The morning after the rain felt borrowed — too soft, too bright, too new.For the first time in weeks, Luma Group's lobby smelled faintly of wet jasmine, as if the city hadn't finished telling its story from the night before.
Yoon Ha-rin stood by the glass lift, hair still damp from her rushed commute, clutching a folder that had no business shaking in her hands.
She told herself she was early.She told herself she wasn't waiting for anyone.
Then Kang Jae-hyun stepped in from the revolving door, sunlight cutting through the drizzle behind him like a halo of logic and disaster.
Their eyes met.
And for one strange instant, everyone else in the lobby seemed to freeze — the receptionist mid-sip, the courier mid-stride.Even the clock above the elevators paused on 8:48.
Tick.Silence.Tick again.
Then the world exhaled and moved on.
"Morning," he said, a little too casual.
She cleared her throat. "You're late."
He checked his watch — the ordinary one. "We seem to be stuck in yesterday's time zone."
"Funny," she said, "that's exactly how my heart works lately."
His eyebrow arched, amused. "Careful, Ms. Yoon, HR might file that as workplace poetry."
"Then I'll make them a haiku," she said, stepping into the lift.
He followed, and for a moment they stood in silence as the doors closed and their reflections merged in the mirrored wall — two lines moving upward together, never touching, but never apart.
Upstairs, the office was its usual storm of caffeine and chaos.Na-eun leaned against Ha-rin's desk, chewing on a straw."Okay, spill. The gossip radar is buzzing. You two went missing during a thunderstorm, came back glowing, and this morning the servers are showing phantom timestamps again. Coincidence?"
Ha-rin muttered, "Go bother the IT team."
Na-eun grinned. "Already did. They said the company clocks all desynced by twelve minutes last night. Creepy-cute, huh? Like the universe ships you two."
"Na-eun."
"Fine, fine. Just saying — if time itself is simping for you, you're basically canon."
Ha-rin threw a pencil at her.
Across the floor, Jae-hyun's door was half open.He was on a call, tone measured, but his eyes found hers between lines of corporate jargon.He mouthed, Coffee later?
She nodded, pretending to read a memo that had been blank for five minutes.
When they finally met in the break room, she poured two cups.
He leaned against the counter, sleeves rolled, the faintest trace of rain still in his hair."You didn't sleep," he said softly.
She shrugged. "I kept hearing it. The ticking."
His hand brushed hers when he reached for the sugar jar.The world flickered.
For exactly twelve seconds, everything around them stilled — the vending machine's hum, Na-eun's laughter from the hall, even the steam from the coffee hung mid-air.
Only their breathing moved.
She looked up, wide-eyed. "Jae-hyun…"
He whispered, "Déjà vu?"
She nodded. "Or déjà us."
He laughed quietly — that soft, helpless sound she'd never heard before the rain.
When the world resumed, the spoon clattered against the counter, startling them both.
Later, during the team meeting, he stood at the front discussing quarterly goals.Ha-rin tried to focus on slides, numbers, reality — anything but the way the projector light painted his face, making him look like a memory caught between centuries.
"…and we'll align these timelines before the audit," he said.
The word timelines made her flinch.
He noticed. Their eyes met across the table.
For a heartbeat, the room blurred again — same people, same scene, but tinted sepia, like an old photograph.
She saw herself standing beside him, both in white coats, blueprints scattered, the same phrase on his lips:"We'll align these timelines."
Then blink — it was gone.
She dropped her pen.
Na-eun leaned over. "Whoa. You okay?"
"Yeah," Ha-rin said, smiling weakly. "Just… time traveling."
When the meeting ended, Jae-hyun lingered by the door."Walk with me?" he asked.
They ended up on the terrace, overlooking the wet skyline.
He leaned against the railing, wind tugging at his tie. "It's spreading, isn't it? The déjà vu."
She nodded. "Little moments. Words. Even the weather feels familiar."
He looked at her. "Maybe time's trying to remind us where we left off."
She smiled faintly. "Between a disaster and a deadline?"
He chuckled. "That's our love language."
The sky rumbled, but no rain came — only that heavy, electric calm that means the air is listening.
He reached for her hand, fingers brushing hers just long enough to feel the pulse there.
"I don't know what Echo wants," he said, voice low. "But whatever it rewrites, I'll fight to keep you in every version."
Her throat tightened. "And I'll sketch every one until we find the one where we're happy."
"Deal," he whispered.
The wind pushed a single jasmine petal from somewhere — perhaps a balcony planter, perhaps nowhere at all — and it landed between their joined hands.
Tick.
Just once.
Then the sound faded, leaving only the warmth of contact and the unspoken promise of tomorrow.