Happy birthday, yours truly
Pairing: non idol!Kyungsoo X black!reader
Warning: angst and fluff man, SA is mentioned, good ol coworker x coworker, grumpy boy x sunshine is always perfect, sehun mentioned cause that’s the loml right there.
Author note: I don’t even know what came over me when I wrote this-hell when I even came up with the idea. I just saw kyungsoo in these gifs and was like “he would be the perfect coworker crush” and then boom it clicked. Now I didn’t do spell check so if you come across a typo or something, my baddddd!! Also y/n in my fics will always be depicted as a black woman who is usually on the curvier side of the body type
Kyungsoo liked his job. No, “liked” was a woefully inadequate word; he revered it. His work was a sanctuary, a quiet, well-ordered universe where numbers were numeric deities and logic was the sacred law. He thrived in the hushed hum of the financial department, a symphony of tapping keyboards and the soft whir of servers that never talked back, never demanded emotional labor, never disrupted the serene flow of thought.
Balance sheets were puzzles he was born to solve, each column and row a piece in a grand, predictable mosaic. In the sprawling, often chaotic tapestry of existence, the world of finance offered a tightly woven thread of control, a rhythm he dictated with the precision of a master conductor. He could sit in his glass cubicle for hours, a monk in his cell, content to lose himself in the elegant dance of formulas, the satisfying symmetry of solved equations.
Here, every input had an output, every action a clear, quantifiable reaction. It was a haven from the unpredictable, a fort of certainty against the shifting sands of human emotion. The job wasn't just enough; it was everything, a perfectly safe harbor for a mind that craved absolute order.
It was the people, however, that were the jagged rocks threatening to capsize his perfectly balanced vessel. Their very existence felt like an affront to the quiet dignity of his chosen profession. His coworkers, a vibrant, often boisterous collective, seemed genetically predisposed to shattering the peace he so carefully cultivated. Their laughter in the breakroom wasn't joyous; it was a cacophonous bray that echoed off the sterile walls, grating against his nerves.
They held long, meandering conversations in the hallways, forming human logjams that forced him to either detour or navigate a path through their inconveniently placed bodies, each forced "excuse me" another tiny drain on his finite energy reserves.
And then there were the company dinners and outings, scheduled under the thin, transparent disguise of “team building.” To Kyungsoo, these were not opportunities for bonding but expertly crafted traps for forced smiles, insincere small talk, and wasted evenings he could have spent in the blessed solitude of his apartment, or better yet, meticulously reviewing next quarter's projections. He avoided them all with the cunning of a seasoned predator, unless, of course, the dreaded word "mandatory" appeared in crimson letters in an email subject line.
Politeness, he had long discovered, was an expensive currency, costing a profound amount of energy he’d rather conserve for the work that truly mattered, the numbers that truly obeyed.
There was, however, one very big exception to Kyungsoo’s meticulously constructed aversion to humanity. One singular, bewildering, utterly delightful anomaly that defied all logic, all order, all his carefully held principles:
She was, to his methodical mind, a walking, talking embodiment of summertime sun. Where Kyungsoo’s wardrobe consisted of a muted, almost monastic palette of grays, blacks, and the occasional deep navy, Y/n embraced color with an almost aggressive enthusiasm. Royal purple, a hue so bold it practically burned itself into his retinas, was a frequent offender, often paired with vivid teal or sunshine yellow.
Her desk, a stark contrast to his own pristine, organized space, looked as if a florist had thrown up on it – an untamed ecosystem of plants, fresh flowers, and brightly colored Post-it notes plastered with whimsical doodles and spontaneous ideas. But they were never colors that were terrible. Oh no, every color on her desk matched perfectly as if they made to match each other.
She never merely walked into a room; she entered, her presence a ripple that almost visibly swelled the air around her. If she wasn’t punctuating a shared anecdote with a laugh that rang like a set of perfectly tuned wind chimes, she was telling a story herself, her words a rapid-fire succession of infectious enthusiasm. If she wasn't telling a story, she was leaning forward, chin propped on her hand, encouraging someone else’s, her eyes alight with genuine fascination. Her presence was a floodlight in the otherwise dim, predictable corridors of their department, casting vibrant, unexpected colors onto every surface, every person.
And against every single fiber of his being, against his better judgment, against the very principles that governed his existence, Kyungsoo adored her. Her chaos wasn't irritating; it was… acceptable. Her vibrancy wasn't an affront; it was a beacon. She was the illogical variable in his perfect equation, the wild card that made the whole game infinitely more interesting.
He found himself subtly tracking her movements, unconsciously listening for the distinctive lilt of her voice, hoping to catch a stray glimpse of purple as she passed his office door. It was a baffling, inconvenient truth, a dent in his armor of detachment, but one he couldn't, and deep down, didn't want to, mend. He adored Y/n, and the sheer, confounding fact of it was the most illogical, yet utterly undeniable, balance sheet he had ever encountered.
