*⁠.⁠✧ sanctuary *⁠.⁠✧

Two was the standard amount, but that extra half-cube had to be snapped off by your own hand; a whole cube made it too sweet, yet two alone left it lacking that final touch. You’d tried using sugar packets, but the texture of the granules wasn't right. You craved the specific sensation of holding a sugar cube between your fingertips, snapping it gently, and watching the crumbs fall onto the rim of the cup. You couldn't quite explain why—it just felt like the only way to make it complete.

On the Wednesday of your third week, you walked into the breakroom, mug in hand, ready to go through your practiced routine: boil water, brew coffee, snap the sugar cube. That was when you saw it.

There, on the counter in the corner, sat a cup of coffee that had already been brewed. No steam rose from the rim, but the mug felt warm to the touch. Beside it sat a small dish of sugar cubes—three of them, with one snapped neatly in half.

You stood there, frozen for a good three seconds.

You glanced around; the breakroom was empty. You picked up the coffee and leaned in to smell it—dark roast beans, exactly the same kind you drank every morning. After a moment of hesitation, you took a sip.

Not scalding. Just warm. Perfect for drinking. And the sweetness level was… two and a half cubes.

Holding the mug, you stood in the breakroom and found yourself smiling, for reasons you couldn't quite name.

The next day, you arrived ten minutes earlier than usual. At eight o'clock sharp, the lights in the pantry were on, and that cup of coffee was already sitting on the counter. You reached out and touched the side of the cup—it was warm. Whoever had left it there had just departed.

You decided not to make a fuss. You picked up the cup and returned to your desk, acting as if nothing had happened.

On the third day, you arrived early, at 7:50. The coffee was already there.

On the fourth day, you arrived at 7:30. The coffee was still there.

On the fifth day, you snapped. You arrived at the office at seven o'clock sharp; the only other people on the floor were the security guard and the cleaning lady. You walked into the pantry, but the counter was completely bare—no coffee. Standing there, you felt a sudden sense of letdown. You boiled some water, made yourself a cup of coffee, broke off half a sugar cube, and went back to your desk. At 8:10, under the pretext of refilling your water, you passed by the pantry again—and there sat the coffee, quiet and still, wisps of steam rising from the cup as if it had never been missing at all.

You stared at the coffee for a long time. Then, you pulled a sticky note from your desk and, in your finest handwriting, wrote three words:

"Who are you?"

You stuck it onto the cup. The next morning, you found a new sticky note on the counter next to your coffee. You picked it up; it bore just a single line of text, written in a clean, crisp hand:

"It doesn't matter. Drink your coffee."

You stared at the words, your heart skipping a beat.

cube Il

You didn't stop. You began writing a sentence on a sticky note every day and attaching it to the cup. He replied every time—briefly, with restraint—yet his words always made you read them twice.

You wrote: "Proposal presentation today. I'm so nervous."

He replied: "I heard your last presentation. You did a great job."

You stood there, stunned, holding the note. Your last presentation had been two weeks ago; you’d stood before the projector in the conference room for twenty minutes, making it to the fifteenth slide. You had stumbled twice along the way, and your palms were slick with sweat when you stepped down. You remembered clearly that a dozen people had been in the room; you had kept your head down the entire time, never once looking to see who was actually listening.

You wrote: "How did you know?"

He replied: "I was sitting in the third row, by the window."

Third row, by the window. You ran it through your mind—that was the Design Department's area. You didn't know the people in Design very well; they always sat quietly in the corner, dragging things around on their screens. You remembered one of them… You tried hard to recall: a very tall guy, thin, a man of few words, always wearing thin-framed glasses, sitting in that third-row window seat, with a desk so tidy it hardly looked like a living person's workspace.

You didn't even know his name.

You write: "Third row, by the window… are you from the design department?"

He replies: "Yes."

You write: "And what's your name?"

When the sticky note is returned, it only has one word on it:

"Guess."

You laugh in exasperation.

You started paying attention to the seat in the third row by the window.

There really was a guy there—tall, thin, wearing thin-framed glasses and often dressed in dark colors. You had never really looked at him before—not because he was inconspicuous, but because you were too busy; too busy to even remember the names of people in the team next to yours. But now, you start "accidentally" walking past the design department's workstations, "accidentally" getting water near him, and "accidentally" queuing up behind him in the cafeteria.

You notice things you had completely overlooked before.

He arrives very early every day. By the time you get in at eight, he is already at his desk with design software open on his screen and a cup of black coffee beside him—no sugar, no milk; it looks so bitter that just gazing at it makes you frown. He wears clear, thin-framed glasses; occasionally, he takes them off to rub his eyes, then puts them back on and turns his attention back to the screen. His desk holds nothing but a computer, a water cup, and a scraggly, crooked pothos plant—absolutely nothing else.

