The words came easier now.
Mirae sat at a quiet café near Hongdae, her fingers dancing across the keyboard, her coffee long gone cold. The draft was taking shape—not a profile, not quite a feature, but a narrative confession. It was the most honest thing she had ever written.
She didn't try to make Doekyom look like a genius. She didn't sanitize the broken pieces.
She wrote about the workshop in the basement, the burned batches, the chocolates that tasted like regret and longing. She wrote about how she had come expecting precision and control, and found fire.
At the heart of it all, she wrote about him: not the chocolatier, not the brand — but the man. Lee Doekyom.
And maybe, quietly, about herself too.
---
By Thursday, she sent the draft to her editor.
An hour later, her phone rang.
"Mirae, come in. We need to talk."
---
The newsroom felt different now. Louder. More artificial. Mirae stood before her editor's glass-walled office, manuscript in hand, heart thumping.
Her editor, Chief Park, a stern woman with short gray-streaked hair and a reputation for dissecting articles with surgical precision, gestured for her to sit.
"This is not what I asked for," Park said bluntly, flipping through pages.
"I know. But it's the story that wanted to be told."
Park raised an eyebrow. "Since when do stories make the decisions?"
Mirae didn't answer.
Park tapped a paragraph near the end. "This part. Where you mention the unnamed chocolates he gave you. That's personal. Subjective."
"It's true."
"That's not the point. You're in it now. Too far in. This isn't journalism—it's memoir."
Mirae leaned forward. "You sent me to write about his art. You didn't tell me it would be impossible to separate the artist from the creation."
"And what happens when the readers fall in love with the romance and forget the product?"
"Maybe they should," Mirae replied. "Because what he makes is romance. Not hearts and flowers, but raw emotion. That's what people connect to. That's why Chocolat Paradise matters."
Chief Park studied her, eyes narrowing.
"And what about you? Are you in love with him?"
The question hit harder than Mirae expected.
She could have denied it. Sidestepped it.
But instead, she said: "I don't know. But I'm not pretending anymore."
Silence. Heavy and uncomfortable.
Park finally exhaled. "The piece is good. Disturbingly good. But we'll need to reframe it."
"How?"
"Run it as a special column. 'Behind the Taste: A Writer's Journey Into the Soul of a Chocolatier.' Personal, reflective. That way, we own the bias instead of pretending it's neutral."
Mirae blinked.
"You'll keep it?"
Park gave a sharp nod. "With edits. Some of the metaphors are a little purple."
Mirae laughed — tension breaking like brittle sugar.
---
When she left the building, it was raining again.
Seoul's spring always seemed wet and slow to bloom. But Mirae didn't mind.
She stopped at a flower stand near the station and picked out a single stalk of white freesia.
Clean. Fragrant. Delicate.
She wasn't sure why she chose it. But as she made her way to Chocolat Paradise, her heart felt like it had chosen long before her mind caught up.
The door to Chocolat Paradise swung open with a soft chime.
Doekyom looked up from behind the counter, where he was layering cocoa dust over a batch of hand-rolled truffles. His sleeves were already stained with dark smears of ganache. There was a moment of stillness as his eyes met Mirae's.
"You're late," he said, lips tugging into the faintest smirk.
"I brought something," Mirae replied, holding out the freesia like it was both an offering and an apology.
Doekyom's brow lifted in surprise. "A flower?"
"Not chocolate," she said, stepping forward. "But meaningful. In the language of flowers, freesia means 'new beginnings.'"
He took the delicate stalk, turning it slowly in his fingers.
"Am I a new beginning?" he asked quietly.
Mirae didn't answer right away. Instead, she placed a small printed copy of her draft on the counter. The title read:
"The Fire Beneath the Sweet: A Journey Through Chocolat Paradise."
He scanned the first few lines, lips moving in silence, eyes flickering with something unreadable.
"You wrote about me."
"I did. Honestly. Every part of it."
He closed the draft and looked up. "And you didn't hold back?"
"No. It's all in there — the basement, the bitterness, the burn. You, unvarnished."
A beat passed between them. Then he said:
"Then I guess I should show you something just as honest."
He disappeared into the back room and returned with a small wooden box, beautifully carved, like an heirloom. Without a word, he opened it.
Inside were five chocolates, unlike any Mirae had seen before. Each was shaped roughly — not the polished, jewel-like perfection of his usual work — but rugged, raw, with slightly uneven edges and rich, textured surfaces.
"They're called The Fifth Sense series," he said. "Never released. Made them the month after I left Ma Belle. When I didn't know who I was."
Mirae stared. "Why haven't you shown anyone?"
"Because they were too real. Too... personal."
