HEARTS IN SYNC

BREAKING POINT

The office buzzed like an angry hive, low murmurs trailing behind Amani like a swarm of bees. Something had shifted in the air—tense, charged, and sharp. Her inbox was flooded. Tasks she never approved, files she didn’t assign, meetings she wasn’t informed of—all traced back to one source: Yejun. it needs to be studied how immensely horrible these celebrities are, when the cameras are turned off.

She tried to ignore it at first. Told herself it was just office politics, that maybe she was overthinking it. But when she walked into the planning board meeting that afternoon, only to find out that the venue for Minjae’s next showcase had been booked—without her input—her patience finally began to c***k.

Amani paced the hallway outside the conference room, fists clenched, her nails digging crescent moons into her palms. Her breath was sharp, short. She wasn’t imagining it. She had been deliberately pushed out of critical loops, blocked from team chats, even excluded from the coordination list for Minjae’s upcoming media appearance.

This wasn’t just tension—it was sabotage.

“Miss Amani?” a timid intern approached her. “They’ve already started the pitch meeting… Yejun said you weren’t needed.”

That was it.

Without another word, Amani turned on her heel and stormed toward the room. The moment she stepped inside, the air shifted. Eyes darted between her and Yejun. Some looked down. Some looked sorry. Yejun, however, barely acknowledged her entrance.

"Oh, you’re here," he said flatly, flipping through his tablet. "Didn’t think this was your lane."

Amani blinked. Slowly. “Excuse me?”

"You’ve been… busy. Karaoke nights. Studio strolls. "We didn’t want to overload you," he said, smirking.

The silence was deafening.

“I’m not here to play office games,” she said, her voice calm but lethal. You will not sideline me in a project I manage. If you have a problem with me, say it.”

Yejun leaned back lazily. “I don’t have to. It’s already obvious.”

Her eyes burned, not with tears, but with restraint. Rage rippled under her skin. Before she lost her composure, Amani grabbed her tablet and stormed out, her heels striking the floor like gunshots.

—

She didn’t even realize she had climbed all the way up to the rooftop until the cold air bit into her cheeks. The city stretched endlessly before her, lights flickering like restless thoughts. Her breath fogged in the air as she clutched the juice can she'd grabbed from the vending machine.

She was trembling. Her entire body coiled, the way it had the first time she was left standing alone in a room full of people who once promised her the world.

Downstairs, Minjae had heard the tail end of the chaos. Whispers trailing down hallways like breadcrumbs. The intern who’d informed her had mumbled something to another team member, who mumbled it to someone else. Within minutes, the whole office was abuzz with talk of how Yejun had humiliated Amani in front of the board.

Minjae stood frozen in the hallway near the stairwell, unable to focus on the notes in his hands. Something in his gut twisted. A dull, persistent hum of worry that wouldn’t go away. Then someone casually mentioned, “She left. Looked like she was about to explode. Probably needed air.”

Air.

That was when he remembered.

Weeks ago, Amani had casually said she loved rooftops. That they helped her escape when the world got too loud. Back then, he hadn’t thought much of it. Now, the memory clung to him like a thread pulling him upward.

He took the stairs two at a time.

—

“Still love rooftops?” Minjae’s voice broke the silence.

Amani didn’t turn, only nodded once.

He stepped beside her and handed her another can of juice, their fingers grazing slightly. That soft touch made her heart twitch. It shouldn’t mean anything, but her body betrayed her. A current zipped through her fingertips.

They stood that way for a while. Just breathing. Just watching.

Then, in a voice that trembled slightly, she said, “Can I tell you a story?”

He glanced at her. “I’m listening.”

“There was a little girl. She always wanted to be given things. "Always wanted to feel like the center of the world,” she said, her voice almost too soft. On her seventh birthday, she begged her parents for a specific toy. Insisted on it.”

Minjae remained quiet. Even his breath seemed to pause.

“They left the house late to find it. And they never came back.”

Her voice cracked. Just a hairline fracture. “Car crash. That night.”

His breath caught.

“For a while, I thought it was my fault. Then I hated them for going. Then I hated myself again.” She turned to face him, but her eyes looked far away. “My grandma took me in. Raised me. Loved me. Saved me.”

The smallest smile tugged at her lips. “She’s the reason I do what I do. Why I help people… Even when they think I’m the enemy.”

A long pause.

Amani’s voice wavered. “I’m not your enemy, Minjae. I don’t know why everyone is making me out to be.”

Minjae turned toward her, his jaw tight, his arms crossed, then relaxed, then crossed again. “Then stop running,” he said finally.

She stared at him. Her mouth parted slightly, confusion in her gaze.

“Stop hiding like we’re not in this together,” he added, his voice low.

Their eyes locked. The tension between them became taut, vibrating.

He took a step closer. She felt it in her bones.

Her breath shallowed. He was so close she could see the flecks of copper in his dark eyes, the soft twitch in his jaw, the faint scar above his left eyebrow. The city lights glimmered around them, casting shadows that danced like ghosts of what-ifs.

His fingers reached up to brush a strand of hair from her face. Her breath hitched, lips parting as if in a silent question. The contact was light—tender—but it ignited something reckless.

Her body leaned in before her mind could stop it. Her heart thundered. She could smell his cologne—woodsy, warm, familiar. His hand lingered, cupping her jaw gently, his thumb grazing the corner of her mouth.

“Minjae…” she whispered, uncertain whether it was a protest or plea.

“I see you,” he murmured. “Even when you think you’re invisible.”

The words settled into her chest like gravity. Like truth.

Just as her fingers touched the fabric of his shirt—needing to anchor herself—

Clap. Clap. Clap.

The slow mockery of it shattered the silence.

They both turned sharply.

Yejun.

Standing a few feet away, arms crossed, leaning against the doorframe of the rooftop entrance.

“Touching. Really.” His voice was laced with poison. “But don’t get it twisted, sweetheart. You’re just another pawn. This? All of this? It’s just a game for him.”

Amani’s spine stiffened. But she didn’t turn. She stood in Minjae’s arms, eyes narrowed at Yejun.

“You’re being ridiculous,” she said.

Yejun scoffed. “Am I? You think you’re special? Minjae’s been playing this tortured artist gig for years. You’re not different.”

Amani’s chest tightened. Her hands balled at her sides.

Meanwhile, Minjae hadn’t moved. He wasn’t looking at Yejun. He hadn’t said a word to defend himself.

He was staring at her. Like he was trying to memorize her—read her—catch every flicker of doubt and every unspoken hurt.

And at that moment, Amani realized: he was seeing her.

Not the strategy, not the assistant, not the fixer—but her.

Yejun’s voice was still going in the background, something bitter, something low and cruel.

But then—

Minjae’s arms wrapped around her tighter.

She blinked.

He leaned in slowly.

And then, without hesitation—

He kissed her.

—