keeps Jeongguk perpetually off-balance in a way he's not used to. "Alright—hobbies?"
"Running. Cooking sometimes. Reading."
Jimin glances up, eyes gleaming mischievously. "Running, huh? That tracks."
Jeongguk blinks. "What does?"
"You just look like the kind of guy who has a motivational poster of Wonho in his gym."
Jeongguk freezes, and he can feel heat creeping up his neck. "…I don't."
"You hesitated," Jimin teases, stylus poised dramatically.
"I was processing the absurdity of that statement."
"Sure you were," Jimin says, pretending to write something down. "Noted: inspired by Wonho's work ethic."
Jeongguk stares. "You're not seriously—"
"Oh, I'm very serious," Jimin says, fighting back a laugh. "This is very scientific data collection, Jeongguk-ssi."
And there it is again—that disarming warmth, the playfulness that somehow doesn't feel invasive. Jeongguk finds himself wanting to protest, to defend his dignity, but the corner of his mouth betrays him with the smallest twitch.
Jeongguk exhales slowly, choosing peace over engagement. "Next question."
"Let's circle back to the 'reading' first," Jimin continues smoothly, as if nothing happened. "What genre?"
"Mostly nonfiction. Finance, behavioral psychology…" Jeongguk pauses. "…and some fiction."
"Fiction, huh? Romantic fiction or pie-chart thrillers?"
Jeongguk blinks. "That can't be real."
"They should be," Jimin says, completely deadpan.
Jeongguk tilts his head, studying him. The way Jimin holds a straight face for exactly three seconds before the smile breaks through is... unexpectedly endearing. "Are you profiling me or mocking me?"
"Little of both," Jimin says cheerfully.
It's hard to be annoyed—the warmth in his voice takes the sting out of every jab. Jeongguk realizes with mild alarm that he's actually enjoying this.
Jimin scrolls to the next section. "Alright. Now, tell me about your ideal match. Personality, appearance, habits—whatever matters to you."
Jeongguk exhales, thinking. "Someone responsible. Grounded. No wild impulses. Someone who plans things out instead of rushing into them."
"Got it," Jimin murmurs, jotting notes. "No spontaneity, no chaos, no fun."
Jeongguk narrows his eyes. "That's not what I said."
"It's what I heard," Jimin says lightly, then gestures for him to continue. There's a glint in his eye that suggests he's filing this information away for reasons Jeongguk can't quite pin down.
The thought stops Jeongguk, who suddenly realizes how clinical he sounds. He seems like he's talking about a financial portfolio instead of a person. But isn't that the point? Compatibility is just another form of risk assessment. Shared values, aligned goals, predictable outcomes.
He clears his throat, pressing forward.
"Someone stable," Jeongguk says firmly. "And I'd prefer no tattoos."
At that, Jimin pauses—then slowly looks down. One perfectly arched brow lifts.
Jeongguk follows his gaze to the ink running along his own forearm, peeking from beneath his sleeve.
A beat of silence.
Jimin's lips twitch. "Interesting."
"What?" Jeongguk asks, wary.
"Nothing," Jimin says, tapping the tablet again, expression unreadable except for the faintest glimmer of amusement. "Purely hypothetical—if someone did have tattoos, would that be a dealbreaker, or just a mild red flag?"
"I didn't say red flag," Jeongguk defends. "It just… reflects a certain mindset. One I've outgrown."
"Hmm." Jimin hums, smiling faintly. "Good to know. Noted: no spontaneous people with excellent taste in body art."
Jeongguk can't tell if he's being teased or tested. Probably both. And the fact that he's trying to figure it out at all is already more mental energy than he usually spends on strangers.
Jimin scrolls again, his stylus clicking lightly against the tablet. "Okay, let's talk ideal date settings. What does your perfect date look like? Restaurant? Walk in the park? Group tax seminar?"
Jeongguk gives him a dry look, but there's the ghost of a smile now. "Quiet places. Somewhere you can actually talk. Maybe a gallery, a garden, dinner at a nice restaurant. I like when there's structure—something to focus on."
"Structure," Jimin echoes with a grin. "Very Virgo of you."
"Or just functional," Jeongguk replies evenly. "It's easier to connect when you're not shouting over music."
"Fair point," Jimin concedes, typing quickly. "So quiet, intentional, grounded. Got it. No karaoke, no roller coasters, no unexpected fireworks displays."
Jeongguk huffs. "Not unless you mean literal fireworks."
Jimin's grin flashes, amused. "Alright, I'll save the pyrotechnics for Date Five."
Jeongguk raises a brow. "You're assuming I'll make it that far."
"You won't," Jimin says easily, tapping his screen like he's sealing a deal. "But regardless, we'll come prepared."
Jeongguk stills slightly. "…Meaning?"
"Meaning," Jimin says, grin widening just a touch, "we've always found a match before Date Five. You're here for results, and we deliver them—efficiently."
The line lingers between them—half assurance, half challenge—and Jeongguk isn't sure if he feels reassured or trapped. What he is sure of is that Jimin has a way of looking at him that makes him feel both seen and scrutinized, like he's already three steps ahead in a game Jeongguk didn't know they were playing.
Jimin brightens again. "Okay, one last thing on preferences—since you mentioned being bisexual and male-leaning, do you want me to prioritize men in your match pool? Or would you like to keep your options open to both?"
Jeongguk considers, thumb brushing the edge of his sleeve. "Keep it open to both, I think. I mean, I tend to be drawn to men more often, but…" He pauses, searching for the right words. "I don't want to limit myself based on assumptions. If there's genuine compatibility, gender isn't the deciding factor."