Not that anyone knew. His own colleagues, shrouded in their daily routines and their own quiet dramas, were blissfully unaware of the meticulous catalog of observations he kept, a secret ledger of moments and mannerisms concerning one particular person. He’d be damned before letting it slip.
The thought alone sent a shiver of dread down his usually impassive spine. If she knew—if Y/n even suspected the depth of his covert admiration—she’d weaponize it into tenfold cheerfulness, a blinding, enthusiastic onslaught of good-natured teasing and pointedly sweet gestures that would make his temples throb with a unique blend of mortification and unbidden tenderness.
She wouldn't mean to be cruel, no, Y/n was incapable of true malice, but her amplified joy would feel like a spotlight beam on his most vulnerable secret, forcing him to acknowledge a softness he preferred to keep locked away.
No, it was safer this way. Infinitely safer. Admire from afar, a silent patron in the theater of her everyday life, pretend indifference with practiced ease, keep the secret folded neatly in his chest where it couldn’t embarrass him, couldn’t be scrutinized, couldn’t be broken. He perfected the art of the blank stare, the quick pivot away, the noncommittal grunt that served as his total contribution to most conversations.
Still, he noticed everything. The way her hair caught the morning sunlight when she walked past his cubicle, the faint scent of vanilla and paper that clung to her, the particular tilt of her head when she was concentrating.
Four years, seven months, and twenty-two days. That’s how long she’d been with the company. The number wasn’t a casual recollection; it was etched into his memory with the precision of a historical event.
He knew because he remembered her first day—a splash of vibrant purple in a sea of corporate neutrals, a wide, genuine smile that seemed to defy the Monday morning gloom, and a laugh that, when it first rang down the hall, sounded to him like a cascade of silver bells.
He remembered her second week when she’d brought a towering, perfectly frosted chocolate cake for a coworker’s birthday, not because she had to, but because she wanted to. And every year since, she never missed one.
Y/n was the unofficial party committee, not just showing up, but showing up with impossibly thoughtful gifts and bakery boxes tied with artisanal string, each one a testament to her innate kindness. She had a way of making people feel seen, heard, and deeply, genuinely mattered.
Even he, Kyungsoo, who never celebrated his own birthday, who actively shunned attention, had found a small, perfectly chosen notebook on his desk each January, a discreet, elegant leather-bound journal that somehow knew his preference for practicality and quality. It was a silent, personal gesture that always left him feeling a peculiar mix of gratitude and paralyzing fear.
Kyungsoo had never returned the gesture. He’d never dared. The words caught in his throat, the ideas withered in his mind. What could he give someone who gave so much, so effortlessly? And what if his gesture was misinterpreted? Or, worse, interpreted correctly?
The thought of handing her a gift, even a small one, and having her meet his gaze, perhaps with that knowing, joyful smile, was enough to make his palms sweat. He was a fortress of self-imposed solitude, and even the smallest crack in his walls felt like an earthquake. So, he continued to watch, to remember, to record, his secret admiration a growing, heavy weight in his chest, unspoken and, he prayed, entirely unnoticed.
Once, two months ago, the sterile quiet of Kyungsoo’s cubicle had been abruptly shattered. She had leaned in unannounced, a steaming cup held carefully in her hand, her presence a sudden burst of warmth in the perpetually climate-controlled office.
“You look like you need coffee,” Y/n had chirped, her voice a bright, melodic counterpoint to the hum of computers, setting the mug down before he could even register her intention, let alone protest.
He’d blinked, first at the unsuspecting ceramic, then at her, his usual stoic composure momentarily cracked.
“I don’t drink coffee,” he’d stated, the words flat, almost robotic.
Her response was a dramatic gasp, so theatrical it plucked a startled, almost amused, twitch from the corner of his lip. “What do you mean you don’t drink coffee? Everyone drinks coffee!”
He’d simply reiterated, “I don’t,” turning back to his screen, a silent closure to the conversation.
But the scent had lingered, a sweet, rich aroma that didn’t quite fit the description of typical office brew. And after she had left, her bright energy receding as quickly as it had arrived, Kyungsoo found himself reaching for the mug.
The first sip was a revelation: not bitter coffee, but a comforting, almost nostalgic sweetness. She had ordered hot chocolate instead, a tiny marshmallow floating on top, a perfect, sugary smile looking up at him. She already knew he doesn’t drink coffee.
His throat had tightened then, a strange, unfamiliar constriction that had nothing to do with the warmth of the drink and everything to do with a thoughtfulness he hadn't anticipated, a kindness he couldn't quite name.
