The rain drizzled softly outside the wide windows of the chocolate studio. Kang Mirae stood by the counter, her hands stained with rich cocoa as she molded delicate truffles filled with yuja citrus ganache. Each one was meticulous, shaped with purpose, but her mind wasn't focused. Not entirely.
Her thoughts drifted to the night before—Doekyom's words still echoed in her head:
"What if I'm afraid… not of losing everything, but of finally wanting something I can't protect?"
It was the most vulnerable she'd ever seen him, and it left a crack in the wall she had built around her own heart.
The door chimed. Mirae turned, half-expecting a customer. Instead, it was him—Lee Doekyom in a dark gray coat, his hair damp from the rain, holding a small paper bag.
"You left this in my car," he said simply, placing the bag on the counter.
Mirae blinked. She hadn't even realized her recipe notebook was missing. "Oh. Thank you."
They stood in silence for a beat too long.
"You've been avoiding me," he said, voice low.
Mirae hesitated, then looked up. "I needed time."
"To think?"
"To feel," she corrected gently.
He took a careful step closer, resting his hand on the edge of the counter. "Then tell me. What did you feel?"
She inhaled deeply. "Confused. Scared. But also... seen. Like someone finally understood why I fight so hard to keep this little shop alive."
Doekyom looked at the truffles she had been crafting. "You make the world softer, Mirae. Even for someone like me, who forgot what softness felt like."
Their eyes met. Neither of them moved.
Then, she took one truffle from the tray and held it out to him.
"Try it," she said. "It's not perfect yet, but it's something I made while thinking about you."
He took a bite, and for a second, the guarded CEO disappeared. "Yuja... and dark chocolate. It's unexpected. But it works."
"Like us?" she whispered.
Doekyom smiled—small, sincere, and utterly rare. "Exactly like us."
Doekyom lingered at the counter after finishing the truffle, letting the aftertaste settle on his tongue—bitter at first, then blooming into something floral and warm. It was more than chocolate. It was a message.
"Why citrus?" he asked softly.
Mirae wiped her hands on a towel and leaned forward, resting her elbows on the counter. Her eyes were calm, but her voice carried emotion. "Because it surprises you. It's sharp, a little jarring… but memorable. It's how I felt when you walked into my life again."
Doekyom's expression shifted—he was listening intently, as though every word she spoke mattered. And it did.
"I didn't plan for you to mean anything to me, Doekyom. You were supposed to be a client. A nuisance. But then…"
"Then I made the mistake of tasting your chocolate?" he teased, though his tone remained soft.
Mirae allowed a faint smile. "Then you made me care."
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. It was slightly creased from being held too often. He handed it to her wordlessly.
She unfolded it. Her eyes widened. It was a page from her original recipe notebook—the one she thought she had lost long ago. It was a concept for a chocolate bar called "Promise"—a flavor inspired by bittersweet beginnings and warm endings. She had written it during her apprenticeship in Paris, never daring to create it.
"How… how did you get this?"
"You left it in my car years ago, when we met at that culinary event in Gangnam. Before we really knew each other. I found it again recently and realized... maybe you and I were always meant to cross paths more than once."
Mirae looked up, stunned. Her hands trembled slightly. This man, once cold and distant, had been carrying a part of her dream all this time.
"Doekyom…"
He stepped around the counter, closing the distance between them. "Let me invest in more than just your shop. Let me try—really try—to be part of your world. Not as a CEO, not as someone fixing things… just as a man who wants to be with you."
Mirae's breath caught. The moment was delicate. Fragile.
But then she reached out, fingers grazing his, and whispered, "Then let's start with Promise."
And in that tiny chocolate studio, filled with the scent of cocoa and yuja, the past melted away. What remained was something new, unspoken yet undeniable—hope.
Later that evening, the shop was quiet, with only the soft hum of the refrigerator and the rhythmic tap of raindrops against the glass windows. The kitchen lights cast a warm glow over the marble counter where Mirae and Doekyom stood side by side, aprons on, hands dusted with cocoa powder.
"So, this is it?" Doekyom asked, glancing down at the ingredients Mirae had laid out—70% dark chocolate couverture, yuzu zest, clover honey, and a small jar labeled Sea Salt from Jeju Island.
Mirae nodded, her eyes fixed on the melted chocolate she stirred slowly in a bowl over simmering water. "I imagined it years ago, but never made it. I always thought it needed something more. Something honest."
Doekyom leaned closer. "And now?"
"Now, I think it needs us."
She handed him a whisk, guiding his hand into the bowl. The motion felt oddly intimate—his fingers brushing hers, the smoothness of the chocolate catching light as it thickened.
"We need to temper it properly. Slow and steady. Like trust," she added, glancing at him meaningfully.
He chuckled under his breath. "Did you always talk in metaphors?"
"Only when I'm nervous," she confessed, a shy smile creeping across her lips.
They moved in sync, weighing ingredients, folding in zest, adding the honey drop by drop. The scent was intoxicating—sweet, sharp, and nostalgic all at once.
As the chocolate set into molds, Mirae reached for a small brush to finish with gold dust on top. She hesitated.
"Would you… like to do this part?"
Doekyom hesitated. "I've never done this before."
"That's alright," she said softly. "Neither have I. Not like this."
His hand moved carefully, brushing gold over each piece. They looked elegant. Regal. Like little promises waiting to be unwrapped.
When they finished, she removed her apron and leaned against the counter. "You know, the last time I made something this personal, it broke my heart."
He looked at her with quiet understanding. "I'm not asking you to forget the past. I'm asking you to let it grow into something better."
They stood there in silence, the gold-kissed chocolates between them.
"Doekyom," she said after a moment, "Promise me something."
"Anything."
"If this goes wrong... if we mess up again... let's still be kind. No disappearing. No silence. No unfinished chocolates left behind."
He stepped forward and took her hand. "I promise."
And under the kitchen lights, where dreams were shaped and hearts were finally open, they shared their first real kiss—not rushed, not stolen—but crafted, patiently, like everything else they had begun to build.