Jimin pauses, his expression softening into something thoughtful, almost impressed. "That's a good answer," he says quietly. Then, with a teasing lilt that breaks the momentary weight, "Very romantic, for someone who uses spreadsheets recreationally."
Jeongguk groans softly. "You're never going to let that go, are you?"
"Not a chance." Jimin's grin returns, bright and disarming, and Jeongguk finds himself smiling back before he can stop it.
A small silence settles between them—not uncomfortable, but charged with something Jeongguk can't quite name. He clears his throat. "And you're sure you're qualified for this job?"
Jimin arches a brow, amused. "You make it sound like I wandered in off the street."
"You were wrestling a corgi named Peanut Butter in the lobby," Jeongguk points out, and the words come easier now, almost like banter.
"Ah," Jimin says, his voice now entirely smooth, ignoring the history. "That was merely a brief, unavoidable logistical hiccup. And yes, you could say I'm newer to the role, but that doesn't affect my consulting skills one bit. My last client—who also happens to be my first—found their match by Date Two. Very high-profile. So don't count me out just yet, Jeongguk-ssi."
Jeongguk hums, unconvinced but clearly entertained. There's something disarming about Jimin's confidence—not arrogant, just certain in a way that feels earned rather than performed.
"Besides," Jimin says lightly, "you can relax. Client confidentiality is important here—I won't share anything that could compromise you or your matches. Though full disclosure," he adds with a small smile, "I do occasionally consult with my team about strategy. But that's for your benefit, not gossip."
Jeongguk nods slowly, appreciating that. "Professional. Good."
"Always," Jimin says lightly, though something in his tone sounds a little too sincere for how easily he smiles. "Okay—last logistical bit. Do you have any date-time preferences? Evenings? Weekends?"
"Saturdays and Sundays are fine. I work weekdays," Jeongguk says, almost reflexively.
"Perfect. Just a heads-up—you might need to take a few hours off the office for pre-date briefings and your coaching sessions."
"That won't be a problem," Jeongguk says, waving a hand dismissively. "My bosses will probably encourage it."
"Ah," Jimin says, eyes flicking up, playful again. "Kim Namjoon and Kim Seokjin. Our founding success story."
Jeongguk nearly chokes. "What—founding? So they really met here?"
Jimin smirks, winking. "They were one of our very first successful matches. They're essentially the living proof that SeoulMatch works."
Jeongguk exhales, pressing his lips together to hide a reluctant smile. "Right."
Jimin sets the tablet down and straightens, tone shifting to something more businesslike—but still warm. "Alright, I think I've got everything I need. I'll run your profile through the system soon."
He gestures slightly with his stylus. "The algorithm gives us a shortlist of potential matches based on your preferences and history. Then I go through each one manually—check tone, compatibility, emotional energy, all that. The boring-but-important stuff."
Jeongguk nods, intrigued despite himself. "So you get the final say?"
"Let's say I… nudge the algorithm in the right direction," Jimin replies with a wink. "And once we've found your best prospects, I help curate your date itineraries—venue, activity, ambiance. Everything's designed to bring out your best self."
"My best self?" Jeongguk echoes, brow raised.
"Mhm." Jimin leans back, smiling knowingly. "The version of you that maybe forgets to plan for once."
Jeongguk's mouth opens, then shuts. He exhales, conceding, "I can have fun."
"Good," Jimin says, standing smoothly, tucking the tablet under one arm. "I'll make sure your first few dates test that theory."
"Should I be worried?"
"Only if you hate surprises," Jimin says brightly. "And since you definitely do—maybe just… brace yourself."
Before Jeongguk can respond, Jimin's phone buzzes. He glances down, grimaces. "Oh, crap. I'm late for work. If you don't have any other questions, we can wrap up here."
Jeongguk blinks, momentarily thrown. "You're already at work."
"I meant my other job," Jimin explains, sheepish. "I'm moonlighting as a server for a luncheon later. I dabble—I'm a matchmaker one moment and a freelance gig worker the next. I take whatever comes up—day, night, it doesn't matter." He laughs, brushing a bit of lint from his vest. "It also explains why Taehyung at the front desk is dogsitting Peanut Butter today."
The mention of the corgi almost feels like a spell breaking—reminding Jeongguk where he is, and that this radiant, sharp-tongued consultant is still technically a stranger. A stranger who somehow managed to make him laugh more in thirty minutes than most people do in a week.
Jimin offers a final, easy smile. "I'll be in touch soon. Probably sooner than you think." He slides the tablet under his arm and rises. "I'll let the front desk know you're done."
With a quick, polite nod, he slips out of the room, leaving behind a faint scent of bergamot and coffee—and Jeongguk still sitting there, pulse steady but his mind strangely not.
He exhales, glancing around the consultation room as if it might offer answers. The blinds are half-drawn, sunlight painting soft stripes across the table where Jimin's tablet had been. It feels quieter now—like the air's shifted back to normal, but Jeongguk somehow hasn't.
He tells himself it's just the novelty of it all—the idea of handing his love life over to a stranger with crescent eyes and a database. But when he finally stands, straightening his cuffs and gathering his composure, there's a faint hum under his skin that wasn't there before.
It's the kind of feeling that comes from meeting someone who doesn't fit into any of his carefully labeled boxes. Someone who teases without cruelty, who listens without judgment, who somehow managed to disarm him without him even noticing it was happening.
Control, he reminds himself. He's good at that.
And yet, as he leaves the room, the ghost of Jimin's grin lingers like static—light, quick, and annoyingly hard to shake.
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