team building (and other questionable choices)
⊹ overview - pairing: mingyu x f!reader genre: frenemies to lovers · office romance · fluff themes: trying to play cupid (and failing), witty banter, accidental intimacy, one bed trope, mutual pining, clichés. a lot. cw: mild sexual content (MDNI), workplace setting, suggestive humor.
summary: when two overworked assistants team up to secretly play matchmaker for their clueless bosses, the plan is simple: coordinate schedules, fake a little chemistry, and absolutely not fall for each other.
minors do not interact!
from kai: i can't stop writing about mingyu. i need help. this one's loosely based on set it up (2018), but a little more chaotic? enjoy.
now playing: my type - saint motel
you’ve met kim mingyu four times.
the first: when your bosses scheduled two meetings at the exact same time in the same conference room and you both had to play rock-paper-scissors in front of the ceo to decide who got it. (he won. with scissors. a rookie mistake. you never forgave yourself.)
the second: in the elevator. he spilled half a latte on your shoes and said “at least they’re not suede...” like that was helpful.
the third: when you accidentally replied-all to an internal memo about performance evaluations, calling your boss “a capitalist goblin with a caffeine addiction.” he just replied "bold of you to speak truth in this economy. solidarity."
the fourth: now. every day. too often. always.
the thing is: you don’t work together. not really. you work adjacent. which is worse.
he’s the assistant to ms. seo, who runs strategy like she’s planning war. sharp heels, sharper tone, and a calendar color-coded within an inch of its life. mingyu walks two steps behind her like a loyal retriever, clipboard in one hand, existential dread in the other. he smiles too much for someone who gets cc’d on every meltdown in the building.
you, on the other hand, work for mr. yoon. a man with a god complex, a phobia of silence, and a diet that consists almost exclusively of espresso and the souls of junior staff. he once called your lunch “visually distracting” because it had “too much sauce”. you haven’t forgiven him either.
and because the two of them (ms. seo and mr. yoon) are in constant, competitive collaboration, it means you and mingyu are stuck in a never-ending tug-of-war of email threads, late-night reschedules, and passive-aggressive calendar invites.
the dynamic?
you’re the ghostwriter of your boss’s bad ideas. he’s the translator of his boss’s mood swings.
you text each other more than you text your actual friends. and you’re not sure if you hate him or if he just reminds you of your own job too much.
mingyu [work enemy adjacent] your boss just moved lunch to 1 mine is fasting for "clarity of mind" so i'll be dying quietly in the corner
you clarity of mind is wild for someone who screamed at a stapler last tuesday
mingyu [work enemy adjacent] she said it was "threatening her aura"
you i'm scared it might've been right
mingyu [work enemy adjacent] justice for the stapler
by week three of back-to-back “urgent” requests, you’ve memorized the way he sighs through his nose when ms. seo cancels a meeting thirty seconds before it starts. you’ve also learned that he eats lunch in exactly four minutes and always forgets a fork. you’ve stopped offering him one. mostly out of principle.
“you’re not a real person.” you tell him one thursday. “you’re like a mirage. a corporate hallucination.”
he blinks. “thanks?”
“not a compliment.”
but he’s already scrolling through his phone, completely unfazed.
“you realize we’ve been yelled at by our bosses for the exact same meeting reschedule like, four times now.” he says. “at some point they’re gonna think we’re doing this on purpose.”
you sigh. “i wish we were. at least then it’d be satisfying.”
he throws his head back dramatically, groaning. “i’m too pretty to get fired.”
"you’re too clumsy,” you correct. “and you owe me a new pair of shoes.”
the idea comes after the fifth minor disaster of the week: a double-booked call, a vegan lunch delivery sent to a man who once called kale “a scam”, and a particularly pointed all-caps message from ms. seo.
you’re both slumped in the break room. the vending machine, as usual, has betrayed him. again.
he’s chewing your emergency chocolate like it’s keeping him alive.
“i’m just saying...” he starts, mouth half full. “if they were hooking up, maybe they’d stop using us as pawns in their weird power game.”
you blink at him.
“you’re not saying that.” you say. “you’re not actually suggesting this.”
“yoon and seo.” he says, nodding. “they have tension. it’s weird. disgusting. undeniable.”
“no.”
“hear me out.”
“no!” you repeat, louder this time. “are you insane? what part of this place makes you think romance is the solution?”
he blinks, caught off guard.
“do you even understand where we work?“ you go on. “we work for emotionally repressed narcissists with god complexes and matching calendars. this isn’t a rom-com, mingyu. this is hell.”
he opens his mouth, but you cut him off again.
