The Rooftop Confessions: When Rain, Ratings, and Repressed Feelings Collide.

~ Hailey Park ~ 🙄🙄

If there’s one thing I’ve learned from working under Ethan Jang — besides the fact that he probably irons his socks — it’s this:

If he texts you “Meeting. Rooftop. 8 p.m.”

…it’s not a meeting.

It’s a plot twist.

And right now, I am not emotionally equipped for another episode of “Hailey Park and the Man Who Thinks Life is a Scripted Series.”

The elevator ride up feels like a countdown to my own funeral.

Each floor dings like a dramatic OST beat. Ding. Doom. Ding. Regret.

By the time I reach the top, I’ve already drafted my will in my head:

“To my mother my plants. To Janet my caffeine debt.

To Ethan Jang may your N*****x recommendations forever consist of tragic melodramas.”

The doors open whoosh and there he is.

Standing by the railing, back to me, Seoul glittering behind him like the final scene of a rom-com that ends in heartbreak and expensive lighting.

He’s in his usual black suit, no tie tonight, shirt slightly undone like he’s auditioning for Mr. Emotional Damage 2025.

“Sir?” I call out. “Please tell me you didn’t bring me up here to push me off the roof.”

He turns. Calm. Gorgeous. Unbothered. “Don’t tempt me.”

Ah. Classic workplace affection.

He gestures to a small setup in the corner — two chairs, a table, a folder, and… wait.

Is that a camera tripod?

“Sir.” I blink. “Why does that look like a movie set?”

He says it with a straight face. “Because it is.”

“...What?”

“PR wants another authenticity reel. They said the elevator scene was ‘too sterile.’”

“Too sterile?! Sir, we nearly violated five HR policies and a fire code!”

He shrugs. “They said the audience wants emotional risk.”

“Who is this audience?! Investors or fangirls?”

He doesn’t answer. Which means I’m right.

I groan. “So what’s this one supposed to be? Rooftop proposal? Confession under moonlight? The part where you say something dramatic like ‘I can’t let you go’?”

He blinks. “Yes.”

I stop breathing. “...Yes what?”

He glances at his clipboard — of course he has one — and says, “Scene title: The Rooftop Confession.”

I gape. “You titled it?”

“I’m ensuring narrative coherence.”

“Sir, this isn’t a N*****x Original!”

He tilts his head, voice calm. “Not yet.”

Ten minutes later, we’re sitting across from each other, the Seoul skyline behind us like a screensaver on steroids.

A soft breeze ruffles my hair. The clouds are suspiciously gray.

Because obviously, there’s always rain when emotions are involved.

He checks his notes. “Scene 1: Hailey enters. Looks at the city. Reflects on fate.”

“I reflect on quitting,” I mutter.

“Then Ethan enters. Confesses he can’t stop thinking about her.”

I choke. “That’s not in my job description!”

He raises a brow. “You agreed to realism.”

“I agreed to coffee runs and emotional trauma, not fake love confessions!”

He doesn’t blink. “There’s overlap.”

I throw my hands up. “You’re unbelievable.”

He looks at me — really looks — and says softly, “You keep saying that. But you’re still here.”

Oh, no. No. That was dangerously close to swoon territory. Abort mission!

I stand up. “I’m here because you pay me! Barely!”

“Barely,” he repeats, lips twitching like he’s trying not to smile. “Noted.”

Thunder rumbles overhead.

Because apparently the weather has decided to contribute to my humiliation.

He steps closer. “Miss Park, you’re supposed to look at me.”

“Why do all your directions sound like pickup lines?”

“Because you never follow them otherwise.”

“Because they’re weird!”

“Because you’re difficult.”

Silence.

Rain starts to fall.

Tiny droplets at first. Then heavier. Then cinematic.

Of course it’s raining. Because apparently, the universe is also a K-drama fan.

He doesn’t move. Just stands there, rain sliding down his face, eyes on me like he’s debating whether to ruin my life or rewrite it.

“Sir, we should go inside before you start sparkling,” I mumble. “You’re giving main-character-in-a-breakdown energy.”