A sharp, insistent rap on his office door, delivered with an almost aggressive confidence, ripped Kyungsoo from the intricate web of numbers on his monitor.
He flinched, a jolt of irritation snapping through him as his meticulously constructed focus shattered. His brow furrowed into a familiar, deep V, a clear sign of his displeasure. With a sigh that carried the weight of a hundred interrupted tasks, he swiftly clicked out of the sensitive spreadsheet, minimizing it to a less revealing desktop.
“Come in,” he called out, his voice a low, even rumble that offered no warmth but demanded swift compliance.
The door didn't just open; it creaked with a theatrical slowness, as if reluctant to expose the casual chaos that was about to invade Kyungsoo’s pristine space.
Then, Sehun strode in, a whirlwind of understated confidence and perpetually rumpled clothing, without a hint of hesitation or the common courtesy of waiting for an explicit "yes."
He was all lanky limbs and an easy grin, a man seemingly born without a formal bone in his body, a stark contrast to Kyungsoo’s precise, ordered existence. Sehun was, in essence, the living embodiment of everything Kyungsoo painstakingly avoided in his professional life: spontaneous, informal, and prone to unannounced intrusions. His very presence felt like a smudge on Kyungsoo’s carefully polished day.
“What do you want?” Kyungsoo asked flatly, his gaze already narrowed, anticipating a request for a favor or a particularly inane piece of gossip that would inevitably waste his precious time. He didn't bother to soften his tone; there was no point with Sehun, who seemed immune to social cues he deemed inconvenient.
Without a shred of self-consciousness, Sehun flopped into the visitor’s chair opposite Kyungsoo’s desk, the ergonomic office furniture groaning under his sudden weight as if it were an old, overly familiar armchair in his own living room. He slung one arm over the back, his long legs stretching out lazmost to the edge of Kyungsoo’s territory, a posture of utter relaxation that grated on Kyungsoo’s nerves like fingernails on a chalkboard.
“Big news,” Sehun announced, his eyes gleaming with a mischief that usually preceded an administrative headache for someone else. “There’s a company dinner next week.”
Kyungsoo’s immediate, visceral reaction was a deep-seated groan. His shoulders tensed. “I’m not interested.” He had perfected the art of dodging these obligatory social rituals, finding them a tedious parade of forced smiles, vapid small talk, and lukewarm food. He valued his evenings, his solitary hours, far too much to sacrifice them for corporate-mandated cheer.
Sehun merely chuckled, a low, knowing sound. “Oh, you’ll be interested in this one. Because this one, my friend, is mandatory.” His grin widened, clearly enjoying the impending discomfort he saw brewing in Kyungsoo's rigid posture.
Kyungsoo’s jaw clenched, a muscle jumping in his cheek. He had heard that line before, countless times. Every company event, from the annual holiday party to the quarterly team-building retreat, came with the same thinly veiled threat. “They all say that,” he retorted, his voice edged with a dismissive weariness that conveyed years of cynical experience.
“No, seriously.” Sehun leaned forward then, his usual boisterousness momentarily subdued, lowering his voice conspiratorially as if sharing a top-secret classified document. “This one’s special. It’s… Y/n’s birthday.”
The name, delivered with such casual weight, landed in Kyungsoo’s gut with the force of a stone plummeting into a still pond, sending ripples of an unwelcome, intense awareness through him. His carefully constructed composure, usually unshakable, threatened to crack.
He felt an instantaneous, involuntary clenching in his chest, a cold knot forming just beneath his ribs. He kept his expression meticulously locked, a mask of professional disinterest etched onto his features, but the sudden, frantic acceleration of his pulse, thrumming a frantic rhythm against his temples and wrists, betrayed him completely. He swallowed, the usually effortless action feeling like a struggle.
“…And?” he managed, the single word a tight, strained whisper that barely escaped his lips.
“And,” Sehun continued, oblivious or perhaps purposefully ignoring the subtle shift in Kyungsoo’s aura, "the CEO himself made the announcement. Sent out a company-wide email this morning. Which means everyone’s expected to be there. Apparently, nobody knew it was her birthday—until he told us. He wants to do a surprise celebration at the dinner.” Sehun finished, leaning back again with a triumphant flourish, seemingly pleased with the magnitude of the bombshell he had just dropped.
For Kyungsoo, the room suddenly felt smaller, the air thicker, and the meticulously ordered world he had cultivated threatened to unravel under the unexpected, utterly unwelcome news. Y/n. Mandatory. The CEO. The words swirled into a potent, unsettling concoction that promised a week of agonizing anticipation and an evening he was sure to regret.
Kyungsoo schooled his features into a mask of practiced neutrality, but inside, his heart kicked like a drum against his ribs. Her birthday. The two words, casually dropped by Sehun, echoed with shocking clarity.