You notice he eats incredibly fast. While others in the cafeteria are still queuing for soup, he is already standing up with an empty tray, ready to leave. You notice that at three in the afternoon, he stands up right on schedule to get water from the pantry, walks over to the window to stand for two minutes, and then returns to his desk. You notice he walks softly, making almost no sound—like a cat trying to go unnoticed.

You notice that he never once looks at you of his own accord.

Every time you "walk past," his head is down, eyes fixed on the screen. When you queue behind him for food, he never turns around. When you are getting water in the pantry and he walks in, he simply stands quietly behind you and waits; he only fills his cup after you have left. At times, the physical distance between you is barely thirty centimeters, yet he doesn't spare you even a single extra glance.

You begin to wonder—could you have made a mistake? Maybe that person isn't him after all. Maybe someone else sits by the window in the third row? Maybe that sticky note was just someone's prank?

Yet, that cup of coffee appears right on schedule every morning.

You decide to change tactics.

You no longer write those questions like "Who are you?" or "What is your name?" You start writing other things instead. You write: "So tired today."

The next day, a line appears below the sticky note: "It's Friday. Hang in there."

You write: "Forgot to eat breakfast this morning."

The next day, a bag of soda crackers appears next to your coffee, a brand you've never seen before, but with a savory flavor that you like.

You write: "I have a proposal presentation next week; I'm so nervous."

The next day, the reply on the sticky note read: "I heard your last presentation—you unconsciously twirl your pen when you're nervous. Don't do that; just stop and take three deep breaths."

Looking at that sticky note, you suddenly felt like crying.

This person had noticed even that—the way you twirled your pen when nervous. And yet, you didn't even know his name. You thought back to your presentations; it was true—you would unconsciously twirl your pen, flipping it between your fingers until the cap flew off, forcing you to scramble and bend down to retrieve it. You had always assumed no one noticed. It turned out someone had.

You wrote: "You observe things so closely—do you like me?"

You deliberately used a half-joking tone, though your hand trembled as you stuck the note in place. The next morning, you flipped open the sticky note, and there it was, his neat handwriting:

"You found out?"

Three words. One question mark. Standing in the breakroom holding your coffee, your face felt hot enough to fry an egg.

You didn't press the issue further. But you started making a more deliberate effort to "pass by" the window seat in the third row.

You memorized how often he drank water; the sliver of skin visible at the back of his neck when he bowed his head; the way he’d furrow his brows slightly when taking off his glasses to rub his eyes; and how, when growing impatient with edits on a design, he would tap his pen cap lightly against the desk—three taps, then a pause, a deep breath, and back to work.

You started paying attention to what you wore. You used to just throw on a random hoodie and head out; now, you’d stand in front of the mirror, spending an extra thirty seconds deciding on your outfit. You began plotting routes through the office to engineer "chance encounters"—shifting your water-refill break from 10:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m., because that was the time he would stand by the window for a couple of minutes. You changed the time you went to the cafeteria from 12:00 to 12:10—the exact moment he would have finished eating and was getting ready to leave.

You pretended these encounters were merely coincidences. But you knew better.

There was a company dinner once at a hotpot restaurant, gathered around a large, steaming round table. You were seated quite far from him, yet he happened to be positioned diagonally across from you. While everyone else chatted, drank, and helped themselves to food, he sat quietly in the corner, peeling shrimp. You hadn't paid much attention at first, until you noticed him neatly arranging the peeled shrimp on a small plate—one, two, three… He peeled an entire platter, leaving a plate filled with pristine, shell-free shrimp meat.

Then, he stood up, carried the plate halfway around the table, and set it down in front of you. He didn't say a word before sitting back down.

The whole table fell silent for a second. Then, someone teased, "Ooh, Kang Taehyun, playing favorites, are we?"

He kept his head down, his voice flat and matter-of-fact, as if stating something entirely unremarkable:

"ln has a cut on their hand."

You looked down at your hands. There was indeed a tiny scratch on your right index finger—a nick from a cardboard box edge while opening a package a couple of days prior. It was as fine as a strand of hair; no one would have noticed it unless you pointed it out. You looked down at the plate of shrimp; every single one was perfectly peeled, without a trace of shell left behind.

You whispered a quiet "thank you." He nodded, picked up his glass of water for a sip, and didn't look at you once.

But you saw it. The knuckles of the fingers gripping his glass had turned white.

half-a-cube

You decided to stop hiding.

That night, back home, you sat on your bed and read the words "You found out?" on that sticky note over and over again—probably eight hundred times. You decided to go straight to the breakroom the next day and wait for him. No more passing messages via sticky notes, no more pretending to run into him by chance. You were going to stand right in front of him, look him in the eye, and say a proper "Good morning."

