Elevator Scene, (and Other Heart Problems).

Hailey Park.

If you ever want to test the limits of your cardiovascular system, just step into a metal box with your terrifyingly attractive boss after he tells you, “We’re doing a rehearsal.”

A rehearsal.

In. An. Elevator.

Because apparently, this man woke up this morning and chose K-drama chaos.

It starts like this:

He sends me a message at 8:02 a.m. — Subject: “Elevator. 9:00 sharp.”

No context. No explanation. No warning that I should emotionally prepare myself for imminent death via romantic tension.

I spend the next 58 minutes having an existential crisis in the bathroom mirror.

I practice breathing.

I practice not blushing.

I practice reminding myself: He’s your boss. He’s allergic to joy. He has the emotional warmth of a filing cabinet.

And yet my heart has the nerve — the audacity — to flutter like a middle-school fangirl.

9:00 a.m.

I walk to the elevator.

He’s already there, of course. Perfect suit. Perfect posture. Perfect jawline that probably sharpens itself in the mirror every morning.

“Miss Park,” he says. Calm. Serious. Like this is a board meeting and not a slow descent into psychological ruin.

“Sir,” I manage.

“Ready?”

“For what? Public humiliation? Existential regret?”

He presses the elevator button. “For Episode 3.”

The doors close.

He stands across from me, hands in his pockets, gaze fixed straight ahead like we’re not about to simulate one of the most iconic romantic tropes in K-drama history.

“So,” I say, “what’s the script this time?”

He clears his throat. “In the elevator scene, the male lead realizes he’s falling for the heroine. The space is small, tension builds, and—”

“And someone’s shirt usually gets caught on something, emotions happen, accidental eye contact, maybe a forehead kiss, sometimes—”

He looks at me sharply. “You’ve… analyzed this in detail.”

I glare. “I have experience, sir. As a viewer. A professional fangirl.”

He nods seriously, like I just presented a quarterly report on romance. “Good. You’ll understand the emotional beats.”

Emotional beats?!

Then it happens.

The elevator starts moving — smooth, quiet — until ding. It stops between floors.

I blink. “Um. What just happened?”

He looks at the control panel. “It’s… paused.”

“Paused? You mean stuck?”

“I called maintenance earlier,” he says casually. “They’ll release it in ten minutes.”

“YOU STAGED AN ELEVATOR MALFUNCTION?!”

He looks entirely unfazed. “Authenticity is key.”

I stare at him, open-mouthed. “Sir, normal people rehearse in conference rooms. You chose a death trap!”

He turns toward me, calm as ever. “In a K-drama, tension thrives in proximity.”

Oh no. Oh no no no.

Because now we’re close.

Too close.

He’s standing just inches away — close enough that I can see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, close enough that his cologne (smoky cedar and heartbreak) is turning my brain into mashed potatoes.

“So,” he says quietly, “let’s begin.”

I swallow hard. “Begin what?”

“The scene. You’re the heroine. I’m the lead.”

He steps closer.

My back hits the elevator wall.

My brain short-circuits.

He lowers his voice, rich and smooth and dangerous.

“I can’t seem to focus when you’re around.”

Oh. No.

I try to laugh, but it comes out high-pitched and deranged. “Sir, maybe you’re dehydrated. That happens sometimes—”

He leans closer. Way closer.

I can feel his breath, hear the steady rhythm of his breathing — perfectly calm, while mine sounds like a panicked squirrel.

“You’re distracting, Miss Park,” he says softly.

“Distracting? I’m literally just standing here breathing like a normal tax-paying citizen!”

“Exactly.”

Silence.

Then the elevator hums — faintly vibrating, as if the universe itself is shipping us.

I glance up at him, and for a second… his eyes aren’t cold. They’re soft. Focused.

And I swear, I see it — that flicker of warmth. Like someone lit a candle behind the ice.

He exhales slowly.

Then steps back. “Scene over.”

I blink. “That’s it? That’s your grand emotional climax?”

“It’s rehearsal,” he says curtly. “We’ll refine it later.”

I groan. “You need therapy, not cinematography!”

He smirks — the faintest, most illegal smirk I’ve ever seen.

“You’re very expressive, Miss Park. That’s good. Emotion sells.”

“Sir, I’m one second away from selling you to HR.”

We finally get released from the elevator, and I swear, I nearly sprint out like a freed hostage.

Except — and this is the stupid part — I can still feel my heartbeat doing parkour.

Because for a split second, when he looked at me, I forgot he was my boss.

I forgot the paychecks, the spreadsheets, the espresso machine tragedy.

All I saw was… a man trying very, very hard not to care.

Back at my desk, I try to shake it off.

I blast music through my earbuds, drown myself in work, and make a silent vow: No more thinking about my boss’s dimples.

That lasts until 2 p.m.

Because that’s when he strolls out of his office holding two cups of coffee — one black, one foamy, caramel-drizzled. My favorite.

He sets it on my desk wordlessly.

I blink up. “Is this… for me?”

He nods. “You looked… dehydrated.”

My heart makes an ungodly noise.

“Sir, did you just — care?”

He pauses. “Don’t misinterpret it. Hydration is vital for productivity.”

I sip the coffee anyway. It tastes like danger and poor life choices.

The rest of the day is a blur of me avoiding eye contact and him pretending to be unaffected.

But I see it. The way his gaze lingers a second too long. The way his voice softens when he says my name.

And later that evening, as I’m about to leave, he calls out—

“Miss Park.”

I turn. “Yes, sir?”

He’s at his desk, watching something on his laptop.

A K-drama. Of course.

But when I step closer, I realize — it’s Moonlight Lovers: Episode 16.

The new episode.

He gestures at the empty chair beside him. “You can sit. It’s… good for team morale.”

“Team morale or Eun-bi therapy?”

He ignores me. Presses play.

We sit there in awkward silence, watching the on-screen couple argue about fate and rooftop promises.

At one point, the heroine says,

“You act cold because you’re scared to be warm.”

And I feel him shift beside me.

I glance at him — his jaw tight, eyes distant.

For a man who claims emotions are weaknesses, he sure looks like someone who’s fighting one.

Then he murmurs, just barely audible—

“That’s not fear. That’s survival.”

I don’t know why, but something about that breaks me a little.

For the first time, I wonder what it costs a man like Ethan Jang to keep his armor on every day.

When the credits roll, he turns to me. “Episode 4 tomorrow. Same time.”

“Another rehearsal?” I ask.

He nods. “There’s a rain scene.”

Of course there is.

I grab my bag, stand up, and mutter, “At this rate, we’ll need a fire scene too, because one of us is going to spontaneously combust.”

He smirks faintly, eyes glinting. “You mean you, Miss Park?”

I throw him a look. “Keep dreaming, Eun-bi’s widower.”

His lips twitch — fighting a laugh — and as I walk out, I swear I hear it:

A quiet, genuine chuckle.

And somehow, that sound stays with me all the way home.