“and you...” you say, jabbing a finger in his direction, “you think you're clever because you smile through the misery, but you’re just as trapped as me. stop pretending this is some cute little team-up.”
he’s quiet for a moment. you expect him to bite back, but he just tilts his head a little, watching you with something unreadable in his face.
“okay.” he says softly. “message received.”
you leave before you say something worse.
twelve minutes later, your phone rings. your boss's name lights up your screen.
“my office. now.”
you barely have time to close your tabs before you're in his doorway, arms crossed.
he doesn't look up from his monitor.
"you sent this?” he asks, pointing to a printed email. yes. printed.
“yes, sir.”
he reads a sentence aloud like it personally offended him. “‘apologies for the mix-up — i’ve reattached the correct file for your convenience.’”
“yes,” you say again. “because the original pdf had a broken...”
“this.” he interrupts, stabbing the paper with his finger. “is passive-aggressive.”
you blink. “it’s standard wording.”
“your tone” he says, “undermines my authority. and by extension, yours. if you ever want to be taken seriously in this industry, you need to learn how to communicate without sounding like you’re rolling your eyes.”
he leans back in his chair.
“do you think you’re indispensable?”
you don’t answer.
“because you’re not. you’re efficient, but so is every other assistant here. i could replace you by monday.”
he lets that sit for a beat.
then gestures to the door. “that’s all.”
you walk out of the office with a tight jaw and something sharp curling in your chest.
you sit back at your desk. your screen is full of open tabs, blinking messages, a reminder to pick up dry cleaning you can’t afford and a google search for “can stress cause actual brain damage.”
your phone buzzes.
mingyu [work enemy adjacent] so the plan's back on, yeah? just checking.
you don’t look up. not right away. you type slowly.
you if i say yes it's not because i believe in it it's because i want peace
mingyu [work enemy adjacent] peace is valid so is revenge
you i still think it's a terrible idea
mingyu [work enemy adjacent] perfect now it feels balanced again
the plan doesn’t take shape immediately. it starts as a joke.
you’re both in the supply closet, pretending to look for toner while avoiding being assigned yet another last-minute revision to the joint quarterly review deck.
he leans against the shelf like it’s a bar counter.
“okay, hypothetically...” he starts, “if we were to interfere with the romantic fates of our bosses, how would we do it?”
you snort. “we wouldn’t.”
“but if.”
you sigh, and, against your better judgment, answer.
“it’d have to feel natural. like a coincidence. accidental. you know. a narrative beat.”
he raises an eyebrow. “you’re disturbingly good at this.”
you ignore him. “it can’t be too obvious. no weird setups. no ‘i booked the same table for two’ bullshit.”
“agreed.” he says. “they’d see through that.”
there’s a pause.
then, you both say it at the same time:
“coffee.”
you blink.
“no way.”
“you said coffee too.” he says, pointing.
you groan. “i hate this...”
he’s already typing into his phone. “they both get coffee, right?”
“dude, we can’t make them run into each other...” you say. “it has to be a cliché.”
he grins like that’s the best thing he’s heard all week. “a cliché.”
you nod. “every great romance starts with one.”
“so what?” he says. “we drop a folder? one of them bends down to pick it up? brushes hands? instant chemistry?”
“too forced.”
“they reach for the same croissant?”
“getting warmer.”
“they both complain about us at the same time in the same line and bond over how ungrateful we are?”
you raise your eyebrows. “you think they’d do that?”
“they already do…” he mutters.
you roll your eyes. “okay. listen. we know their orders. their schedules. their routes. if we can time it just right…”
he finishes your sentence: “...they’ll think it’s fate.”
later that day, you’re back at your desk, scrolling through mr. yoon’s calendar like a bored private investigator.
he’s consistent. pathologically so.
coffee at 10:15. always the same place. same corner seat. same cappuccino. sometimes with extra foam. depending on his mood.
you open the app and look up ms. seo’s location history. mingyu already gave you access. you're not sure how. you don’t ask.
“they’ve been in the same place five times in the last two weeks” he whispers from behind your chair.
you jump. “jesus. do you materialize now?”
“only for dramatic effect.”
you look back at the screen. “five times.”
“and they didn’t notice each other once.”
“so what we’re saying is... we know them better than they know themselves.”
“yup.”
“that’s bleak.”
“deeply.”
he leans over your shoulder. “so. next tuesday. 10:15. table near the window.”
“you handle ms. seo.”
“you handle yoon.”
“if this backfires...”