Of course, y/n hadn’t mentioned it. That was precisely her nature – to remember every single detail about others, their favorite snacks, their hidden anxieties, the exact dates of their small victories, yet to shy away from any spotlight on herself.
She was the one who quietly anchored them all, a constant source of unwavering support and understanding, never asking anything in return. But now the secret was out, almost by accident, and for the first time, Kyungsoo had the chance to give something back, to acknowledge the vast, unspoken generosity she extended to everyone around her.
He leaned back in his chair, a soft, dismissive hum escaping his lips – a performance he hoped Sehun would buy. "Fine. I’ll go. If the celebration is interesting, I’ll stay.” The words were a lie, a thin veil over his sudden, eager anticipation. He would go, and he would stay, utterly captivated, regardless of the 'interest' level.
Sehun, ever perceptive, merely grinned, a knowing glint in his eyes that acknowledged Kyungsoo's transparency, before he vanished as abruptly as he’d entered. The door clicked shut, leaving Kyungsoo in silence once more. He sat there for a long while, the sterile glow of his monitor illuminating a blank spreadsheet. His mind wasn’t on numbers anymore, not on deadlines or quarterly reports.
It was consumed by a far more complex equation: what could he possibly give a woman who had, in countless quiet ways, given everyone else everything they needed? And though he would never admit it aloud, even to himself, his chest felt lighter than it had in years, an unfamiliar warmth blossoming within him.
The air, thick and warm, was a sophisticated blend of roasted garlic, the subtle sweetness of an unseen glaze, and the rich, aged scent of polished cherry wood that permeated every corner of the grand dining hall the company had rented.
Above, crystal chandeliers, each facet catching and refracting the golden light, cast intricate patterns on the ceiling and walls, transforming the space into a luminous jewel box. The long, impeccably set table, draped in linen as white as fresh snow, gleamed with an arsenal of delicate glassware and polished cutlery, each piece winking like a conspiratorial eye under the glow.
This opulent scene was a universe removed from the sterile hum of their office, the utilitarian clang of cafeteria trays, and the mechanical thud of vending machine snacks that typically punctuated their workdays. Tonight, they were not just employees; they were guests in a brief, luxurious escape, a fact that seemed to liberate some more than others.
Kyungsoo, feeling an unfamiliar stiffness in the shoulders of his new suit jacket, adjusted his cuffs with a precise, almost finicky motion. The starched collar felt less like a garment and more like a gentle chokehold, a constant reminder of how ill-suited he often felt for these forced social rituals.
He was a creature of routine, of quiet efficiency, not sparkling banter. Around him, the buzz of his coworkers was already reaching a crescendo, a cacophony of liberated voices and uninhibited laughter that seemed to spill across the linen-draped table like expensive, forgotten wine – vibrant, slightly messy, and utterly beyond his control.
Sehun, ever the gregarious one, spotted him from halfway down the row and, with a wide, effortless grin, raised a hand in an exuberant wave. Kyungsoo, his gaze already locked on an empty chair at the far end, offered a barely perceptible dip of his head, a feigned distraction that silently pleaded for anonymity.
He threaded his way through the gathering crowd, a man on a mission to claim his strategic outpost: close enough to observe the proceedings, to fulfill the mandatory attendance, yet crucially, far enough to avoid being swept into the tide of compulsory chatter and forced bonding.
He had just settled into the relative sanctuary of his seat, mentally preparing his excuses for an early departure, when a subtle shift in the room’s ambient hum caught his attention. It wasn’t a sudden noise, but a gentle ripple of turning heads, a slight pause in conversation, as if the very air had become charged.
And there she was. Y/n, a vision in royal purple, moved through the room with an almost ethereal grace, as if the rich, regal hue had been invented solely for her to wear.
The dress, a masterclass in understated elegance, was a soft, flowing drape of fabric that caught the golden light with every subtle movement, shimmering like liquid amethyst. It was modest in cut, yet she wore it with an undeniable poise, embodying the quiet confidence of someone who knew, without vanity, that she had commanded every eye the moment she stepped across the threshold.
Her hair, a cascade of dark, artfully tousled curls, framed her face, bouncing with playful energy when she laughed – a sound that, even from a distance, seemed to carry a melodic warmth. And her smile… it wasn't just bright; it was a beacon, radiating a genuine, infectious joy that seemed to keep the entire table, and perhaps the entire room, warmly lit.
The carefully constructed wall of professional detachment Kyungsoo had painstakingly built around himself wavered, then threatened to crumble. His breath hitched, a silent, involuntary gasp. He felt a sudden, inexplicable heat flush his cheeks, a betrayal of his usual cool demeanor.
Don't stare, his inner voice commanded with panicked urgency. Don't be obvious. He tore his gaze away, his eyes landing on the elaborate menu placed before him – a hefty, leather-bound volume he hadn't even registered until now. He gripped it with both hands, using it as a clumsy shield, his eyes tracing the elegant script of appetizers and entrées he had no intention of actually reading.
