Practice Confessions & Workplace Delusions.

Hailey.

If anyone had told me last month that I’d be fake-dating my emotionally constipated, K-drama–addicted boss — I would’ve laughed, cried, then blocked them for manifesting nonsense into my life.

But here we are.

Monday morning.

Ten a.m. sharp.

And Ethan Jang, Seoul’s walking iceberg in a designer suit, has just announced to the entire executive floor:

“I’m in a relationship.”

Silence.

The kind of silence that hums with scandal and suppressed gossip.

Then, with the confidence of a man who has lost his mind but not his posture, he adds—

“With my assistant. Miss Hailey Park.”

Coffee cups drop. Someone audibly gasps. I think I briefly leave my body.

“I’m sorry, WHAT?!” I whisper-yell the moment we’re back in his office.

He doesn’t even look up from his laptop. “Public relations strategy. The rumor needed redirecting.”

“Redirecting?! You just redirected me into unemployment!”

He calmly sips his Americano. “Don’t exaggerate. You’re gaining valuable experience.”

“Experience in what?! Dating the human equivalent of a tax form?!”

He raises an eyebrow. “You seem unusually emotional this morning.”

“I’M EMOTIONAL EVERY MORNING!”

He actually flinches a little. Just a twitch. Probably not used to people yelling in his $3,000 suit’s airspace.

Here’s the thing about Ethan Jang: he’s terrifyingly composed.

Every button on his shirt is perfectly aligned, his tie is crisp, his words are cold enough to give Antarctica a complex.

But after discovering his K-drama alter ego, I can’t unsee it.

Now, whenever he furrows his brows, I half-expect him to whisper, “Eun-bi…” under his breath.

And that’s dangerous.

Because once you start seeing your scary boss as a tragic male lead with emotional issues and hidden tenderness — you’re doomed.

Anyway, I tell him fake-dating is ridiculous. He tells me it’s “necessary.”

I say we need boundaries. He says, “Fine. No touching, no rumors, no interference with work.”

Great.

Then HR calls.

Apparently, someone from the PR team already leaked the news to an online magazine.

Headline:

💔 Cold CEO Melts for His Assistant — Is Office Romance the New Trend?

My phone explodes.

My mother texts: “You’re dating your boss?! Should I send you vitamin C?”

My best friend texts: “Tell me he’s rich enough to justify this chaos.”

Meanwhile, Ethan just sighs and says, “We’ll need to stage a few photos.”

“Photos?!”

“For credibility.”

“Sir, I can’t even stand next to you without breaking out in hives!”

He tilts his head. “Then take an antihistamine.”

Fast forward to lunchtime, and somehow I’m sitting across from him in a fancy restaurant pretending to be in love.

There are photographers outside. He’s reading the menu like it’s a legal document.

“Smile,” he murmurs.

“I am smiling.”

He glances up. “You look like you’re suppressing a sneeze.”

“That’s my nervous smile, sir.”

“Fix it.”

I lean in, plastering on what I hope is a cute expression. “You fix it.”

He blinks — surprised. Like he’s never been spoken to like a mildly feral raccoon before.

Then, out of nowhere, he says — softly, almost awkwardly —

“If this were a K-drama, this would be the part where I’d tell you to stop making my heart race.”

I choke on my water. “Excuse me?!”

He frowns. “I’m practicing.”

“For what, a coronary episode?!”

He just shrugs. “For authenticity.”

Back at the office, everyone’s staring.

Suddenly, I’m “Miss Park from HR’s favorite love story.”

Janet from finance corners me in the pantry: “So how did he confess? Did he… do the rooftop thing?”

“Rooftop thing?!”

“You know, the K-drama confession under the stars!”

I glance toward the break room where Ethan is making coffee — stoic as ever — and imagine him standing on a rooftop, wind blowing through his perfect hair, dramatically whispering, ‘I was cold until you thawed me, Hailey.’

I actually snort-laugh out loud.

He hears it.

Turns.

Raises one elegant eyebrow.

Great. I’ve been caught fantasizing about my boss’s confession scene.

That night, he emails me at 1:03 a.m.

Subject: “Practice Session Tomorrow — Bring Notebook.”

I think he means actual work.

He does not.

The next morning, he’s waiting in the conference room. Curtains drawn. Mood lighting. I’m not kidding.

On the table: his laptop, open to a paused K-drama scene.

“Sir,” I say slowly, “why does this look like a hostage video setup?”

He doesn’t answer.

Just clicks play.

On-screen, the male lead leans close to the heroine and says, “I can’t concentrate when you’re near me.”

Then Ethan looks up at me. “You see? The tone, the restraint, the emotion. That’s what I need to master.”

“You’re trying to act?”

“I’m trying to connect,” he corrects, like he’s auditioning for a K-drama Oscars speech.

I blink. “Connect with what? The shareholders or your inner Kim Soo-hyun?”

And then — because my life is a sitcom — he decides we’re doing a “rehearsal.”

He steps closer.

WAY closer.

I can smell his cologne — expensive, restrained, heartbreak-in-a-bottle type.

My brain short-circuits.

He says quietly, “Now respond as the female lead would.”

“Sir, I’m not an actress.”

“Just… improvise.”

I clear my throat. “Okay. Um. I can’t concentrate when you’re near me either, because your aura smells like capitalism.”

He blinks. “…That’s not quite—”

“Also,” I add, “your emotional range reminds me of a toaster oven.”

He exhales slowly through his nose, like he’s meditating through trauma.

Then—shockingly—he laughs.

A real laugh.

Warm. Low. Unscripted.

I freeze.

Because it’s the first time I’ve ever heard it.

And suddenly, the air between us changes.

Softer. Stranger. Like maybe, just maybe, this K-drama freak might actually be human.

Later that day, he passes my desk and mutters, “Good rehearsal.”

And I swear — I see the tiniest ghost of a smile.

The man has dimples.

No one told me the Ice King had dimples.

I’m doomed.

That night, I get another email.

Subject: “Episode 2: Love Confession Scene — Review Required.”

Attachment: A K-drama clip.

And a note at the bottom that says,

“P.S. You’re terrible at improvising. Tomorrow, we’ll try the elevator scene.”

THE. ELEVATOR. SCENE.

I stare at the screen, horrified.

Because every K-drama fan knows the elevator scene means one thing.

Proximity.

Tension.

Potential cardiac arrest.

I close my laptop, bury my face in my pillow, and groan into the night.

Somewhere across town, my emotionally frozen boss is probably rewatching a crying montage and taking notes.

And I... his unpaid therapist-slash-fake-girlfriend-slash-confession-coach am one dramatic misunderstanding away from falling for him for real.

God help me.

Because this isn’t just an office anymore.

It’s a full-blown K-drama set —

and I’m the idiot who accidentally got cast as the lead.