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Jang Baek-gi | Dame la mano

Warning: fluff, slow burn, jealousy

Now playing: La vuelta al mundo — Calle 13

Note: English is not my first language so feel free to tell me if there are any mistakes.

The elevator comes to a halt with a sharp, metallic thud. When the doors slide open, it’s not the noise that hits you first, but the silence. It’s different from the silence in the hallways: denser, more strained. The kind of silence that exists when everyone is either intensely focused… or utterly exhausted.

You fidget with your lanyard, sliding the ID badge between your fingers before stepping forward.

“This is the Steel Team” the section chief says, walking ahead of you. “As of today, she’ll be joining us as an intern.”

Heads look up almost in unison... some curious, others clearly sizing you up. You give a slight, polite nod. You don’t overdo the smile, but you don’t look down, either.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you” you say. “I hope to get up to speed quickly and contribute however I can.”

A few people nod back. Someone murmurs a “welcome.” Nothing out of the ordinary.

Then, you see him.

He’s sitting at the back, facing two monitors, his back rod-straight and his shoulders tense. He hasn’t moved an inch since you walked in. He didn't raise a hand, greet you, or smile. He barely glances up—just enough to register you like a new variable in a system that’s already running perfectly.

There’s something about the way he sits there, impeccable and distant, that sets him apart from the rest. It’s as if he doesn't quite belong to the team, yet is somehow the very thing holding it together.

“Baek-gi,” the boss says, turning toward him. “This is Y/N. She’ll be supporting market analysis and reports. I want you to bring her up to speed.”

He blinks exactly once.

“Understood” he replies.

His voice is low but steady. There’s no emotion in it, but no rejection either. It’s simply… functional. Neutral.

The boss keeps talking, rehashing things you’ve already heard from HR. You nod and take mental notes, but your attention inevitably drifts back to Baek-gi. He isn't looking at you. He’s already back to the screen, as if your presence were a minor footnote.

When the impromptu meeting breaks, the team returns to their routine. The clatter of keyboards fills the space. No one gets up to greet you again, but that doesn't bother you. You’re used to earning your place.

“Y/N, over here” Baek-gi says without looking up.

From his tone, you realize it’s not an invitation. It’s an instruction.

You walk over to his desk. Up close, you notice details you missed before: the surgical precision of his paperwork, the total lack of personal items, the simple watch on his left wrist. Everything about him feels calculated to avoid distraction.

“Sit” he indicates, pointing to an empty chair at the desk next to him.

You do so without hesitation.

He slides a folder toward you containing a list of requested reports and specific instructions for each.

“These are the formats we use. Do not improvise, and do not change a thing without clearing it with me first,” he begins, his eyes already drifting back to the computer. “If you have any questions, dont hesitate to ask. If possible, bring the reports to me first... that way, if you make a mistake, you can fix it before it reaches the manager.”

You look up.

“Is there a specific deadline?” you ask.

Baek-gi pauses for a fraction of a second and turns to look at you for the first time. His eyes aren't hard, but they are incredibly attentive. It’s as if he didn't expect you to speak up so soon.

“Today” he says. “By six. You can use this desk for now.”

“Got it” you nod.

There is no “thank you”, no “welcome.” Baek-gi is already back to his screen before you can even set the folder down on your new workspace.

He put me right next to him, you think. He is really going to keep me on a short leash.

“In that case, if I see anything that could optimize the format, I will run it by you first” you add calmly.

There’s another tiny beat in the conversation. You see him swallow.

“Go ahead” he responds. “But don’t waste time trying to stand out.”

And even though his words are blunt, they don't sound like a warning. They sound more like a foregone conclusion.

You stand up, take off your blazer, and hang it on the rack behind you. You see his own grey coat there, clean and pristine just like him. You turn back and settle into your spot to his right.

“That’s not my intention” you say, turning back to your desk. “I just want to do the job right.”

For the first time, something shifts in his expression. It isn't much, just a slight tightening of his jaw. He doesn't answer, but he doesn't go back to the screen immediately, either.

You face forward, pull out your planner, turn on the computer, and open the folder. The documents are dense, technical, and full of figures and charts. Exactly what you expected.

You work in silence for hours, completely focused. You take notes, double-check calculations. You don’t ask unnecessary questions. When in doubt, you check twice before deciding to consult him.