He wasn't here to gawk, he reminded himself sternly, trying to rein in the runaway pulse thrumming in his ears. He was here because attendance was mandatory, a non-negotiable directive from HR. But beneath that official decree, a far more compelling, far more personal truth hummed: he was here because it was her. Because her presence, like a magnetic north, had pulled him here, anchoring him in a room he otherwise wished to escape. And every fiber of his being, despite his best efforts, was fiercely aware of it.
The evening had unfurled with the elegant precision of a well-rehearsed symphony. Soft ambient lighting shimmered off crystal, lending a warm glow to the hushed murmurs of conversation and the gentle clinking of silverware against fine china. Each course, a culinary masterpiece, arrived and departed seamlessly, accompanied by the effervescent dance of wine in raised glasses.
Yet, it wasn't merely the impeccable service that set the tone; it was Y/n. As if possessing an innate understanding of human connection, she effortlessly wove through the social tapestry, her laughter a bright, melodic thread. She was the alchemist of atmosphere, transforming a potentially stuffy corporate dinner into an intimate gathering of friends. She leaned across the polished mahogany, her eyes twinkling with genuine interest as she inquired about a colleague's dietary preference, a playful smirk gracing her lips as she gently chided another for an innocent spill.
When Sehun launched into a particularly outlandish anecdote, Y/n was the first to offer an encouraging nod, her head tilted, her gaze unwavering, drawing out the story's full, ridiculous charm. Even the CEO, a man who usually approached such events with the grim rigor of a federal auditor, found his stern facade crumbling under her infectious warmth, a rare, genuine chuckle escaping him.
She was in her element, a social butterfly in full, glorious flight, radiating an energy that permeated every corner of the room.
The harmonious buzz, however, shattered the moment the CEO rose from his seat. The subtle shift in the room's energy was palpable; conversations tapered off, spoons paused mid-air, and heads turned in unison towards the head of the table. He tapped his glass once, a crisp, authoritative sound that completed the sudden hush, drawing every eye. A polite, anticipatory silence hung in the air, broken only by the faint hum of the air conditioning.
"Before we indulge in dessert," he announced, his voice carrying easily across the room, "there's something truly important to acknowledge tonight. We're not just celebrating the company's recent successes. We're celebrating someone very dear to it. Someone whose spirit lights up every corner of this office, whose dedication is unwavering, and whose presence brings joy to us all. Y/n," he paused, a warm smile spreading across his face, "happy birthday."
A collective gasp, then a tidal wave of cheers and applause, erupted, drowning the CEO's finishing words. Chairs scraped back as coworkers enthusiastically rose, a sea of clapping hands and beaming faces. From beneath the table, as if by magic, appeared a cascade of gifts: brightly wrapped boxes, vibrant bouquets of flowers, and discreet envelopes, all converging on Y/n's spot. Then, a vision of sugary delight emerged – a magnificent cake, its surface a canvas of swirling purple icing roses, crowned with flickering candles.
Kyungsoo, though his hands joined the chorus of applause, felt a chilling numbness spread through his palms, his eyes riveted to Y/n's face. At first, an instinctive, almost reflexive smile bloomed on her lips, a practiced social response to the sudden spotlight. But as the words "happy birthday" echoed louder, amplified by genuine affection, her expression began to crack, a fragile mask dissolving.
The brightness that usually animated her face drained away, replaced by a disconcerting pallor. Her lips, which moments before had been curved in easy laughter, pressed into a tight, thin line. Her eyes, so quick to sparkle with mirth and engagement, dimmed abruptly, as if an internal switch had been flicked, plunging them into shadow.
The room, still buzzing with celebratory energy, noticed the sudden, alarming shift. The boisterous laughter faltered, applause slowed, then dwindled to an uncertain patter. Even the CEO, mid-sentence as he gestured towards the cake, paused, his smile fading into a confused frown.
"Y/n?" he asked, his voice now laced with soft concern, "Are you all right?" The query hung in the sudden, uneasy quiet. Without a word, without a glance, she stood abruptly, the sharp, jarring screech of her chair scraping against the marble floor echoing in the stunned silence. Her movements were stiff, almost mechanical, as she turned and, with an almost desperate urgency, walked out of the room. The silence she left behind was not merely an absence of sound, but a heavy, suffocating blanket of confusion.
Questions buzzed like trapped insects around the table – Was she upset? Did something happen? What could possibly be wrong? Kyungsoo didn't pause to think, didn't wait for answers. With the quiet grace of a shadow, he slipped out after her, his departure unnoticed by the bewildered crowd still grappling with the perplexing scene.