You woke up at 6:30 the next morning. After washing your face, you stood in front of the mirror for ten minutes—wondering what to wear. Dark colors? Light colors? Trying too hard isn't good, but being too casual won't do either. In the end, you chose a clean white shirt, tidied your hair, and headed out.

You arrived at the office at seven sharp. The entire floor was quiet; only the light in the security booth was on. You walked into the pantry, but the counter was bare—you were too early; even that cup of coffee hadn't appeared yet. You stood there, your heart pounding wildly. Then, you heard footsteps coming from the end of the hallway. Light. Steady. Step by step, moving toward the pantry.

You took a deep breath.

The moment he walked in, you were facing the counter, pretending to look at the coffee machine. He paused as he pushed the door open—clearly not expecting anyone to be in the pantry at that hour. You turned around. He was standing in the doorway, wearing thin-framed glasses and a dark coat, holding a box of sugar cubes. He froze when he saw you, then tilted his head slightly, as if trying to confirm something.

You spoke up: "Morning."

He was silent for two seconds. Then he said, "…Morning."

He walked in, and you stepped aside to make room. He walked to the front of the table, opened the box of sugar cubes, and began to repeat the same routine he did countless times every morning—taking out three cubes, breaking one in half, and putting it into a cup. You stood nearby, watching him. His fingers were long, and his movements as he snapped the sugar cube were gentle—as if he were afraid of breaking something precious.

You couldn't help but ask, "You realized it was me?"

He stopped and turned his head to look at you. Through the thin lenses of his glasses, his eyes were dark and calm. He didn't answer your question. Instead, he said, "You look… really good today."

You were taken aback for a moment. Then you laughed—an unstoppable laugh. You leaned against the pantry counter, your shoulders shaking with mirth. He stood beside you, still holding half a sugar cube, while his ears slowly, gradually turned bright red.

You wiped your eyes and said, "You come so early every day just to make me a cup of coffee?"

He was silent for three seconds. Then he said, "I’ve noticed you leaving so late every day. The light at your desk is often the last one to go out on the whole floor. I thought… if I could get you a cup of coffee made just right in the morning… maybe your day would be a little easier."

You looked at him; the light from the breakroom cast a faint, warm glow across his glasses.

You said, "You even know what time I leave?"

He replied, "Yeah. I leave even later than you do."

You held each other's gaze for a long moment. The air was filled with the aroma of coffee and something else—something nameless, something very, very light.

Finally, you reached out, took the half-cube of sugar from his hand, and dropped it into your cup. The cube hit the surface of the coffee, sending out a small ripple.

You said, "Two and a half cubes. Just the sweetness you broke off."

He lowered his head, the corners of his mouth curving upward.

You asked, not because you didn't know but because you wanted to hear it from him, "So, can you tell me your name now?"

He raised his eyes to look at you, his voice soft:

"Kang Taehyun."

You picked up the coffee and took a sip. Two and a half cubes. Not too sweet, not cloying—just right. You looked at him and said, "I'm…"

He said, "I know. It's on your ID badge. I saw it on the first day."

You glanced down at your badge—sure enough, it was hanging right there on your chest, the lettering large enough that it would be hard to miss.

You smiled.

"So, do you know I get to the office at 8:10 every morning?"

He said, "I do."

"And do you know I spin my pen when I'm presenting proposals?"

"I do."

"Then…" You looked into his eyes and spoke slowly. "Do you know that I want to ask you out to a movie this weekend?"

He was taken aback for a moment. Then he lowered his head and put the remaining half of the sugar cube into his black coffee—which he usually doesn't add sugar to. He picked it up, took a sip, and frowned, clearly not used to the sweetness.

He looked at you and said, "I know now."

You smiled again. You were fifteen minutes late that morning because you were in the break room with Kang Taehyun, finishing off that two-and-a-half-dollar coffee.

Later, you asked him why he broke a sugar cube in half—he could have just put in two whole ones.

He thought for a long time before saying, "Because I wanted you to realize that someone had broken a sugar cube just for you."

You fell silent for a moment. Then you said, "Next time you break one, you can make the piece a bit bigger."

He glanced at you. "Why?"

You smiled and said, "Because I want to taste a little more of it."

He lowered his head, his ears turning red again. He slid the box of sugar cubes toward you. You asked, "What are you doing?"

He said, "You break it. However big you break it, that’s how sweet I’ll drink it."

You took the box, picked out a cube, snapped off half, and dropped it into his black coffee. He picked it up, took a sip, frowned, and said, "Too sweet."

You leaned over and took a sip from his hand as well.

You winced, "Too bitter." Perhaps, your tastes still had great differences.

He didn't say anything. But out of the corner of your eye, you saw him smile again.