Midway through the afternoon, you get up to get some water. Glancing at Baek-gi’s desk out of the corner of your eye, you notice him frowning at his screen. Something isn't adding up. You say nothing and keep walking.

When you return, you realize one of the data points you’re using matches the problem he was having. You correct your table and add a clear, concise explanatory note. No fluff.

At five fifty-five, you turn your chair and stand up beside him.

“Baek-gi” you say.

He looks up, clearly annoyed by the interruption… until he sees the folder in your hands.

“Here it is” you continue. “I reviewed the reports from the previous quarter. There was a slight discrepancy in the second chart. I’ve flagged it for you.”

You hand it over.

He takes it without touching your hand and opens it. He scans the pages quickly, far too quickly for someone who isn't paying attention.

The silence stretches out.

“It’s good” he says finally.

Nothing more, but you nod, satisfied enough with the evaluation. You turn to go back to your seat, but his voice stops you.

“Where did you come from?” he asks. You sit back down, looking at him over your shoulder.

“I did the first part of my internship with the Sales team.”

He nods slowly, as if that explained something he hadn’t said out loud.

“I can tell” he responds.

You’re not sure if it’s a compliment or a neutral observation. You don’t ask. You turn back to your screen.

“You know, Y/N… that quarterly shift you marked? It actually makes this entire report I’m reading make sense,” he adds, breaking the thin silence between you. “Thank you.”

You can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips. He really was praising you.

“Oh, it’s just part of the job,” you slip out, trying to sound modest but unable to hide the glow of being recognized.

From that moment on, though you don’t know it yet, Jang Baek-gi no longer sees you as just “the new intern.”

And in his world, that is the first crack in the armor.

(...)

Over the following weeks, time begins to organize itself around a precise routine.

You arrive early, and Baek-gi is already there. You greet each other with a nod, you sit beside him, you turn on your computer, and you get to work.

The conversations are functional, but they exist.

“Y/N, get last month’s report.”

“I think the copier is jammed.”

“Baek-gi, do you have the stapler?”

“Double-check this figure.”

No personal questions, no awkward silences. Just shared efficiency.

And yet, things change.

You start to notice the way he sighs just before a meeting. You realize he hates Excel sheets with bright colors and that he knows exactly what time you get up for coffee.

You no longer jump when he speaks to you without looking; you don't mind when he leaves the trash can on his side of the cubicle. You even start mimicking his neatness at your own desk.

It’s just more comfortable this way, you tell yourself.

You are close all the time... too close, perhaps, for two people who barely know each other outside of work.

But then, during a weekly meeting, you make a mistake. It isn't a huge one, just a prep session for the board meeting, but it’s visible.

A misplaced figure in a presentation that the manager is reviewing in front of the whole team. The projector illuminates the room, and the atmosphere turns heavy.

“Who put this together?” the manager asks, his voice dry.

A sudden silence falls.

You recognize the error instantly, and your stomach drops. You open your mouth, ready to own it, because you know you should.

“I did” Baek-gi says before you can.

You whip your head around to look at him, your throat tight. The manager turns to him, clearly annoyed.

“You?” he asks incredulously. “I thought you were the golden boy of presentations. The last thing this team needs is for you to start messing up simple slides.”

Baek-gi doesnt respond. He bows his head slightly and clenches his jaw. He doesn't justify himself, nor does he explain. He doesn't mention your name. He simply takes the hit.

“This cannot happen again” the manager continues. “Be more careful.”

“Understood” Baek-gi replies.

That’s it.

When the meeting ends, everyone drifts back to their desks as if nothing happened. The murmur of the office returns, and the sound of typing fills the air.

But you can’t focus. The knot in your chest feels like a physical weight. Guilt floods through you.

It shouldn't have gone down like that. It was your mistake, and you should have been the one taking the heat. And why was the manager so hard on him? You didn't have to be a genius to know he was the most efficient employee in the Steel department.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see him sitting in his cubicle, body rigid, staring at his screen without moving. His shoulders are tense… far too tense.

You stand up without thinking.

In the breakroom, you fix two coffees. The aroma calms you slightly, but the feeling in your chest remains. You take both mugs and head back.

You approach slowly and set one down in front of him.

“Why did you do that?” you ask quietly.

Baek-gi looks up, startled. He looks at the mug, then at you.

“Your training period isn't over yet” he responds. “Until it is, I am responsible for your performance.”

