The Contract Kiss(Or How To Accidentally Ruin Your Emotional Stability With One Practice Scene).

~ Hailey Park ~

There are many ways a Monday can go wrong.

You can spill coffee on your white blouse.

You can walk into the glass door because your brain forgot physics.

You can even accidentally reply “You too 😘” to your CEO’s “Please send the report by 10 a.m.” email.

But none of that NONE of that compares to walking into your boss’s office and hearing the words:

“We need to rehearse the kiss.”

Excuse me?

I blink. “The what now?”

Ethan Jang Seoul’s most emotionally constipated, immaculately tailored CEO-slash-K-drama scholar—looks up from his desk, calm as ever. “The contract kiss scene.”

He says it like it’s a quarterly report. Like kissing your assistant is just another line item under “corporate strategy.”

I blink again. “Sir, you can’t just say things like that before I’ve had coffee.”

“I already sent you the agenda,” he replies smoothly, turning his laptop toward me. Sure enough, there it is on the screen:

Agenda: Episode 7 — The Contract Kiss Scene (Preparation & Execution)

I nearly combust. “You… you put it in an agenda?! Like it’s a meeting?!”

“It is a meeting,” he says flatly. “A practical rehearsal. For authenticity.”

“Authenticity?!” I sputter. “Sir, this is fake dating, not a method acting course in emotional destruction!”

He adjusts his tie. “Miss Park, the rumors have escalated. The media wants a follow-up. The board wants confirmation. We need evidence that our relationship is genuine.”

“Evidence,” I repeat slowly. “Like a kiss?”

He doesn’t even blink. “Precisely.”

I throw my hands in the air. “Oh sure, why not! Let’s just kiss for the shareholders! Maybe next we can get engaged for better market visibility!”

“Don’t be dramatic.”

“I am dramatic. That’s literally in my personality description!”

He sighs—the long-suffering sigh of a man realizing he fake-dated a gremlin with vocal cords. “It’s a simple solution. We’ll practice first to avoid awkwardness during the actual scene.”

I stare at him. “You… want to practice kissing. With your assistant.”

He hesitates. “Technically, with my fake girlfriend.”

“Oh, well, that makes it worse!”

I flop onto the chair opposite him, dramatically clutching my forehead. “This is it. This is how I get canceled on the internet. ‘Assistant Sues Boss After K-Drama Method Acting Gone Wrong.’ I’ll be a headline before lunch.”

“You’re overreacting,” he says calmly, clicking through his notes. “It’s purely professional.”

“Professional? You’re scheduling lip contact!”

He blinks at me. “Do you need me to define professionalism?”

“Yes,” I snap. “Because right now, yours is melting faster than your ice-man reputation.”

He doesn’t even look fazed. Instead, he slides a piece of paper across the desk toward me. “Sign this.”

I look down. It’s a Kissing Protocol Document. I kid you not.

Section 1: Purpose — For the purpose of maintaining the illusion of a romantic relationship.

Section 2: Consent — Both parties agree this is non-romantic.

Section 3: Duration — Maximum of 3 seconds.

Section 4: No tongue.

Section 5: No emotional attachment.

I choke. “Section five?!”

He shrugs. “Legal advised it.”

“Legal?? You went to legal for a fake kiss?”

“I go to legal for everything.”

Of course he does. He probably drafted a PowerPoint presentation for it too.

I groan. “You know what, fine. Let’s do your stupid rehearsal. But if you so much as blink in slow motion like a K-drama hero, I’m quitting and joining a convent.”

He gives a small nod—too calm. Too confident. Like a man who’s seen this scene a hundred times in HD.

And that’s when I realize: he’s actually prepared.

Because on the conference table behind him is his laptop, paused on a K-drama clip titled “The Contract Kiss — Episode 12.”

I gasp. “You’re studying reference material?!”

He nods. “For technique.”

“You’re insane.”

“Efficient,” he corrects.

No, sir. Insane.

Ten minutes later, I’m standing in the middle of the conference room, every muscle in my body screaming mistake!

He stands opposite me, calm, collected, holding a remote like a drama director. “We’ll start with proximity,” he says. “You need to relax.”

“I am relaxed,” I lie, stiff as a terrified mannequin.

“You’re vibrating.”

“It’s called fear, sir!”

He sighs and takes a step forward. Then another. Until there’s about one breath’s worth of air between us.

And suddenly, my brain stops working.

His cologne hits first — crisp, clean, annoyingly expensive. Then his voice, low and steady: “You’re supposed to look at me, not the wall.”

I force my eyes up. Big mistake. Because those eyes—dark, unreadable, too intense—are staring right into me like I’m the script he’s memorizing.

“This is ridiculous,” I mumble. “Totally unnecessary.”

“Then why are you shaking?” he asks quietly.

“I’m not shaking! It’s… caffeine!”

He tilts his head slightly. “You didn’t have coffee this morning.”