The grand dining hall, with its echoing confusion amongst workers and the voice of the ceo trying to lift the spirits of his guests, felt a lifetime away as Kyungsoo rushed through the hallway. The opulent chandeliers had given way to stark, caged bulbs casting long, skeletal shadows. The air, once thick with the scent of expensive perfume and prime rib, was now tinged with the metallic tang of damp concrete and the faint smell of city grime.
He felt the rapid descent in temperature, a stark contrast to the heated tension that had filled the dining room moments before Y/n’s abrupt departure. His senses were on high alert, sharpened by a primal concern he rarely allowed himself to acknowledge. He searched, his gaze sweeping over utility doors and forgotten corners, until his eyes snagged on the fire escape exit, a heavy steel door propped open by a stray brick. A thin blade of cooler, exterior air sliced into the already chilly corridor, a silent invitation, a subtle path.
Stepping through the doorway, the city’s cacophony rushed in—the distant wail of a siren, the rumble of traffic, the indistinct hum of neon signs from the street below. And then he saw her. Curled on the cold, unforgiving concrete steps, knees drawn to her chest, she was a small, fragile silhouette swallowed by the urban night. Her shoulders, usually held with such quiet dignity, now trembled uncontrollably. Her face, which he had so recently admired across a linen-draped table, was buried deep in her hands, a desperate attempt to hide the storm raging within.
For a moment, he froze. The cold metal of the doorframe bit into his pale hand. Every fiber of his being, honed by a life of calculated risks and emotional detachment, screamed for him to retreat.
He wasn’t built for this—the raw, unfiltered vulnerability, the messy, unpredictable landscape of comfort, conversation, connection. His instinct was always to observe, to analyze, to solve problems with logic, not empathy. His world was one of strategy, not solace. But something stronger, a pull he couldn’t name and certainly couldn’t ignore, kept his feet planted, then moving forward, one heavy step after another, until he lowered himself onto the step beside her. The polished leather of his suit jacket stretched taut, the cold metal of the steps seeping through the expensive fabric, a tangible anchor in the unsettling moment.
He cleared his throat softly, a small, almost imperceptible sound in the vastness of the city’s hum, just so she’d know he was there. Not as an intruder, not as a judge, but simply… present. She didn’t lift her head, her posture remaining stubbornly closed off, but a tremor ran through her. When she finally spoke, her voice was raw, a shredded whisper that fought against the sound of her own ragged breathing. “You didn’t have to follow me.”
“I know,” he said simply, his voice a low counterpoint to her pain. There was no need for explanation, no room for platitudes. The truth of his presence was in his choice to disregard his own deeply ingrained aversion to such scenes.
A silence stretched between them, thick and heavy, like a shroud cast over their shared space. It wasn't awkward; it was weighted, pregnant with unspoken sorrow and hesitant concern. He didn’t press her, just waited, the quiet thrum of the city now a distant, irrelevant backdrop to the intimate drama unfolding on the fire escape.
Finally, with a weary sigh that splintered the silence, she pulled her hands away, swiping at her wet cheeks with the back of her wrist. Her mascara, once meticulously applied, was now smudged into dark streaks, a testament to her distress. But even streaked with tears, even with her features contorted by pain, she was devastatingly beautiful to him, a fragile masterpiece under the harsh glow of the streetlights. Every flaw, every imperfection, only deepened the inexplicable grip she held on his guarded heart.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her gaze fixed somewhere on the grimy concrete between her feet. “I ruined the dinner.” The self-recrimination in her voice was a sharp blade to his own composure.
“You didn’t,” he stated, his tone firm, leaving no room for argument. The dinner was utterly meaningless compared to the obvious torment she was enduring.
Her laugh, when it came, was brittle, like shattered glass. “Everyone was staring at me. I hated that.” The shame in her voice was palpable, a fresh wound.
He studied her profile, the delicate curve of her jaw, the way the neon glow from a distant bar sign painted her skin in a sickly green hue, highlighting the lingering wetness on her cheeks. His analytical mind, despite his desire to simply be with her, began to piece together the fragments of what he’d observed. Her sudden anxiety, the way her eyes darted around the room, the almost violent shudder that had overtaken her just as the birthday cake was brought out.
“Why?” he asked carefully, his voice low, measured, devoid of judgment. He wanted to understand, not just for her sake, but for his own, to make sense of the chaotic energy she invariably brought to his ordered world.
She hesitated, a visible wall going up in her eyes, the instinct to deflect, to protect herself, warring with the desperate need to confide. He knew that look, had seen it in the eyes of many who sought to hide their weaknesses, he even had saw it in his own eyes at times. But he also knew she knew who he is as a person—that he didn’t ask questions out of idle curiosity, didn’t probe unless they truly mattered, unless the person mattered. And Y/n, he realized with a jolt that resonated deep within him, mattered more than he was prepared to admit.