It’s the correct answer, professional and cold. You sit down beside him and take a sip of your coffee. He does the same, closing his eyes as if the drink were an oasis in the desert.

You drink in silence.

“Thanks for the coffee. It’s exactly how I like it” he says after a few seconds, as if trying to close the subject.

Of course, you cant tell him you already know exactly how he likes his coffee. So instead, you don't let him deflect.

“I still think the way he treats you is unfair” you whisper, leaning slightly toward him.

Baek-gi goes still. He takes another sip.

“Dont worry about it,” he replies, also in a whisper. “The manager is always like that.”

His words don't convince you, but something else distracts you.

You are closer than ever. Close enough to notice things you hadn’t registered before: the sharp line of his profile, his long fingers wrapped around the mug, the way his eyes seem larger behind his glasses.

He is undeniably handsome.

You look at the mug in his hands. Making him a drink was a small, simple gesture. But the ache in your chest settles as you see him accept something from you without pushing it away.

It’s the first time you’ve done something like this for Baek-gi.

And, without knowing it yet, you decide it won’t be the last.

(...)

A month has passed, and your training period is over. There are no formal announcements or rounds of applause, just a brief email and an update in the internal system. From that moment on, you are no longer “the new intern who needs watching,” but a real cog in the team’s machine.

Baek-gi notices immediately.

You still sit beside him, but something changes in the way he speaks to you. His instructions become more precise, and his corrections more stringent. He no longer softens anything out of consideration. He expects the same level from you as he does from the most senior interns on the team.

And you deliver.

You show up with complete reports, you anticipate errors, you visualize long-term problems, and you don’t flinch when he points something out. You just fix it.

This reassures him and, at the same time, unsettles him.

Mornings start to repeat in an almost ritualistic way. You arrive with a coffee in hand, and so does he. Sometimes you say nothing... other times, you exchange brief comments while booting up.

“My mother called yesterday” you tell him one morning. “She doesn't really get what an internship is, so she thinks Im still just studying, not working.”

He raises an eyebrow slightly.

“Mine still thinks I sleep more than five hours a night” he lets out, and you laugh.

It’s a tiny confession. But it’s a confession nonetheless.

You talk about small things: siblings, long commutes on public transport, where to find decent food near the office.

If Baek-gi goes to the shop, he always asks if you need anything. Usually, you say no. Sometimes, you accept.

One day, you leave a small package on his desk.

“So you don’t lose track of important pages” you say.

They are pastel-colored Post-its. He doesn't love them for his perfectly ordered space, but at least they aren't neon. Baek-gi stares at them for a few seconds as if he doesn't know what to do with them.

He doesn't put them away, and he doesn't throw them out. He just leaves them there and starts using them.

That, too, is a choice.

However, as your role becomes more official, he grows more demanding. He asks more of you and expects more. He corrects you with less leeway, and while it isn't unfair, it is severe.

You don’t complain. You know his words are advice meant to sharpen your skills. No one else can teach you what you need to know better than him.

It’s during a group lunch that everything becomes clear to him. Not because of anything you do, but because of the others. He begins to notice the glances, the low comments, and the smiles that light up when you speak.

Baek-gi watches, in spite of himself. He sees how some of the male coworkers look at you a little too long. How they try to sit near you. How they find any excuse to talk to you.

He tries to ignore it.

It’s none of his business, and he shouldn't care. Besides, he has no right to feel anything about it.

Or does he?

Without realizing it, he starts looking for you the moment he walks into a room. It bothers him not knowing what you’re thinking when you smile at someone else. He notices immediately if you aren't at your desk, and he gets irritated when he sees you leaning in too close to someone else to check a screen.

He says nothing. He never says anything. It’s not his style; he prefers to bottle things up and repress them. He just clenches his jaw, works harder, and focuses on what’s in front of him.

Company policy forbids relationships between employees, much less between employees and interns. That rule had always seemed logical, orderly, and necessary to him. It had never been an issue.

Until now.

Because what he’s feeling isnt something he can easily label. It’s not overt desire, nor is it a clear intention. It’s a constant discomfort, a level of attention he can’t switch off, a presence that imposes itself on him even when he isn't looking.

He starts pushing you harder, more than any intern with more experience than you and he realizes it too late. He corrects you with unnecessary harshness. You look at him a second longer than usual, but you say nothing. You just nod and get back to work.