“we were never here.”
you shake your head and open a new tab.
you’re not proud of it.
but you google “best pastries for accidental eye contact.”
tuesday arrives like a slow-moving disaster. you wake up late, spill coffee on your shirt, and have to switch to your “i’m pretending to be calm” blouse. the one that’s too stiff at the collar and makes you look like a very tired lawyer.
but none of that matters, because today is operation cliché.
phase one: coffee collision.
the location? a minimalistic café on the first floor of the neighboring building, where all the tables are identical and everything smells like lavender and oat milk. it’s the kind of place that sells banana bread for twelve dollars and calls it “seasonal.”
you arrive at the café twelve minutes early. mingyu's already there, sitting in the corner like he’s a spy. you slide into the seat across from him. “what's the plan again?”
he doesn’t look up right away. just nods once like he’s been waiting for this briefing all his life.
“simple.” he says. “they both come here every tuesday. always between ten and ten fifteen. always order the same thing. they never notice each other because they’re too busy speed-reading emails and being vaguely terrifying.”
you raise an eyebrow. “go on.”
“so,” he continues, “i called ahead. asked the barista to delay both orders until exactly ten seventeen. give or take thirty seconds.”
“and then?”
“and then,” he says, leaning in slightly, “they both get called up at the same time. same tray. same awkward pause. eye contact. emotional disarmament. destiny.”
you blink. “you’ve really thought this through.”
“of course i have” he says. “i’m deeply invested in my own survival.”
“and you think this will work?”
he shrugs. “every great romance starts with an inconvenient beverage.”
you snort into your cup. you hate how much sense that makes.
ms. seo arrives exactly on time. she doesn’t wait in line, she orders like she owns the place and claims her table with one glance. mr. yoon enters two minutes later, slightly out of breath and already annoyed by the background music. he hates piano jazz. you know this.
you both sink lower in your seats.
“this is so dumb...” you whisper. “they’re not even-”
“wait for it.” he mutters.
there’s a pause.
a blink.
the barista calls both names at once.
they reach for the same tray.
your breath catches.
and then:
“oh...” mr. yoon says, taking a step back. “didn’t see you there.”
ms. seo raises an eyebrow. “you never do.”
and for one moment, the tiniest moment, they smile.
smile.
mingyu looks at you like he just saw god.
“we’re geniuses” he whispers.
“don’t jinx it.”
you watch them sit. not together, but closer than usual. angled slightly toward each other. enough to talk, if they want to. enough to notice.
“they’re talking...” mingyu says.
“this is happening.” you nod, stunned.
you don't say it out loud, but it does feel like a movie. you don't believe in fate. but maybe you believe in timing. and coffee. and croissants that carry plot.
they leave separately.
she goes first. phone in hand, shoulders back, the way she always walks when she’s thinking. he waits thirty seconds, then follows, not too close. but closer than usual.
you and mingyu don’t move.
you just sit there, two overcaffeinated employees hiding behind an aggressive fern, watching your bosses walk away like characters from the end of act one.
“okay." you say. “that was... weirdly successful.”
“i’m scared” he says.
“same.”
you finally stand. his drink is empty. your croissant is gone. neither of you remember eating it.
outside, the air smells like too much perfume and half a dozen corporate regrets. you stop at the corner.
“so what now?” you ask.
he grins. “phase two.”
you roll your eyes. “of course there’s a phase two.”
“come on” he says, already walking backward toward the building. “we made them smile. that’s practically engagement.”
“don’t say engagement.”
“too late.”
you don’t see him again until after lunch.
mr. yoon pulls you into three back-to-back meetings, one of which is just him ranting about fonts. you think he’s in a good mood. or at least a neutral one. it’s hard to tell.
by the time you get back to your desk, your phone buzzes.
mingyu [work enemy adjacent] you owe me a thank you croissant that was art they both reached for the tray like it was scripted
you you ate my croissant i'm the one who deserves a thank you
mingyu [work enemy adjacent] fine i'll meet you halfway supply closet in 15 bring no expectations, only snacks and your most chaotic ideas
you you're unbelievable
mingyu [work enemy adjacent] and yet deeply necessary
you stare at the screen for a beat too long. and then, before you can stop yourself, you type:
you make it 10 minutes i have a very dumb idea
the supply closet is barely a closet.
more of a broom-sized purgatory. it smells like dry erase markers. someone left a sad motivational sticker on the inside of the door that says you’ve got this! and it feels like a threat.
you’re already there when he arrives.
he knocks twice, unnecessarily, before slipping in and closing the door behind him with too much ceremony.
“you’re late” you say.
“you said ten minutes. i gave you eleven. that’s generosity.”
“that’s procrastination.”
he holds up a granola bar like it’s a peace treaty. “i come bearing carbs.”
you take it, mostly because you’re hungry, but also because the wrapper says crunchy with a hint of sea salt and you feel vaguely called out.