“You wouldn’t understand,” she murmured, her voice barely audible over the distant city hum. “Don’t worry about it.” It was a familiar defense, a shield against potential disappointment or, worse, pity.
“Try me.” His voice was gentle, yet unwavering, a quiet challenge that offered safety, not pressure. He needed her to see that he was ready to bear whatever she had to unload, that he would not flinch.
Her hands twisted in her lap, a nervous habit he hadn't noticed before. For a long, agonizing minute, he thought she wouldn’t answer, that the wall would hold, that she would retreat back into the fortress of her own pain and stay silent. The silence grew heavy again, thick with her unspoken history. Then, in a voice so low he had to lean in, invading her personal space more than he ever dared, she finally said it, each word falling like a stone into the quiet night.
“Every birthday, when I was a kid… my cousin would hurt me.”
The words sliced the air open, a cold, brutal incision that ripped through the thin veil of calm. Kyungsoo’s breath hitched, a phantom fist clenching in his own chest. He felt an immediate, visceral revulsion, a cold dread seeping into his bones. He didn’t need clarification, he knew what she meant.
“He would wait until everyone was asleep. Or gone. He was older, stronger. He’d… drug me, slip something into my food and drink so I couldn’t fight back. And then—” She broke off, pressing her fists to her eyes, as if to physically push back the memories that were now flooding her. The image, stark and horrific, painted itself in his mind with sickening clarity.
“I tried to tell my parents. They didn’t believe me. They thought I was lying.” Her voice cracked, a fresh wave of tears escaping between her fingers, not just for the abuse itself, but for the profound betrayal, the ultimate failure of safety where it should have been most absolute.
Kyungsoo’s stomach turned, a sickening lurch that sent nausea rising in his throat. Rage followed quick behind it, a white-hot, furious inferno so sharp he had to clench his fists against his thighs, digging his nails into his palms, to keep from shaking. His carefully constructed composure, his ice-cold control, was shattering, fragmenting into a thousand pieces under the weight of her suffering. The thought of anyone hurting her, let alone a child, let alone her… it was an affront to everything he held, usually so dispassionately, to be just.
“It happened every year,” she continued, her voice trembling now, thin and reedy as if at any moment it might snap. “Until I was eighteen. Then I left. I left everything. Moved here. I thought if I ignored my birthday, they couldn’t hurt me anymore.” The last word was a broken whisper, a brittle confession of her desperate, ultimately futile attempt to outrun the shadow of her past. Her voice cracked on it, dissolving into quiet, heart-wrenching sobs that shook her entire frame, each one a fresh stab to Kyungsoo’s own heart. He remained silent, his rage a simmering inferno beneath his outwardly still demeanor, a silent promise forming in the depths of his being that no one, ever again, would be allowed to hurt Y/n.
Kyungsoo stood there, a silent sentinel to a pain so profound it stole the air from his lungs. The horror of what she’d revealed, the unspeakable act of a supposed family member, left him utterly bereft of the platitudes he usually relied on.
Every fiber of his being screamed for retribution; he envisioned dragging that cousin into the darkest alley, kicking his ass, making him taste a portion of the suffering she’d endured amplified tenfold by his own fury. He wanted to shake her parents, to scream at their wilful ignorance, their convenient blindness that had allowed such a wound to fester. But here, in the dim light of her grief-stricken eyes, rage was useless.
Logic was an insult. The only weapon he possessed, fragile and terrifying, was unvarnished honesty. “I never liked my birthday either,” he murmured, the admission a quiet tremor in the otherwise still room. She blinked at him, the surprise a tiny ripple in the torrent of her tears, her gaze, raw and searching, fixed on his face. “Not until you started celebrating it,” he continued, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips, "You make it feel… worth something.”
The dam broke anew, her tears spilling faster, but her eyes, still fixed on him, seemed to find purchase, a sliver of understanding, a shared vulnerability. And in that moment, for the first time in as long as he could remember, Kyungsoo allowed himself to be truly seen, his own buried scars exposed to the light. He didn’t linger, rising quietly, the unspoken understanding that she needed space, the dignity of her solitary grief, hanging in the air.
But as he walked out into the cool embrace of the night, his chest ached with a tumultuous mix of emotions. It wasn't just the burning anger, or the crushing sorrow for her shattered innocence. Beneath it all, fragile yet persistent, was a nascent hope. Maybe, just maybe, he could be the unwavering constant, the quiet strength that would one day give her a new, profound reason to cherish the very day she now hated most.
