Chapter 3 Be A Bear Then

Over the next three weeks, a routine settled into place. Elliot became a constant presence—not intrusive, just there. He’d roll his chair over to ask work questions, then stay a few extra minutes, comfortable in the silence. In meetings, he took the seat beside hers, close enough that she could smell his laundry detergent. He never crossed a line. He was just present, persistent, and utterly disarming.

Yerin hated how much she noticed. The color of his tie. The way he tapped his pen against his teeth. The sound of his laugh from across the room. Every small detail lodged itself in her memory, refusing to leave.

Her feelings for him were old—something she’d packed away years ago, locked in a box she thought she’d sealed tight. His presence made the box feel fragile, the lid loosening with every casual smile.

Then the coffee started.

Every morning, a cup appeared on her desk. Americano, black, no note. She left the first one untouched until it went cold. The next day, another. And another. She said nothing. She assumed he’d eventually parse the silence and stop.

Then Aaron from accounting began showing up near her desk. He’d happen to be in the supply closet when she needed a heavy box. He’d offer help when her computer froze. She let him carry the box, accepted the help, but gave nothing back. She figured he’d get the message.

He didn’t.

One afternoon, he appeared at her cubicle, hands clenched at his sides, and asked in a low voice if they could talk on the rooftop. She agreed—not out of anticipation, but efficiency. It was the fastest way to end this persistent glitch in her system.

On the roof, the wind pulled strands of hair loose from her neat bun. Aaron stood across from her, tense, his jaw tight. He looked like a man about to face a firing squad.

“I like you, Yerin.”

The words hung in the air. She waited, her expression neutral, for him to present the rest of his case.

He ran a hand through his hair, messing it up. “The coffee every morning… I thought you understood. That you might feel the same.”

“I don’t,” she said.

There was no uncertainty in her voice. It was a clean, definitive endpoint.

His face, which had been full of hopeful anxiety, tightened into something confused, then wounded. “That’s it? Just ‘no’?”

“Yes.”

The simplicity of it seemed to anger him. “You accepted it all! You never stopped me! You just let me do it!”

“I understood your intention,” she said, her voice level, as if explaining a basic concept. “I never asked for any of it.”

“So you just let me do it? For nothing?” His voice rose over the wind. “You used me!”

Her head tilted a fraction—a mannerism she employed when confronted with what she deemed illogical thinking. “Does a simple kindness require a transaction? A reward?”

“That’s not the point!” Frustration boiled over. “You could have said no weeks ago! You could try to be… nicer about it. Softer. You could at least pretend to care that you’re stomping all over my feelings!”

Yerin’s gaze didn’t waver. She felt a distant, clinical prick at the accusation—selfish—but she locked onto the core of his argument. “It would be significantly crueler to lie. To offer false hope where there is none.”

Aaron let out a bitter, hollow laugh. “You’re cold. You’re completely cold.”

She had heard those words before. They were data points, not injuries.

“You don’t care about anyone but yourself.”

Another data point, filed away.

“You’re selfish, Yerin.”

That one was a sharper prick, a needle of truth she immediately dismissed. She focused on the facts.

He exhaled, a sharp, defeated sound, all the fight draining out of him. “You’re really something else, you know that?”

“I’ve been told,” she replied, her tone matter-of-fact.

“Of course you have.” His lips twisted into something bitter and sad. “I should’ve known. I should’ve known someone like you wouldn’t care.”

“It is not a lack of care,” she corrected, her voice chillingly calm. “It is a lack of pretense. I see no functional point in it.”

“Pretense? You mean being decent?” He was angry and lost all at once. “You could’ve let me down easy instead of… this. This is brutal.”

Yerin looked at him, her gaze level and utterly devoid of malice. It was this sheer lack of emotional affect that seemed to unnerve him most. In a voice so flat it was almost peaceful, she said, “Someone once called me a bear.”

He blinked, thrown completely off script. “…What?”

“A bear,” she repeated, the word clean, without emotion. “Solitary. Self-sufficient. It doesn’t need a pack. It doesn’t desire one. The description is accurate.”

He stared, his confusion momentarily overriding his heartbreak. “And you’re just… okay with that? You agree with it?”