“so...” he says, leaning against a shelf of printer paper like he’s hosting a TED talk. “what’s your dumb idea?”
“you go first” you say.
“you told me to come because you had the idea.”
“and now i don’t trust it.”
“why not?”
“because you’re looking at me like you already love it.”
“i do love it. i just don’t know what it is yet.”
you sigh and break the granola bar in half, handing him a piece.
“okay.” you start, mouth full. “we can’t do another run-in. it’ll look too convenient.”
“agreed.” he says, through granola. “we need escalation.”
“we need... a shared cause.”
he blinks. “like... activism?”
“like fake activism” you clarify. “a team-building initiative. professional development. something they can co-lead.”
he nods slowly. “a task that forces prolonged contact. good. close proximity. subtle emotional vulnerability.”
“something high-pressure, low-stakes.”
“something where they think they’re in control.”
you both pause.
and then, at the exact same time:
“leadership retreat.”
you stare at each other in horror.
“that’s...”
“terrible.” he finishes. “dangerous. complicated.”
“they’ll kill us.”
“...we have to do it.”
you groan and slide down the wall until you’re sitting on the floor between two boxes of branded mugs.
he lowers himself beside you.
“okay.” he says. “if we pitch it right... this can work.”
“how do we pitch it?”
he pulls out his phone, opens a notes app already titled 'operation cliché' and starts typing.
you lean in without realizing.
your shoulders brush. neither of you move.
mingyu taps at his phone, brow furrowed in mock concentration.
“okay, proposal: joint leadership off-site to boost collaboration. location… somewhere with bad wifi and strong coffee. schedule: two-hour brainstorm, four-hour tension.”
you tilt your head. “you mean four hours of suppressed resentment disguised as productivity.”
“exactly!” he says, not looking up. “it’s authentic.”
you lean in slightly, peeking at his screen. “add ‘quiet team bonding’ and ‘organic interpersonal growth’. make it sound like we read a book about it.”
he types obediently, nodding. “love that. very linkedin-core.”
then he pauses. “should we make a deck?”
you snap your head toward him.
“if you make a deck” you say, deadly calm, “i’ll kill you.”
he grins, not even pretending to be sorry. “you say the sweetest things.”
you try not to smile. you fail. just a little.
you don’t leave the closet together.
but as you step back into the hallway, you realize your hand still smells like granola and printer ink. and that he didn’t mock your idea. and that, somehow, sitting on a dusty floor with him felt more peaceful than your own desk.
thursday morning.
you’re in the small conference room, the one with flickering lights and a very aggressive print of a lighthouse on the wall, watching mingyu adjust the brightness on his laptop for the sixth time.
“stop it.” you mutter. “it’s fine.”
“it’s washed out.” he says. “the slides have to pop. we’re selling transformation.”
“we’re selling emotional manipulation in a power suit.” you correct. “no one’s buying.”
“not with that attitude.”
he clicks through the deck one last time. every slide is a masterpiece of corporate nonsense: gradient backgrounds, buzzwords in bold, and fake statistics like “teams who bond off-site are 63% less likely to initiate passive-aggressive email chains.”
you sigh. “we’re going to hell for this.”
“it’s fine” he grins. “we’ll carpool.”
the pitch goes disturbingly well.
ms. seo barely blinks. she nods halfway through slide two and says, “this could be efficient.” which, from her, is basically a standing ovation.
mr. yoon interrupts twice to talk about thought leadership and uses the phrase “executive synergy” like it’s a personality trait.
when you finish, there’s a pause.
then:
“you two will run it.” ms. seo says.
“what?” you blink.
“i’ll be in singapore next week,” she says, already opening her phone. “you’ll facilitate on our behalf.”
you turn to mr. yoon, desperate. “sir?”
he waves a hand. “sounds like a perfect opportunity for growth. report back with a summary. keep the receipts.”
you open your mouth.
close it.
then open it again, for good measure.
mingyu says nothing. absolutely nothing.
you both leave the room in silence. outside the conference room, you stop walking.
he stops too.
you stare at him.
“you ruined my life.” you say calmly.
“technically, they approved the plan.”
“technically, you were the one who said leadership retreat like it was a good thing.”
“you said it at the same time!”
“and i regret it.”
he lifts both hands, grinning. “look, it’s fine. we’ll run a few workshops, do some trust falls, eat a buffet dinner, and be back in three days.”
“do not say trust falls like it’s a fun concept.”
“do you want me to start a shared document?”
“i want you to get hit by a metaphorical bus.”