The quiet hum of the office on Tuesday morning was a stark contrast to the lively, if disastrous, team dinner the night before. Y/n sat at her cubicle, a phantom ache in her stomach mirroring the lie she’d told the CEO and her team. She’d blamed an upset stomach for her abrupt departure, a flimsy excuse that still felt heavy on her tongue. Her fingers idly traced the cool edge of her keyboard, her eyes unfocused on the glowing screen. The truth, raw and humiliating, remained locked away, a secret she hoped would stay buried. The usual chatter of her colleagues felt alien, a distant symphony she couldn’t quite join. It was a self-imposed isolation, a cocoon of guilt and embarrassment she couldn’t shake.
Then, a ripple ran through the silent room. The subtle shift in air pressure, the sudden cessation of low murmurs, announced Kyungsoo’s arrival. He was later than usual, a deviation from his meticulous punctuality that only amplified the sudden, collective tension. All eyes, including Y/n’s, snapped to him. He didn’t offer his customary terse nod, didn’t head straight for his meticulously organized desk. Instead, with a quiet, purposeful stride that seemed to anchor the entire room, he walked directly toward Y/n's cubicle.
He was a different man today. Gone was the severe tailoring of his usual gray or black suits. In their place, a soft charcoal sweater draped over a crisp white shirt, dark jeans, and pristine white sneakers. It was a casual ensemble, yet impeccably subtle, radiating a quiet confidence Y/n had rarely seen in him. And in his hands, held with an almost reverent care, was a vibrant bouquet of fresh flowers—delicate white lilies mingled with soft pink roses, their petals still dewy—beside them, a neatly wrapped package, the royal purple paper a rich counterpoint to the blossoms.
Y/n blinked, confusion battling with the lingering tendrils of her mortification. His approach felt like a spotlight, intensifying her discomfort. He stopped before her desk, and the entire office seemed to hold its breath. “Good morning,” he said, his voice a low, calm rumble that held an unexpected warmth, making her chest tighten with a strange mix of apprehension and curiosity. He then knelt, a subtle genuflection that was utterly uncharacteristic, placing the fragrant flowers gently in her line of sight, then positioning the royal purple package beside them. “Happy birthday,” he stated, his voice now lower, yet utterly certain, as if he’d been rehearsing this exact moment in the quiet hours, imbuing each word with deliberate meaning.
The world seemed to blur around Y/n. Her coworkers, scattered across the open-plan office, sat frozen, mouths agape, their gazes fixed on the unprecedented scene. Kyungsoo, the enigmatic, reserved man who meticulously avoided unnecessary interaction, who spoke only when absolutely required, had personally delivered gifts, openly, unmistakably, to her. Her throat tightened, a sudden, aching constriction, and a small, choked sob escaped before she could suppress it. Tears welled in her eyes, blurring the edges of his unusually gentle face.
She looked at him, wide-eyed, a torrent of unformed words caught in her throat. Then, a whisper, barely audible, escaped her lips, "I… I didn’t expect—"
“I know,” he interrupted gently, recognizing the emotional turmoil she was in, his gaze steady and unwavering as he stood a little straighter. “But I wanted you to have this. You always make everyone else feel seen… it’s time someone did the same for you.” His words, delivered with such quiet conviction, hit her with the force of a physical blow. They were an unexpected acknowledgment, a profound understanding of her own nature that she hadn't realized anyone, let alone Kyungsoo, had noticed.
With trembling hands, she reached for the purple-wrapped package. The paper rustled softly as she peeled it away, revealing a framed canvas. It was a portrait of her. The artist had captured her with breathtaking precision – the gentle curl of her hair framing her face, the genuine warmth that often shone in her eyes when she spoke of something she loved, the soft, characteristic curve of her smile. It was her essence, immortalized on canvas, something far more permanent and enduring than fleeting words or gestures, a testament to being truly seen, truly cherished. In that moment, the shame from the dinner, the weight of her lie, and the quiet isolation of the morning began to recede, replaced by an overwhelming wave of gratitude and a bewildering, potent emotion she couldn't yet name.
Y/n’s lips trembled, and tears spilled freely down her cheeks. “Kyungsoo…”
He hesitated, awkward in a way he never was at work, then asked, quietly, “Would you… like to have dinner with me this Saturday? Just us. A proper celebration.”
Her hands shook as she touched the flowers, then the painting, then finally his sleeve, the smallest physical contact she could muster. “Yes,” she whispered. “I… I’d love to.”
Kyungsoo blinked, stunned by the hug that followed. He was not used to closeness, to warmth like this pressed against him. But he held her gently, letting her embrace him fully, feeling the comfort she radiated.
When they parted, her eyes glistened, a mixture of shock and joy. “Thank you… for this. For everything.”
He simply nodded, a quiet smile tugging at the corners of his lips. The room around them buzzed again, but for once, it didn’t matter. Kyungsoo had finally stepped out of his solitude, and Y/n had finally received the recognition and care she deserved—not just from a team, but from someone who truly saw her.
