The Rain Scene!( Umbrellas, Feelings, and Other Forms of Torture).

Hailey Park.

If there’s one thing K-dramas have taught me, it’s this:

Rain = feelings.

The heavier the downpour, the more chaotic your love life is about to become.

And right now, Seoul looks like it just got dumped by the universe.

Sheets of rain slam against the office windows, thunder growling like background music to my impending breakdown. Which, let’s be honest, is fitting — because my boss has just said the six words no assistant wants to hear on a stormy Tuesday afternoon:

“We’re going outside. For the rehearsal.”

I stare at him. “You mean the Rain Scene rehearsal? The one where two characters suddenly realize they’re in love and someone inevitably gets pneumonia?”

Ethan adjusts his cufflinks — immaculate, emotionless, the picture of corporate precision. “Yes.”

“Sir, that’s a metaphorical scene. For feelings. Feelings you don’t even believe in.”

He glances up, deadpan. “That’s why I need practice.”

Practice.

He said that with a straight face.

“Sir,” I say slowly, “you are not a method actor. You’re the CFO of a multinational corporation. The only thing you should be rehearsing is your tax audit defense.”

He closes his laptop calmly, stands, and — I swear — picks up a black umbrella like he’s Batman preparing for emotional warfare.

“Meet me downstairs,” he says.

Then he walks out.

And just like that, I know my life is over.

Ten minutes later, I’m standing under the awning outside the building, watching him lean against his sleek black car like he’s about to film a perfume commercial titled ‘Loneliness by Armani.’

His umbrella is still closed. Because of course it is.

The man’s pride is waterproof.

“Sir,” I call out over the rain, “you do realize we’re not in an actual K-drama, right? No one’s filming us.”

He looks at me with that blank, beautiful expression that probably makes the HR department question their policies on workplace romance.

“Then they should be,” he says simply.

And before I can reply — he opens the umbrella.

Not over himself.

Over me.

My brain short-circuits.

The rain’s pounding around us, the air thick and cold, but somehow under that single umbrella it’s warm. Cozy. Dangerously cinematic.

“Sir,” I mumble, staring at the small patch of dry space between us, “you’re… close.”

He looks down at me — calm, unreadable. “It’s a small umbrella.”

“It’s a regular umbrella! You’re just… invading it with your six-foot emotional repression!”

A faint smile touches his lips. “You talk too much when you’re nervous.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“You’re trembling.”

“That’s rain-induced tremble! Very common among underpaid employees!”

He hums softly, like he doesn’t believe me for a second.

And then, in that maddeningly smooth voice of his, he says,

“In a K-drama, this is where the hero realizes what he’s been avoiding.”

My heart skips. “Avoiding?”

He nods, eyes steady on mine. “That sometimes the thing you’ve been trying not to feel… is exactly what you need to.”

Sir, please.

I am one heartbeat away from emotionally combusting.

The thunder cracks — dramatic timing, courtesy of the universe — and I accidentally step closer. Our arms brush.

Electric. Immediate. Stupidly cinematic.

He looks down at where our hands are almost touching, then back up at me. His voice drops low.

“Do you ever stop talking, Miss Park?”

I lift my chin. “Do you ever stop being emotionally constipated, Mr. Jang?”

That earns me a real smile. Dangerous. Boyish. Unlawful.

He exhales a soft laugh — and I swear, for a second, time slows down.

Because this isn’t my boss right now.

This is the man behind the armor — the one who cries over dying heroines and hides his heart behind a stack of spreadsheets.

And I hate that my chest hurts a little at the thought.

We stand there in silence for a while. Rain drumming around us, the city blurred into silver streaks. His umbrella’s tilted slightly toward me, and I realize my shoulder’s dry while his is soaked.

“Sir,” I murmur, “you’re getting wet.”

He glances at me. “Occupational hazard.”

“Of what? Being emotionally unavailable?”

“Of being next to you.”

My brain: 💥💥💥

I blink up at him, my heart doing the tango inside my chest. “That was… suspiciously smooth.”

He tilts his head. “Was it?”

“You practiced that, didn’t you?”

“Possibly.”

I groan. “You’re quoting dramas again, aren’t you?”

He looks away — just a fraction too fast. “No.”

Oh my god. He totally is.

Lightning flashes, thunder rolls again, and suddenly — whoosh! — a car drives by, splashing a tsunami-sized puddle directly onto us.

We both freeze.

My hair’s dripping. His pristine shirt is plastered to his chest. His jaw tightens.

“Authenticity,” I say weakly, holding up a soaked strand of hair. “You wanted realism, right?”

He looks at me — really looks at me — water sliding down his face like he walked out of a tragic love montage. Then, dead serious, he mutters,

“You look like a wet hamster.”

“EXCUSE ME?!”

He adjusts his soaked tie. “A cute one.”

“Sir, that’s not—wait, did you just call me cute?”

“I meant it… objectively.”

“Nothing about this is objective!”

He exhales through his nose — the signature I-regret-this-decision-but-won’t-admit-it sound — and starts walking.

“Come on,” he says. “You’ll catch a cold.”

Back inside the building, my shoes squelch. My hair looks like a thundercloud. And Ethan Jang, the man who could probably negotiate with Satan himself, is trying to dry his tie using a paper towel dispenser.

I can’t stop laughing. Like, ugly, breathless laughter.

He glares. “It’s not funny.”

“It’s so funny. You look like a Calvin Klein model who got lost in a storm and is now rethinking all his life choices.”

He blinks slowly. “You have a vivid imagination.”

“It’s called coping mechanism.”

He pauses. “You laugh when you’re uncomfortable.”

“I laugh when I’m around emotionally confusing people!”

Silence.

Our eyes meet.

I immediately regret existing.

He takes a step closer — slow, deliberate. His voice drops, soft but certain.

“For someone who claims to hate K-dramas, you seem very familiar with the tropes.”

I swallow hard. “I—It’s cultural education.”

“Hmm.” His gaze flickers to my lips. “Then you already know what happens after the rain scene.”

My brain: SYSTEM ERROR.

I take a step back, trip over a puddle, and he catches me by the wrist — strong, steady, too gentle for someone who once threatened to fire me for breathing near his espresso machine.

The air shifts.

It’s warm.

Electric.

And maybe it’s just the residual adrenaline, but for a split second, I think he’s going to—

“Miss Park,” he murmurs.

“Y-Yes?”

“Don’t slip again. You’re clumsy enough without my help.”

And just like that, he lets go. Walks away. Like the human embodiment of a cliffhanger.

Later that night, I get another email.

Subject: Episode 5 — Review Materials Attached

Attachment: A K-drama clip titled “The Almost-Kiss Scene.”

And a note at the bottom:

“You did well today. Bring an umbrella tomorrow. I’ll handle the coffee.”

I stare at the screen, speechless.

Because underneath that formal, robotic tone… there’s something else. Something almost tender.

And that’s when it hits me.

This isn’t just fake dating anymore.

This isn’t just practice.

This is him — slowly, awkwardly, trying to understand what love feels like.

And I… might just be the idiot teaching him.

God help us both.