“great” he says. “i’ll add that to the parking lot.”
you walk away before you start laughing.
later that afternoon, your phone buzzes.
mingyu [work enemy adjacent] new plan: we fake food poisoning or burn down the lodge or both
you i knew this was a bad idea i KNEW mingyu you've doomed us you've condemned us to team-building hell there will be icebreakers there will be name tags we will be forced to share feelings
mingyu [work enemy adjacent] can’t wait to see you cry during trust circle
you if i disappear tell people i died doing what i hated: corporate bonding
mingyu [work enemy adjacent] should i pack snacks?
you pack dignity you’ll need it
mingyu [work enemy adjacent] never had it to begin with
you close the chat with a groan.
three days to the retreat. no bosses. no escape. just you. him. and four hours of scheduled “guided reflection.”
god help you both.
the corporate retreat center looks exactly like you imagined it would.
a beige lodge in the middle of nowhere, flanked by pine trees and suspiciously cheerful signage. there's a wooden welcome board near the entrance that says “unlock your inner leader!” in three fonts too many.
“i already hate it.” you mutter, dragging your suitcase over a gravel path that definitely wasn’t meant for heels.
“look on the bright side,” mingyu says, way too cheerful for someone carrying a duffel bag that looks like it holds gym trauma. “bad wi-fi. no bosses. and apparently a breakfast buffet.”
“if you make this sound fun one more time i’m leaving you in the woods.”
he grins. “you say that now, but wait till you see the lanyards.”
you check in at the front desk.
the woman behind the counter gives you your room key and a chirpy, “we went ahead and upgraded you two to the executive suite! hope that’s alright!”
you blink. “we’re not...”
“thanks!” mingyu cuts in, snatching the key. “very alright. super alright.”
you narrow your eyes. “what did you do?”
“nothing.” he says. “probably.”
the room is… cozy.
too cozy.
small fireplace. two mugs on a tray. mood lighting that tries too hard. and one large bed in the center of the room.
you stop in the doorway.
mingyu walks in, drops his bag, looks around once, then turns to you.
“what?” he says innocently. “you said it yourself.”
you stare at him.
“every great romance...” he quotes, smug. “starts with a cliché.”
you blink. once. twice.
“i hope you die.”
“listen, it’s fine. we’ll pillow-wall it.”
“we’re not pillow-walling anything.”
he flops onto the bed with too much confidence. “you can have the blanket majority. i’ll sleep on the floor like a gentleman.”
“you’ll sleep on the floor because you brought this on yourself.”
you find a yoga mat in the closet and throw it at his head. he catches it midair like a reflex, then sighs dramatically.
“pray for me.” he says. “i have fragile joints.”
later that night, you sit side by side on the bed, legs barely touching, a bag of overpriced mini bar chips open between you. the room smells like lavender pillow spray and artificial air freshener, and the fireplace crackles in the most suspiciously cozy way imaginable.
mingyu has the printed retreat schedule unfolded across his lap like it’s a classified document.
he clears his throat.
“7 a.m. sunrise meditation,” he reads aloud. “8 a.m. partner walk. 9 a.m. circle of trust. 10 a.m...” he pauses for dramatic effect. “feelings breakout.”
you make a noise of pure disbelief. “are they trying to kill us? circle of trust sounds like a cult.”
“circle of trust is a cult.” he says. “i’ve seen documentaries.”
you take a chip. crunch thoughtfully.
“do you think if we hold hands and run, we can make it to the road before they catch us?” he says, head tipping toward you just slightly.
“only if you leave the yoga mat behind.” you add. “it’ll slow you down.”
he sighs, deeply. “cruel. but fair.”
the chips rustle between you. somewhere outside, a tree creaks. inside, it’s quiet enough that you can hear the soft shift of his sleeve when he leans back against the headboard.
you don’t say anything for a while. neither does he.
but you don’t move apart, either.
and that, somehow, says enough.
the next day feels like a slow-motion trial.
you wake up to the faint sound of birds and the less-faint sound of mingyu already moving around, getting ready like he’s preparing for some kind of emotional boot camp.
breakfast is painfully organized. you share a table, not by design but because every other seat is taken. he slides you the salt shaker without looking, and you catch his fingers brushing yours for a split second.
the morning starts with the sunrise meditation. you try to focus on your breath, but mingyu is the only one who manages to stay still. mostly because he fell asleep sitting up, chin resting on his chest, looking like an angel who didn’t get the memo.
later, during the partner walk, you find yourselves naturally walking side by side, matching pace without planning it. the trail winds through pines and sun-dappled clearings, the air fresh and cool.