That disarms him more than any argument would.

Baek-gi knows something is spiraling out of control inside him, and what bothers him most isn't that he cares about you.

It’s that he no longer knows when it started, or how much longer he can hold it back.

(...)

The news arrived on a random Tuesday, in the least dramatic way possible. A brief email in your inbox, a ten-minute meeting in the manager’s office, and a “we’ll be waiting for your response” from a head of another department.

When you returned to your desk, the air in the Steel cubicle seemed to have grown thicker. You sat down with an unusual slowness. Baek-gi, whose ears were tuned to every single one of your movements, noticed the shift immediately. It wasnt nervousness... it was a kind of contained tension, as if you were carrying a physical decision on your shoulders.

He didnt ask what was wrong. He never asked questions he wasn't sure he wanted the answers to. His fingers kept moving across the keyboard in perfect rhythm, but his eyes flickered a millimeter toward the reflection on your monitor, searching for a clue.

It was you who broke the silence.

“I was offered a spot on another project” you said, without looking at him. “It’s with another team… within the company.”

Baek-gi’s rhythmic typing stopped dead. The silence that followed was deafening. He looked up slowly, adjusting his glasses with a gesture that betrayed his rigidity.

“Temporary?” he asked. His voice was functional, almost clinical, but you saw his knuckles whiten against the desk.

“Not necessarily” you replied. “There is a better chance of being hired as a permanent employee with that team.”

Permanent. Another team. The words hung between you like a heavy, immovable object. Baek-gi nodded once. His expression didn't change, he didn't frown... he did nothing to betray the dull blow he felt in his chest.

“That makes sense” he said. “Its a good opportunity.”

He said it as if he had rehearsed it a thousand times in the mirror. Like he’d spent years preparing to be the perfect professional who accepts defeat with grace. But you knew that tone. It was the same one he used when Manager Kang pushed him to the limit.

For the rest of the morning, he worked with a fierce intensity. He corrected reports, answered emails, and gave instructions with a cutting clarity. No one in the office would have noticed anything strange, except you. Because every time you stood up, he looked up. Every time you spoke to someone else, his jaw tightened. He was recording every minute of your presence as if trying to memorize the sound of your chair as it turned.

At lunchtime, when the office murmur died down, he stood up and adjusted his grey blazer.

“Lunch?” he asked. He wasn't looking at you, but there was a note of urgency in his voice you hadn’t heard before.

(...)

The restaurant was quiet, a refuge of dark wood and dim light away from the clatter of keyboards. You sat across from each other. For the first time, there were no screens or reports between you, just the steam from the food and a space that felt far too small.

Baek-gi was slow to speak. His long fingers circled his water glass with nervous precision.

“I want you to stay with the team” he said finally. It was direct and professional, exactly what you expected. “I’ve reviewed your learning curve. You are indispensable for the upcoming quarterly reports.”

You took a deep breath. You knew this was his way of saying he needed you, but it wasn't enough.

“I know, Baek-gi, and I really thought about it” you answered softly. “But with the other team, I have a real shot at career growth. To stay with the company on a proper contract. I don’t want to be a permanent intern.”

He tightened his grip on his chopsticks. The logic of your argument was irrefutable, and that was what hurt him most: the fact that your decision was the right one.

“I understand” he whispered, and for a second, he looked down, defeated. “Thank you for telling me.”

Lunch continued in a dense silence. But when you finished and made a move to get up, he reached his hand out across the table. He didn't quite touch you, but the gesture stopped you in your tracks.

“Wait” he said. “Stay a moment longer.”

He took a deep breath, and when he spoke again, it wasn't the voice of the Steel Team’s model employee. It was the voice of the man who watched you out of the corner of his eye every morning.

“I didnt ask you to stay just for the team” he confessed, and this time he held your gaze, letting you see all his vulnerability. “I did it because… because I’ve gotten used to you. More than I should have. I’ve gotten used to your coffee, to your notes in the margins of my pages… to knowing you are there to my right.”

He paused, swallowing hard.

“I’m not good at these things. I don't know when it happened, but the idea of walking into that office and your desk being empty… I can't process it. I dont want you to disappear from my life just because you’re changing floors.”

He leaned toward you slightly, completely forgetting protocol and his surroundings.

