The city woke slowly into evening: neon signs humming, scooters threading between brake lights, and the distant clatter of a thousand small, urgent errands. Han Seojin pedaled through that noise like a man trying to outrun rent. He'd already done more than a dozen drops, his delivery bag heavy and his legs stiff from hours on the saddle. His jacket was thin and patched at the elbow; his shoes had seen better days. He muttered to himself the way he always did when tired—half complaint, half promise—that one more job would be enough.
The app buzzed. Apartment 1703. High-rise address. Seojin glanced at the pin and gritted his teeth. Fancy towers meant complicated elevators and doormen who treated delivery bikes like contraband. He pushed his bike up to the glass façade, swallowed the pinch of envy—people who lived here probably had chauffeurs—and stepped into a lobby that smelled of lemon polish and expensive cologne.
The security guard studied him, then nodded when he saw the insulated bag. Inside, the marble floor reflected Seojin's scuffed sneakers. He felt like a wrong shoe in the wrong story.
The elevator dinged up to seventeen. Seojin checked the order slip, took a breath, and knocked.
The door opened to someone smaller than Seojin had expected—not in height so much as in the aura. Yoon Jaemin stood in the doorway in an oversized hoodie, hair mussed from whatever hours he'd spent inside, round glasses perched crooked on his nose. He looked like he belonged to the night: tired, sharp, quietly efficient. Lines of light from his apartment's big window painted his face in a soft rectangle.
"Delivery," Seojin said, offering the bag.
Jaemin blinked, then frowned—not unfriendly, just distracted. He fumbled for cash out of habit though the app showed a digital payment, and Seojin accepted the bills with a practiced smile.
As Seojin turned to leave something slipped out of his delivery bag—a thin, folded paper that snagged against the zipper and fluttered to the floor. Seojin cursed under his breath and bent to pick it up, cheeks already burning with the small, familiar shame that came with overdue notices. He kept as few documents as possible in his bag; city life didn't forgive disarray.
Jaemin stooped too, his fingers brushing Seojin's as he handed the paper back. The bill was stamped with a municipal logo and a past due date. For a second both of them looked at it, then at each other.
"You dropped this," Jaemin said, his voice softer than Seojin expected.
Heat rose in Seojin's neck. "Ah—thanks." He snatched the paper back too quickly. "I'll—see you." He took a step, then another.
Jaemin watched him go like someone watching the last page of a book he'd opened accidentally. He didn't say anything else; his expression was a careful neutral, which made Seojin feel both exposed and oddly seen.
Back on the bike, Seojin felt the usual mixed stew of relief and irritation. He'd get home, feed his mother, study a little between shifts—he was always balancing schedules—and try not to think about how thin the money looked in his wallet. But he couldn't shake the image of the man in the hoodie watching him at the door. The glance had been too direct, as if Jaemin had catalogued him like a developer reading through messy code and finding something interesting in the error messages.
When Seojin dropped onto his futon that night, exhaustion hit him like a soft wall. He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling, counting tiles and debts in equal measure. The building's thin walls let in a neighbor's late-night TV laughter and the distant howl of a delivery scooter. He should sleep. He wanted sleep. But the shadow of Jaemin's patient, tired face stayed with him.
Across town, Jaemin was already back at his desk, more habit than will-power keeping him awake. Lines of code blinked red on his screen—alerts from a build that wouldn't compile, a deadline a week closer than he'd like. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and pushed a hand through his hair. The company group chat pinged with investor questions. The pressure tasted metallic.
He had not intended to be noticed that night. Attention made him uncomfortable the way a spotlight stings. Yet the memory of Seojin handing him that crumpled bill tugged at him. There was something honest in the delivery boy's flinch when the paper dropped, something that made the sterile edges of Jaemin's apartment feel even quieter.
It was small and stupid—two moments of an ordinary exchange—but Jaemin found himself staring at the place where the delivery bag had been. He tried to refocus on the code, on the sequence of fixes he needed to deploy. A variable name bothered him. He changed it. The terminal responded with fewer errors. Still—he kept thinking of the boy's hands, callused and quick, how he had moved with an economy that came only from practice and pressure.
The next evening, the app pinged on Seojin's phone with a familiar address.
He almost ignored it.
Then he checked the number. Same building. Same apartment. He hesitated only a beat, told himself he needed the money, and accepted the order.
He found himself standing in front of 1703 again. When the door swung open this time it was almost immediate—as if Jaemin had been waiting. He looked up at Seojin and the light caught in the rims of his glasses. He said, dryly, "You again."
Seojin offered a weary, half-smile. "Seems like you like my company."
Jaemin's mouth twitched. "Is that a problem?"
For reasons he couldn't put into words, Seojin felt a small, ridiculous flutter in his chest. Maybe it was the dark in Jaemin's hoodie and the way he tucked a stray strand of hair behind his ear when he was thinking. Maybe it was that both of them, in their own ways, were very tired of pretending.
When Seojin handed over the bag, the city outside the door hummed on. Neither of them knew then that ordinary repeats like this could turn into something complicated and stubborn—something that would not stay polite or pretend forever.