he makes a dumb joke about how this is “nature’s way of making us confess our feelings,” and you pretend not to laugh. but you do.
the circle of trust comes next, exactly as terrifying as it sounds. when it’s your turn, he looks at you like you’re both in on the joke, and you mumble something about “trust falls being a trap.”
he catches your eye and shrugs. “at least we don’t have to actually fall.”
the afternoon is a blur of workshops, icebreakers, and group exercises where everyone is trying (and failing) not to make it awkward.
when the sun starts to set and the temperature drops, mingyu notices you shivering and without a word, pulls his hoodie off and drapes it over your shoulders.
you don’t say anything. you just let it hang there, the fabric warm between you, the silence saying everything.
it’s ridiculous. it’s perfect. and you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.
the evening settles in with the kind of hush that only happens after a day of mandatory bonding and dried-out protein bars. everyone else has disappeared to their rooms, leaving behind half-finished mugs of herbal tea and the lingering scent of essential oils.
you and mingyu are still awake.
he’s on the floor, stretching like someone who read about mindfulness once and committed to the bit. you’re on the edge of the bed, aimlessly scrolling through your phone, pretending not to watch him try (and fail) to touch his toes.
“you’re gonna pull something.” you say.
“i’m increasing my hip mobility” he replies, completely serious. “for leadership.”
“of course.”
he glances up at you, grinning. “jealous?”
“of your hamstrings? wildly.”
he pushes himself upright with a groan and collapses onto the bed beside you, dramatically boneless.
“okay...” he sighs, “real talk. are we actually gonna sleep at a normal time or…”
you glance at the clock. 10:12 p.m.
“...or what?” you ask.
he shrugs. “i don’t know. talk about our feelings. play two truths and a lie. make a series of increasingly bad decisions.”
“tempting” you say. “but i think i’m out of feelings.”
“you sure?” he asks, turning toward you, head propped on his hand. “because earlier, during the circle of trust, i definitely saw emotion in your eyes.”
“that was rage.”
“i find rage very sexy.”
you roll your eyes. “you find everything sexy.”
he pauses. “not true. powerpoint presentations. deeply unsexy.”
you laugh. a real one, loud and sudden and he looks pleased with himself.
“what?” you say, noticing.
“nothing,” he says. “just thinking.”
“about?”
“how weird it is that we ended up here.”
you raise a brow. “in a romantic cult lodge?”
“in the same room. same bed. same… whatever this is.”
he’s closer now. not enough to crowd you, but enough that you feel the warmth radiating off his skin. your knees bump. neither of you pulls away.
“well, you set this up.”
“yeah, i know. but still...”
you tilt your head. “do you regret it?”
“not even a little.”
he looks at you for a long second, like he’s trying to decide something. then his eyes drop.
“you’re in my hoodie.” he says.
“wow. thank you for the update, captain obvious.”
“no, i mean…” he pauses. “you’re still in my hoodie.”
you glance down at the sleeves, bunched around your hands. “is this a problem?”
he shakes his head. “no. just… you should probably know it looks better on you than it ever did on me.”
your mouth opens, ready to hit back with some flirty insult but the words don’t come. instead, you look at him a beat too long.
“you always talk this much when you’re nervous?” you say finally, voice quieter now.
“only when i think i’m about to do something stupid.”
“like?”
he doesn’t answer. just keeps looking at you like the answer’s obvious.
your fingers tighten around the hem of the hoodie. his knee presses into yours again, this time deliberate.
“like kiss you.” he says.
you go still. “are you going to?”
his smile flickers, slower this time. “i’d like to.”
“then maybe stop talking and do it.”
so he does.
it’s not rushed. not urgent. just intentional. like he’s been thinking about this since the first time you told him off in a staff meeting, and now that it’s happening, he wants to get it exactly right.
he kisses like he speaks. confident, a little playful, always testing the edges. his hand finds your waist. yours fists in the front of his sweatshirt. there’s no hesitation in the way your mouths move, just heat and muscle memory that shouldn’t exist, but does.
after a moment, you pull back just enough to look at him, eyes glinting with something playful.
“you know,” you say, voice low and teasing, “i’ve always wanted to do this.”
he grins, a slow, knowing smile. “really? all this time, i thought that cold shoulder, the eye rolls, the ‘i’m-so-over-you’ attitude was just you being tough.”
“oh please...” you scoff, but you’re smiling. “that was all hate.”
“hate?” he raises an eyebrow, mock offended. “i always suspected it was just repressed attraction.”