He picked up the first one, offering it to her. "Try it."
She bit in. Her breath caught.
Pine, espresso, and something like burnt molasses. It was earthy, dark, and hauntingly deep.
She blinked back a sudden wave of emotion.
"It tastes like... loneliness."
Doekyom nodded. "That one's called Solitude."
They went through the others together:
Ash & Plum: smoky, sweet, with a burst of tartness at the end.
Regret.
Coriander & Sea Salt Caramel: bold, unexpected, sharp.
Truth.
Roasted White Sesame & Honey Milk: nostalgic, warm, like childhood in winter.
Memory.
And the last...
She hesitated before tasting it. The shell cracked under her teeth, revealing a soft center spiced with clove, black cherry, and a hint of rose. It was heartbreaking.
"That one?" he asked.
She swallowed. "Love?"
He exhaled slowly. "No. Fear of Love."
Silence fell again, more tender than before.
"I think," Mirae said softly, "we've both been crafting feelings in silence for too long."
Doekyom gave her a long, thoughtful look.
"Then maybe it's time we made something... together."
He stepped closer, and this time, there was no uncertainty.
His hand brushed hers, and in that quiet, chocolate-scented space, their fingers entwined like a promise still being written.
The following weekend marked the start of the Spring Artisan Market in Seoul — a local festival where small creators from across the city gathered to share their work. Handmade candles, pottery, natural soaps, embroidered scarves… and for the first time, a quiet stall tucked in the corner under a simple black banner:
Chocolat Paradise.
Doekyom had never participated in events like this before. He disliked crowds, disliked the forced cheerfulness. But Mirae had convinced him, gently, persistently. "Let people taste what you feel," she'd said. "Not everyone gets to speak in flavor like you do."
So here they were.
Mirae wore a navy apron, her hair tied up in a loose bun. She wasn't just watching — she was helping. Pouring samples, answering questions, even arranging the chocolates in precise, aesthetic lines. People were drawn to the table, whispering over the names:
Ash & Plum
Saffron Almond Crunch
Coriander Caramel
Midnight Vanilla
Smoke & Cardamom
Each piece came with a single-word note: Regret, Memory, Curiosity, Warmth, Longing.
By midday, the line for their booth was the longest on the row.
---
"I didn't expect this," Doekyom murmured behind the booth, refilling a tray. "It's... overwhelming."
"You're not used to people liking you?" Mirae teased.
He gave her a sideways look. "I'm used to people liking the mask. Not what's under it."
"Well, surprise. The real thing is even better."
He didn't say anything, but the faintest blush crept up his neck.
Then a voice cut through the buzz of the crowd.
"Lee Doekyom."
They both turned.
A tall woman in a beige trench coat stood across the stall. Sleek. Composed. Her eyes sharp with recognition — and something colder beneath.
Haeryung.
Mirae stiffened instinctively, stepping slightly in front of Doekyom. But he didn't flinch.
Haeryung's gaze moved to the chocolates, then to Mirae.
"So," she said with a tilt of her head, "this is where you've been hiding."
"I wasn't hiding," Doekyom replied calmly. "Just living."
Haeryung gave a tight smile. "And playing shopkeeper now? That's quite a fall from grace."
Mirae opened her mouth, but Doekyom placed a hand lightly on her arm.
"She's not worth it," he said, just for Mirae to hear.
Then he turned to Haeryung again. "I'm not the one who fell. You built an empire on expectations. I'm building something I can stand on."
Haeryung's eyes narrowed. "I saw the article. Dramatic, emotional… unprofessional."
"It was honest."
"Then you've changed more than I thought."
Doekyom didn't respond. He didn't need to.
After a moment, Haeryung gave a faint scoff and walked away, heels clicking on the pavement.
Mirae let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. "She's... intense."
"She used to be everything I thought I wanted," he said. "Now she just reminds me who I never want to be again."
They stood in silence for a while, letting the crowd move on, the hum of the festival returning to a gentle, living background.
---
That night, when the stall was packed up and the sun had set behind the Seoul skyline, Doekyom and Mirae walked along the Han River, side by side.
"No more masks," she said quietly.
"No more fear," he answered.
They stopped beneath a cherry blossom tree just beginning to bloom.
Doekyom reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small chocolate wrapped in gold foil. No label.
"What's this one called?" Mirae asked, curious.
He hesitated. Then: "Hope."
She unwrapped it slowly and took a bite.
It was soft and bright, with hints of lemon, pistachio, and something floral — like orange blossom. It tasted like a door opening in the middle of winter.
She looked up at him.
"I think I'm falling for you," she whispered.
"I think I already did," he replied.