He ignores me completely. “Do you know what happens in this scene, Miss Park?”

“I assume public embarrassment.”

He takes a slow step forward. “The confession.”

“I’m confessing to HR if you don’t—”

“No,” he says, voice quiet but firm. “Mine.”

...Excuse me?

My brain: buffering.

My mouth: “Your what?”

He’s standing close now. Too close. The rain’s between us, but somehow it feels like the only thing I can hear is his voice.

“The confession,” he repeats, tone steady. “That I find you… distracting.”

I blink. “Like… professionally?”

He tilts his head. “Inconveniently.”

“Oh God.”

The thunder cracks again, and I swear my heart tries to file for a restraining order against itself.

I laugh awkwardly. “You—you’re just practicing lines again, right? Like last time. You’re method acting your way through emotional constipation—”

His hand finds my wrist. “Does it look like acting?”

My brain: 404. Error. Please reboot.

He’s wet, serious, every inch of him radiating that insane Ethan Jang intensity that could melt polar ice caps and ruin my sense of logic.

“Sir,” I whisper, “this isn’t funny.”

“I’m not laughing.”

Well, I am, but it’s the nervous kind that sounds like mental breakdown meets sitcom laugh track.

He looks at me, rain dripping off his lashes, and says quietly,

“You drive me insane.”

I blink. “Cool. You drive me unemployed.”

He almost smiles. “You can’t quit now.”

“Why not?”

“Because we’re trending.”

I gasp. “WHAT?!”

He holds up his phone. There, on screen, #ElevatorLoveLine is the number one trending topic.

My face. His face. The slow-motion clip. The rumors.

I shriek. “WE’RE A SHIP?!”

He nods. “Apparently.”

“Oh my God. I’m fictional now.”

“Public perception,” he says calmly, “is critical for market stability.”

“Sir, this is not market stability — this is emotional bankruptcy!”

And then lightning flashes, the wind howls, and because my life is cursed by comedy gods — I slip.

Again.

He catches me.

Again.

This time, though… he doesn’t let go.

For a heartbeat, it’s silent except for the rain.

His hand on my waist. My hand gripping his shirt.

The world narrowing to the impossible closeness between us.

“You really should stop falling for me,” he murmurs.

I blink. “Did you just—did you pun at me?”

His mouth twitches. “Maybe.”

Oh, that’s it. The apocalypse is coming. Ethan Jang made a joke.

He’s still staring down at me, expression unreadable but softer than I’ve ever seen.

For once, there’s no mask. No sarcasm. Just… him.

“Miss Park,” he says quietly, “the problem with these rehearsals…”

I hold my breath. “What?”

“…is that I don’t know where they end anymore.”

My heart. My poor heart.

“Sir, that’s dangerously close to a confession.”

He exhales. “Then let it be one.”

And before I can process that emotional nuke — the rooftop door bursts open.

“Boss!” yells the PR director, panting. “You won’t believe this — Dispatch just called. They want an exclusive interview about your relationship!”

I jolt out of his arms so fast I nearly backflip off the roof.

“RELATIONSHIP?!” I squeak. “WHAT RELATIONSHIP?!”

Ethan straightens his soaked jacket, completely calm. “Apparently, the one we’ll have to clarify.”

I gape. “You mean deny! DENY, right?!”

He looks at me — deadpan, infuriating, calm as ever.

“No. Define.”

My jaw drops. “Define?!”

He nods. “If the narrative’s already been written… we might as well make sure it’s accurate.”

“Sir, this is not a drama!”

He adjusts his cufflinks. “Then stop making it one.”

“I’M NOT THE ONE WHO BRINGS CAMERAS TO EMOTIONS!”

He pauses. Then, with quiet mischief that should honestly be illegal, says:

“Tomorrow, episode ten. The Interview.”

And just like that — he walks off into the rain like a man whose feelings now come with a script.

I stand there, drenched, brain fried, dignity gone, whispering to the sky:

“Lord, if this is character development, I’d like to unsubscribe.”