A slight, almost imperceptible shrug lifted her shoulders. “It is an observation, not an insult. It’s not the first time. It won’t be the last.”

He shook his head, a hollow, defeated sound escaping his throat. “Unbelievable.” He looked at her one last time, scanning her face for a crack, a flicker of regret or warmth, and found only a polished, impenetrable surface. “Fine. Be a bear, then. Don’t be surprised when you end up completely alone.”

He turned and left, the rooftop door swinging shut with a heavy thud.

Silence settled, broken only by distant city sounds and the rush of wind. Yerin remained still, arms crossed, posture perfect. The confrontation was over. The glitch had been resolved. She should have felt relief.

Then she heard a soft chuckle.

She spun around. Elliot was sitting on a maintenance bench near the HVAC unit, a half-finished bottle of water in his hand. He looked utterly at ease, as if he’d simply chosen a quiet spot for his break and had the misfortune of stumbling upon a private performance.

“I really didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” he said, standing. He walked toward her, a faint, unreadable smirk on his lips. “But that was… brutally efficient.”

Her eyes narrowed. “How long were you there?”

“Long enough.” His smile widened at her clear irritation. “So. A bear, huh?”

She let out a short, sharp breath through her nose. “Forget you heard any of that.”

But his grin only widened, his eyes crinkling at the corners. It wasn’t a mocking look; it was genuine, intrigued amusement. “No, I think I like it. It suits you.”

Her returning look was flat, unamused. “It wasn’t a compliment.”

“Maybe not from him,” Elliot mused. He took a sip of water, his gaze thoughtful as he looked her over—really seeing her in a way he hadn’t before. “But it kind of sounds like one to me.”

She didn’t answer. She turned and walked back inside, leaving him on the roof.

That evening, Yerin stayed late. The office emptied out around six, the usual hum of voices fading into silence. She told herself she was catching up on reports, but the truth was simpler: she didn’t want to go home to her empty apartment, where the quiet would be filled only with the echo of Aaron’s words and the way Elliot had looked at her.

She was shutting down her computer when a voice cut through the stillness.

“You never used to look at me like that.”

She froze. Elliot was leaning against his desk, arms crossed, watching her. She hadn’t heard him come back.

“Like what?” Her voice came out a whisper.

“In high school,” he said, his head tilting. “You were just… the smart, quiet girl. Now…” He paused, his gaze intensifying. “Now you look at me like I’m a puzzle.”

Her heart hammered. He wasn’t as oblivious as she’d thought.

She had no defense. She just stood there, exposed.

He pushed off the desk. Not an advance, but a simple step that made the empty office feel intimately small.

“Do you ever let people in, Yerin?” His voice was quiet, a genuine, searching question.

It saw through every one of her defenses. She grasped for a counter, a way to deflect.

“You think I need to?”

He didn’t miss a beat. His gaze was unwavering, sincere.

“You think you don’t?”

He took another small step, not invading her space, but closing the emotional distance.

“Everyone needs someone, Yerin. It’s okay to… lower the drawbridge sometimes. Let someone see the person behind the walls. Someone who could… I don’t know, make you happy. Someone who’d stay.”

The kindness in his voice was worse than any accusation. He was sincerely, earnestly giving her advice on how to find happiness, completely unaware that he was the very subject of her deepest longing. He was describing himself as the solution, all while believing he was just a friendly bystander.

The agony of it was exquisite.

She had no response. Her carefully constructed defenses were in ruins around her.

He seemed to understand that the conversation had reached its limit. He offered her a small, gentle smile—a look of such pure, uncomplicated goodwill it felt like a dagger.

“Just something to think about.”

He turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing softly in the empty office. He didn’t look back, his posture relaxed, already moving on with his night.

Yerin stood frozen in the blue twilight, the weight of his words pressing down on her.

Let someone in.

Her eyes followed his retreating back, the easy, confident set of his shoulders as he disappeared around the corner toward the elevators.

She inhaled a shaky breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding.

Let someone in? The words echoed in the silent, empty space he left behind.

Her hand came up, pressing unconsciously against her chest, right over her heart.

Maybe I already let you in.

Her fingers curled into the fabric of her blouse.

Too deep.