The man keeps tabs on my caffeine intake?!

Before I can respond, he leans in—just slightly—and murmurs, “Three seconds. That’s all.”

“Three seconds too many,” I mutter weakly.

He chuckles under his breath, and I hate how it sounds. Warm. Dangerous. Human.

“Ready?” he asks.

“No.”

“Good.”

He moves closer. I forget how to breathe. My brain is screaming, this is fake, this is fake, this is fake—but my pulse? Oh no, my pulse is running a marathon.

And then—

Knock, knock.

The door swings open.

It’s Janet from Finance.

Holding a spreadsheet.

“Mr. Jang, I—OH MY GOD, I’M SO SORRY!”

She slams the door shut before I can even blink.

We freeze. The air goes dead silent.

And then, slowly, Ethan pinches the bridge of his nose. “This is becoming… complicated.”

I wheeze. “Complicated?! We almost kissed in front of Finance! We’re one Excel file away from a full-blown scandal!”

His phone buzzes. He glances down, reads something, and mutters, “Too late.”

I squint. “What do you mean too late?”

He turns his screen toward me. There it is. A notification.

[Trending on Corporate Confidential]

‘Caught in the Act? CEO and Assistant Seen in Secret Conference Room Moment!’

I scream internally.

“Oh my GOD. I’m going to be fired and famous at the same time.”

He stays eerily calm. “We’ll handle it. We just need to… lean into it.”

“Lean into it?!”

He nods. “The narrative is already out. If we deny it, it looks suspicious. If we confirm it, it looks intentional.”

“You’re saying we should fake-confirm our fake relationship that was faked to cover another fake rumor?!”

“Yes.”

I blink. “I hate that that actually made sense.”

He presses his lips together—like he’s holding back a smile. “Welcome to public relations.”

By lunchtime, the entire company knows.

People are whispering. Photos are circulating. Someone made a meme.

Caption: “When your boss schedules a kiss scene but HR didn’t approve the script.”

And to make things worse, Janet now refuses to make eye contact with me.

I find Ethan in his office, looking like he’s about to deliver a TED Talk on self-control.

“Miss Park,” he says smoothly, “we need to make a public appearance. Today.”

“A what now?”

“A casual lunch. Somewhere public. To maintain continuity.”

I narrow my eyes. “Continuity? Sir, this isn’t a Marvel franchise.”

“Public perception is a story,” he says, standing up. “And we control the script.”

I groan. “Fine. But if another paparazzi photo ruins my mental health, I’m suing you for emotional damages and eye contact trauma.”

He doesn’t answer—just grabs his coat and gestures for me to follow.

Cut to: a cozy Italian café in Gangnam, dim lights, acoustic music, and a table that might as well have been designed for romantic disasters.

He orders espresso. I order wine because I need spiritual strength.

The waiter leaves, and he leans back, utterly composed. “You’re quiet today.”

“I’m internally screaming.”

“That’s new?”

“Touché, Mr. Jang.”

He sips his espresso, eyes never leaving mine. “You handled the situation well earlier.”

“Which part? The near-kiss? The public humiliation? Or my spontaneous panic attack in the supply closet?”

“The way you didn’t panic in front of others,” he says.

I blink. “You think that was not panicking?”

He smirks. “You’ve improved.”

My jaw drops. “Did you just… compliment me?”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll frame it.”

He rolls his eyes but there’s a ghost of a smile hiding in the corner of his lips. And that—God help me—is unfair.

Because when he smiles like that, I almost forget he’s the same man who once emailed me at 2 a.m. with the subject line: ‘Emotionless Love Scene — Research Needed.’

We sit in silence for a moment. Then he says quietly, “You shouldn’t let people like Daniel send you things.”

Ah, there it is. The glitchy jealousy subroutine.

I smirk. “Why? Are you afraid he’ll out-romantic you?”

“Impossible,” he says without missing a beat.

“Big talk for someone who studies love scenes on YouTube.”

“I study execution,” he says dryly.

“Execution?” I laugh. “You make romance sound like a merger.”

He leans in slightly, lowering his voice. “Maybe for me, it is.”

And just like that—there it is again. That tension. The kind that hums beneath every joke, every argument, every accidental touch.

Slow. Burning. Dangerous.

I look away first, because I’m a coward. “You’re impossible.”

He murmurs, almost to himself, “And yet, you haven’t quit.”

Touché, again.

When I get home that night, my phone lights up.

ETHAN JANG: Next rehearsal tomorrow. Elevator scene revisited.

ME: Sir, if you’re trying to kill me, just say so.

ETHAN: Preparation prevents chaos.

ME: You are chaos.

ETHAN: Then you should be well prepared by now.

I throw my phone onto the bed and scream into a pillow.

Because somewhere between all the fake kisses, the jealous glares, and the unplanned heart palpitations…

I think I’m starting to forget which parts of this are acting.

And which parts aren’t.