“I’m not asking you to give up your career. I know that permanent position is what you deserve,” he said sincerely. “I’m just asking that this... whatever this is between us, doesn't end with your transfer. Stay with me. Outside the office.”

The silence that followed wasn't tense anymore; it was warm. You looked into his eyes and saw the fear of rejection hidden behind his lenses. Then, you reached out and, for the first time, covered his hand with yours. His skin was cool, but under your touch, you felt him relax instantly.

“Baek-gi” you said with a smile you didn't try to hide. “I’ve gotten used to you, too. To your sighs before meetings and the way you organize your Post-its.”

You squeezed his hand firmly, confirming you weren't going to let go.

“Yes, I want to” you continued, and his eyes lit up with almost childlike surprise. “I want to try this with you. I don't care if it’s complicated or if we have to hide from HR for a while. I’m not going to disappear from your life, Baek-gi.”

He exhaled a breath he seemed to have been holding for months. He didn't give a huge grin, because that wasn't him, but his eyes softened and his jaw finally relaxed. He turned his hand over to interlace his fingers with yours, with a grip that said more than any words could.

“Then” he said, regaining a bit of his serious tone but with a new spark in his eyes, “I suppose I will have to start finding excuses to head up to your new floor every day.”

You laughed, and for the first time in a long while, the future didn't feel like an uncertain market report. It felt like something that was, finally, under control.

(...)

Six months later, the routine at One International remained the same: the roar of printers, the scent of burnt coffee, and the constant chime of the elevators.

However, for you, the map of the office had changed. Now, the 15th floor, your new professional home as a permanent employee, and the Steel Team were connected by an invisible thread that only two people knew about.

It was ten past six in the evening. You approached the elevator bank with a briefcase under your arm, trying to maintain that expression of “professional exhaustion” that everyone wore at the end of the day.

The elevator stopped with the same metallic chime as always. When the doors opened, you saw him.

Baek-gi was there, standing in the right corner, in his impeccable grey coat, eyes fixed on his phone. He didn't look up when you entered, but you noticed his thumbs freeze over the screen.

“Good afternoon” you said with formal courtesy, stepping in beside him.

“Good afternoon” he replied, his voice low and functional.

A group from Logistics piled in behind you, filling the space and forcing you back until you were shoulder-to-shoulder with him. To any observer, you were just two colleagues sharing a boring ride down. But in the dim light of the elevator, taking advantage of the group in front loudly discussing traffic, Baek-gi’s hand slowly descended.

His fingers found yours with blind precision. When your hands interlaced, you felt the heat of his palm against yours. He didn't look at you... he kept watching the floor numbers descend on the light panel, but he squeezed your hand with a grip that was both possessive and sweet. It was his private language. I missed you today, that squeeze said.

The elevator stopped at the 7th floor. The Logistics group got off amidst laughter and goodbyes. For a brief second, the doors closed, and you were completely alone.

The dense silence that once made you uncomfortable was now your ally.

Without letting go of your hand, Baek-gi moved with a speed that always surprised you. He gently pinned you against the metallic wall of the elevator, shattering the professional distance he worked so hard to maintain outside those four walls.

“You’re late” he whispered near your ear. His voice was no longer functional... it was warm and playful.

“I had to close the sales report” you replied with a smile, looking up at him.

Baek-gi didn't wait for the rest of your explanation. He leaned in and stole a kiss, one that tasted of coffee and the pent-up urgency of someone who has spent ten hours pretending not to love you in front of a hundred people. It was a firm, steady kiss, marked by the graze of his glasses against your cheek and the scent of his citrus cologne.

He pulled back just a few millimeters, his nose brushing yours, right as the chime announced you were reaching the ground floor.

In the blink of an eye, he regained his upright posture. He adjusted his blazer and let go of your hand, giving you back your personal space just before the doors slid wide open to the main lobby.

“See you tomorrow, Y/N” he said aloud, shifting back into his respectable colleague persona as he stepped out.

“See you tomorrow, Baek-gi” you replied, walking a pace behind him.

You watched him walk toward the exit with his determined, elegant stride. No one in the lobby would ever suspect that this serious, structured man had just broken every company rule in a thirty-second elevator ride.

You smiled to yourself, adjusted your bag, and walked out into the Seoul night, knowing that while your position was now permanent, the best part of your job still happened in the spaces no one else could see.

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