“yeah, sure.” you say, nudging him with your knee. “keep telling yourself that.”
he leans in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “honestly? i think you’ve been into me since day one. all that ‘hate’ was just a cover-up for the fact that you thought i was too cool for you.”
you laugh softly, shaking your head. “too cool for me? i was the one who threw the first punch.”
“exactly” he says, “which is code for ‘i’m interested, but i’m also awkward.’”
you bite your lip, thinking how ridiculous yet kind of cute this all feels.
then your fingers find the hem of his hoodie, tugging gently.
“off” you say, barely a whisper.
he looks down at your hand, then back up at you, a mischievous sparkle lighting his eyes. “was that an order?”
“definitely.”
he smirks, sitting up a bit. “well, then… say please.”
you roll your eyes, but the smile never leaves your face. “please.”
he laughs quietly, pulling the hoodie off over his head like a trophy.
you sit up just enough to look at him in the low firelight. his hair’s a little messy, his chest rising and falling, eyes bright.
you touch his chest. lightly, tracing a line from his collarbone to just below his ribs. he twitches under your hand.
“ticklish?” you tease.
“no” he lies. “i’m just emotionally overwhelmed.”
you laugh again, but it catches in your throat when he leans down and kisses your neck. not soft, not featherlight, but with purpose. like he wants to leave a thought behind.
his hands are everywhere. exploring. mapping. learning. he touches you like a puzzle he’s been waiting to solve, like every button undone is a secret, every sigh a new language.
when your shirt’s gone and his jeans are halfway off and you’re both out of breath, you look up at him. flushed, disheveled, ridiculous. and say, “this is a terrible idea.”
“yeah” he breathes, eyes dark. “do you want to stop?”
you pull him down by the front of his waistband.
“that’s what i thought.”
what happens next is messy and slow and fun. it’s not cinematic. it’s not even that graceful. he accidentally knees you in the thigh. you tug his sock off too hard and it hits the wall. at one point he tries to say something sexy and chokes on his own breath.
but it’s good. so good.
he kisses like he’s memorizing you. like he wants to make you laugh and make you beg. your hands slide down his back, nails dragging lightly, and he shudders. not from pain, but from surprise.
he touches your thigh, then higher, watching your face the whole time. you arch into him, your name falling from his mouth like a promise.
and when it finally happens, when all the ridiculous tension finally snaps, it’s not explosive.
it’s intimate.
his forehead pressed to yours, both of you breathing hard, still smiling even as you fall apart together.
after, you lie tangled in the sheets, his hoodie now lost somewhere under the bed, your leg over his hip and his fingers drawing circles on your stomach like he doesn’t want the moment to end.
you stare at the ceiling.
“we are absolutely not talking about this at work” you say.
“agreed.”
“no weird glances across the copy machine.”
“never.”
a pause.
“but” he adds, “we can maybe do it again sometime?”
you glance at him.
he’s grinning.
“i’ll think about it.” you say.
but you’re already smiling too.
day three begins with the kind of awkward optimism only a mandatory leadership retreat can inspire.
you wake up tangled in mingyu’s hoodie, which now smells like campfire and him. it’s too warm, slightly bunched around your hips, but you don’t take it off.
you find him in the kitchenette, making coffee like it’s a lab experiment. precise measurements, silent concentration, a grim kind of determination.
“morning” you say, sliding in beside him, pretending this is normal.
he hands you a mug without looking. “you look like you slept on a bed of spreadsheets.”
“i feel like i did” you mutter, taking a sip. “you?”
“dreamt i was being chased by performance reviews” he says. “woke up in a cold sweat.”
“how corporate trauma of you.”
he snorts into his mug. “don’t diagnose me before coffee.”
you both sip in silence for a few seconds. his arm brushes yours when he lowers the mug, and he doesn’t move away.
you nudge his hip with yours. “so, uh… about last night.”
he raises a brow. “which part? the part where you insulted my hamstrings? or the part where you kissed me first?”
“okay, bold of you to rewrite history like that.”
“what can i say...” he grins. “i’m a storyteller.”
you shake your head, laughing into your coffee.
later, on the partner walk, you fall into step without thinking. the trail winds through pine trees and patches of sunlight, and every now and then he reaches out to steady you. like when you nearly trip on a root, or when a bee flies too close and you squeal louder than you'd like to admit.
“you know” he says, “for someone who claims to be outdoorsy on their dating profile, you’re doing a lot of swatting and stumbling.”
“for someone who can’t touch his toes, you’re awfully smug.”
he grins. “that’s because you find it charming.”
you open your mouth to argue but... fine. maybe you do.
he points at a squirrel making off with someone’s granola bar and mutters, “even the wildlife here is stressed.”
