The next morning at Luma Group, everything looked ordinary — polished floors, murmuring colleagues, and the steady rhythm of work.
But for Yoon Ha-rin, every sound felt too loud, every glance too sharp.
She had barely slept.
Her mind kept circling back to one thing: Aureum-ri.
The name had slipped out of her mouth like a secret desperate to be found.
She told herself it was coincidence.
There were thousands of families, hundreds of children.
And yet, the way Kang Jae-hyun had looked at her last night — the flicker in his eyes when he said maybe that's why it feels like I've known you before — it had stirred something old, something frighteningly tender.
---
Across the hallway, Jae-hyun watched her through the glass wall of the conference room.
She was giving a presentation to the team — confident, graceful, her voice calm even when the projector flickered mid-slide.
He shouldn't have been paying attention.
But every time she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, he remembered the little girl who used to do the same before handing him wildflowers.
"Director Kang," Min-woo said, breaking his reverie. "You've been staring for… a solid three minutes."
Jae-hyun blinked. "No, I haven't."
"You have," Min-woo grinned. "Should I get you coffee or a reality check?"
Jae-hyun shot him a look. "Get out."
---
Later that afternoon, Ha-rin entered his office with a folder.
"Finalized proposals for the Aureum campaign," she said briskly.
He gestured for her to sit, eyes scanning the papers. "Good work. But… one question."
"Yes, Director?"
"Why name the project 'Scent of Home'?"
She hesitated. "Because… scents are memories. They stay even when people don't."
Her words landed like a quiet echo in his chest.
He looked up. "That's very poetic for a business proposal."
"Maybe business needs a little poetry," she said, meeting his gaze.
For a heartbeat, neither looked away.
He noticed how the afternoon light touched her hair, how her pulse flickered at her throat — and how, inexplicably, his own heartbeat slowed to match hers.
Then his phone rang, shattering the moment.
Ha-rin stood quickly. "If there's nothing else, I'll—"
"Miss Yoon," he interrupted, "do you ever feel like we've done this before?"
She blinked. "Done what?"
"This," he said softly. "Arguing, competing, standing here like this. Like it already happened somewhere else."
Her breath caught. "Déjà vu, maybe."
He smiled faintly. "Then it's a dangerous kind."
---
That evening, as she walked through the company courtyard, the wind rose suddenly — cool, scented, familiar.
Cherry petals scattered across the pavement, and for one dizzying second she was five years old again — chasing a boy who'd dropped his paper windmill into the stream.
"Don't cry, Jae-hyunnie!" her younger voice echoed through the memory.
"I'll make a new one!"
Ha-rin stopped walking.
Her hand trembled against her chest.
She finally whispered into the wind, "You really don't remember, do you?"
From the building terrace above, Jae-hyun stood watching her — though he didn't know why his heart hurt at the sight.
He just knew that whenever she was near, the wind smelled like yesterday.