Even Then

Chapter 1: Numbers, Noise & the Architect Upstairs

I don't remember the last time I took a full breath.

Not a shallow inhale in between checking emails or a caffeine-fueled gulp between meetings. I mean a full, clean breath — one that didn't feel like I was dragging it through dust, fluorescent lights, and the hum of recycled air conditioning.

All I knew was that it was nearly midnight. I was still at the office. And the spreadsheet in front of me had become some abstract art of numbers, red highlights, and mild existential dread.

The move to this building was supposed to be a step up — newer, bigger, more "collaborative," whatever that meant. Management kept calling it a "fresh start." They said the open layout and shared spaces would "energize workflow." They said we'd be able to "breathe."

Cute.

They didn't mention the drilling. The flickering hallway lights. The printer being relocated to a random corner of the third floor like it was in time-out. They definitely didn't warn us about the construction team constantly walking through the floor like they owned it — all boots and blueprints and laughs that somehow echoed louder than any human laugh should.

One of the interns called it "The Mingyu Effect."

Apparently, that was the name of the tall guy in charge of the renovations. Mingyu. Everyone said it like it meant something. Like he wasn't just an architect, but a phenomenon. I hadn't seen him, but I'd heard the stories.

"He's like, obnoxiously tall."

"I asked him for a stapler and he fixed the cabinet door instead."

"He said my desk placement made him anxious. He moved it. It's actually better now."

I'd rolled my eyes at every comment. But somewhere in the back of my mind, I started noticing the trail he left behind: neatly rolled floor plans by the break room, a white hard hat hanging off a chair that no one sat in, the smell of fresh coffee that didn't match the office brand.

His company — some boutique architecture firm on the top floor — had been here way before us. We were the new tenants. The intruders. He was just cleaning up the mess.

I dragged myself out of my chair, every part of me aching. My feet were screaming, so I slipped off my shoes. I didn't even care. The soles of my tights were probably disintegrating, but whatever. I grabbed my files and made my way to the printer.

Third floor.

Printer exile.

The lights were dimmer here. Not broken, just tired — like everything else in the building. I made it to the machine, hit print, and leaned against the wall, breathing through my jaw, trying to pretend I wasn't unraveling.

The printer wheezed. Groaned. Spit out one page. Then stopped. Paper jam.

Of course.

I stared at it. Just stared. I was too tired to be angry.

"Come on," I whispered. "I don't have it in me tonight."

I opened the tray. Nothing visible. I pressed a button. It made a noise like it was trying to apologize.

Then a deep voice behind me:

"Try whispering compliments. She's sensitive."

I turned.

And there he was.

Mingyu.

I knew it was him before he said anything else — because everything about him looked exactly like the rumors described, except worse. Or better, depending on the angle.

Tall, yes. Unfairly tall. Rolled-up sleeves. A few ink smudges on his forearm like he'd sketched something today without realizing. Hoodie tied around his waist. Blueprint in one hand, coffee in the other.

And that grin. Lopsided. Effortless. Like he was halfway through an inside joke I hadn't been invited to yet.

"Sorry," he said. "Didn't mean to sneak up on you. This machine and I have history."

"You two seem close," I said dryly.

He walked up, crouched in front of the tray like he knew what he was doing.

"It's a toxic relationship," he said. "But I'm working on boundaries."

The printer made a soft churning sound — then coughed out my entire document stack like it had just been waiting for him.

He stood up and handed me the papers.

"Mingyu," he said, casually.

"I know," I said before I could stop myself.

He raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"You're... kind of infamous upstairs."

His smile stretched wider. "Ah. The desk rearrangement incident?"

"Among others."

He held his coffee to his lips but didn't drink it. "You're not one of the open-space fans, are you?"

I gestured at my paperwork. "Do I look like someone thriving in collaboration?"

He laughed — and this time, I felt it. It wasn't loud, but it was full. Like he wasn't just amused — he was actually present. People don't do that much anymore. Be present.

I tucked the papers to my chest and turned to go, but he surprised me by saying:

"You looked tired before the printer betrayed you."

I paused. "That obvious?"

"Only because I've looked that way, too."

There it was — that flicker in his voice. A dip beneath the surface. Something deeper. But he didn't linger in it. He just smiled again, softer this time.

"Come by the sixth floor sometime," he added. "There's a spot by the window no one knows about. Good light. Quiet. Better coffee."

"You just tell everyone that?"

He grinned. "Just the ones I catch fighting printers barefoot."

I shook my head, finally smiling. It wasn't much — but it felt like something.

As I turned the corner, I glanced back once — just to see if he was still there.

He was.

Mingyu.

Somewhere between a renovation project and a disruption I hadn't seen coming.