“at least it’s honest,” you say.
he glances over at you, and this time when your shoulders bump, he leans just a little closer. not obviously. just enough that it feels like a secret.
you keep walking.
the workshops in the afternoon feel less painful than usual. maybe it’s the sleep deprivation. maybe it’s mingyu passing you a sticky note with a terrible drawing of your retreat leader mid-lecture. maybe it’s the way you keep catching each other’s eyes and trying not to laugh.
he offers to be your “accountability buddy” during the trust-building activity and then immediately betrays you in a group exercise. you pretend to be outraged. he apologizes with gummy bears and a dramatic bow.
when your hands brush reaching for the same marker, he says, “careful. i bite.”
you roll your eyes and say “noted” but don’t move away.
by the time evening rolls around, it’s cold enough that sharing a blanket on the couch feels justifiable. he drapes it over your laps casually and doesn’t say a word when you lean against his side.
the fire flickers, casting golden shadows over his profile.
“did you know that i can’t actually sing ‘kumbaya’?”
you grin. “i was hoping you couldn’t.”
a pause.
your eyes lock. again.
he kisses you. again.
slower this time. a little longer. like he’s learning the shape of you, one brush of lips at a time.
you smile into it. and when you finally pull away, he rests his forehead against yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“still team-building” he murmurs.
“i’ll allow it.”
on the last day of the retreat, there’s a closing circle.
the room smells like whiteboard markers and lemon disinfectant. someone’s playing a spotify playlist called reflect & renew. the volume is too low to be inspiring, but just loud enough to be annoying.
everyone’s handed a blank feedback form and a final question:
what did you learn about yourself this week?
you write: i can survive on granola bars and passive aggression and turn it in without a second thought.
mingyu doesn’t.
he stays behind, pen tapping against his clipboard, brows furrowed in concentration like the question matters more than it should.
you don’t ask, not right away.
but later, on the shuttle ride home, when the trees blur past and the windows fog with soft breath and leftover heat, he says it.
softly. like he’s not sure he means to say it out loud.
“i wrote your name.”
you turn to him.
he’s looking straight ahead, at the back of the seat in front of him.
“on the form. under what i learned.”
you blink.
your chest does something weird and slow.
you want to say something clever. or funny. or soft. maybe all three. but your throat’s too full of whatever this is.
so instead, you just let your shoulder fall against his. let his hand drift close enough that your pinkies touch.
and leave it there.
returning to the office is like stepping into a parallel universe.
the emails are worse. the coffee is worse. the printer is somehow worse.
but everything’s different.
you see it in the way he lingers by your desk instead of breezing past.
in the way your conversations drift. less complaints, more curiosity.
and when he texts at 12:31 p.m. asking “lunch?”, you don’t even pretend to hesitate.
at first, it’s casual.
shared takeout at the back of the break room. eating out of the same box without acknowledging it. him stealing your last dumpling like it’s tradition. you letting him.
then it becomes routine.
tuesday: curry. thursday: overpriced poke. friday: him remembering you don’t like cilantro. you pretending not to notice that he remembered.
the others don’t question it.
you’re assistants. you’re allowed to coordinate.
no one asks why he walks you out some nights.
or why your lipstick keeps fading around 4 p.m.
the supply closet becomes your shared religion.
there’s something hilariously undignified about kissing someone between boxes of toner and spare lanyards. but that’s where it happens most. tucked into the corner, his clipboard jammed under his arm, your breath catching before you even close the door.
it’s never dramatic.
it’s always sudden.
like gravity just... tips.
his hand finds your jaw. yours fists in his shirt. you both laugh too much after. you both leave with your heart doing that thing it’s not supposed to do during work hours.
sometimes he texts you while you’re ten feet away.
mingyu [work enemy adjacent] your boss just called his 47-slide deck "visionary" thoughts?
you immediate prison
mingyu [work enemy adjacent] same cell or separate?
you supply closet. ten minutes. no witnesses.
your boss seems pleased lately.
“your tone’s changed” he tells you one morning. “you’re more solution-oriented. less... sharp.”
he thinks it’s the retreat. thinks you came back wiser. calmer. aligned.
maybe he’s not wrong.
but he doesn’t know that the thing that changed isn’t you.
it’s that now, when the workday gets unbearable, when the chaos piles up and the caffeine runs out, there’s someone waiting by the copier with a smirk and a post-it that says:
“lunch?” “you look like you need a minute.” “i’m stealing you. don’t argue.”
and maybe that’s all it takes.
maybe the retreat didn’t fix your job. maybe it didn’t fix your boss.
but it gave you something else.
something stupid and ridiculous and kind of beautiful.
and you’re not giving it back.
