Ten hours earlier.
“What do I have that I can even wear...?”
Gyeoul practically upended his closet, spreading clothes all over the floor. He was wrestling with the same dilemma everyone faced: a wardrobe full of clothes but nothing to wear. This felt too light; that was hopelessly out of style. By the time he’d ruled items out one by one, there was nothing left. And he couldn’t exactly show up in a suit like he did for work.
He needed something to wear because of the musical tickets from In Seongje. After a night spent agonizing, Gyeoul had decided to go see the show. He’d never seen a musical before and wanted the experience at least once. If he let this chance slip, who knew when he’d get another? Everyone knew how easy it was to keep saying “next time.”
Like exercise—exercise or things like exercise. A musical was Gyeoul’s personal “exercise.” He didn’t want to miss this opportunity.
Who would he go with? He decided to go alone. Forcing someone to tag along made no sense. Plenty of people went to movies solo; surely musicals were similar. Sure, it was a shame to leave a perfectly good ticket unused, but he couldn’t very well sell or give away a gift.
Having found nothing suitable, he gave up on the closet and opted to buy a new outfit, cheering himself on: spring clothes were in short supply anyway.
Putting on the new clothes and heading to the musical felt like the night before a childhood picnic.
Choosing the prettiest outfit, packing snacks and juice boxes, then lying down to sleep—waiting with thrilling anticipation. That flutter of excitement was exactly what he enjoyed.
“Wow...”
The theater was far larger than Gyeoul had imagined. Rows on rows of seats, a full house of people. He checked his ticket number again and found his seat—front of the middle block on the first floor: not too close, not too far. Perfect.
‘I have to sit here alone...?’
Gyeoul usually didn’t mind being alone, but today the emptiness of the next seat stung. How nice it would be to share this with someone he liked. A pointless lament.
“You’re here?”
Gyeoul, browsing prices on his phone, looked up at the familiar voice.
“Huh...?”
In that instant, his vision cleared. The man before him was so refreshingly bright.
It was none other than In Seongje—the one who’d gifted the ticket, the alpha lead of Falling Blossoms. In casual clothes, he looked at least five years younger than at the office. Gyeoul could’ve sworn he was a college student.
Like a sudden summer shower on a clear day, like the first dewdrops at dawn, Seongje’s presence felt luminously different—as though he were not quite human but a higher being.
“Sit down.”
Seongje gestured, and Gyeoul took the seat beside him.
“I didn’t realize our seats were together. Isn’t that uncomfortable?”
“No! Uh, it’s not uncomfortable.”
It was absolutely uncomfortable. His face was handsome, yes—but unbearably so. What made it worse was everything: the world’s protagonist of Falling Blossoms, the focus of everyone’s gaze, a coworker, the boss’s brother, the youngest son of the chairman… How could it not be awkward?
“Mm. Your face says uncomfortable.”
Seongje muttered as if to himself.
‘I usually have a poker face at work...’
Gyeoul thought Seongje must have guessed. He wasn’t one to show emotion—except perhaps terror.
“So, are you here with someone?”
Seongje glanced at Gyeoul’s empty side. Gyeoul felt a twinge of embarrassment at admitting he was alone. If he said he had no friends—or no date—Seongje would think less of him. It was true, but he didn’t want coworkers to know.
“I don’t have any friends, so I came alone. Ha ha.”
Luckily, Seongje beat him to it, admitting he was also solo. He, too, had no companion.
“I—I did too! Well, it’s not that I have no friends… I just, like the department head, came alone...”
Gyeoul clung to what little pride he had.
“Since it’s come to this, let’s enjoy it together.”
He nodded, forcing a small smile.
‘…How can he smile like that?’
Gyeoul wondered. Seongje’s smile was flawless, as if painted by an artist. It brought to mind In Juhan’s face—twisted into something villainous even when sneering.
‘I wonder if Director Juhan is with a date right now. That person seemed outgoing, sociable...’
She was incredibly beautiful, with a bright personality and obvious wealth.
She must be an omega, right? A textbook dominant omega.
“Oh, looks like it’s about to start. Enjoy the show.”
Seongje’s voice pulled him from his endless reverie.
“Huh? Oh, yes!”
He wasn’t sure why he’d wandered into pointless thoughts. He needed to focus on the performance—it was his first musical, after all.
“How was the show?”
“It was so much fun! ...was—yes.”
Gyeoul’s excited tone faltered as he realized he sounded over the top. The musical had been fantastic—far beyond musical films he enjoyed. Its realism and subtle emotional expressions were amazing. Seeing it live was an entirely different experience.
“Thank you for the ticket. I should’ve thanked you earlier...”
He remembered mid-show that he’d never expressed his gratitude. It was only polite to say so immediately afterward.
“No need. They were extra tickets anyway. Shall we go?”
Seongje rose, leading the way.
“Watch the steps.”
As Seongje placed a hand lightly on his back, Gyeoul felt oddly protected—an unfamiliar but pleasant sensation, no doubt a reflexive courtesy.
“Oh! Seongje!”
No sooner had they exited than someone called out.
“I’ll be right back.”
“Okay?”
“Don’t go—wait!”
“Um, I can just go...!”
Gyeoul shouted after Seongje’s retreating back, but Seongje turned, called “I’ll wait!” and walked on.
‘Why does he have something to tell me? We hardly work together...’
Reluctantly, Gyeoul stayed behind—and realized Seongje had lied to him.
“He really has no friends, huh.”
Nearly a dozen people had gathered around Seongje—men and women his age. With that face and personality, it’d be weirder if he had no friends.
Standing there like a scarecrow, Gyeoul opened his phone and pretended to check something: calendar, messenger inundated with spam, call log—meaningless checks. Eventually he landed on his work scheduler to at least peek at Juhan’s schedule for tomorrow.
“Do you work here too?”
“Ah!”
Startled by a sudden voice behind him, Gyeoul nearly dropped his phone—but Seongje’s reflexes saved it midair.
“Sorry for surprising you. Didn’t mean to.”
“No, it’s fine... I’m just easily startled.”
“Well, that won’t do. Let me make it up with a meal—come on.”
“Huh?”
Gyeoul didn’t understand the sudden leap to dinner. He’d already received an apology; why further trouble?
“No! Really, it’s okay! I’m not that hungry—no need!”
He waved his hands, refusing. The idea of dining with a stranger—especially Seongje—felt awkward and uneasy, as though he were about to choke despite not having eaten.
“…Am I that uncomfortable?”
Gyeoul covered his mouth, shocked.
“Did I actually say that out loud?!”
He’d thought it only in his head—but somehow it escaped.
“…Ha.”
Then Seongje’s expression, slack with amusement, told him otherwise: he’d fallen for the joke.
‘This is disastrous... he must be so annoyed.’
His mind went blank; no excuse came to him.