Drawing the Line
Kang Chi-yeol, the man who drew clear lines, barely slept that night—all because of a single word: coffee. Or more precisely, not the coffee itself, but the sentence that came with it: “Next time, let me buy you a cup of coffee.”
Normally, exhaustion should bring sleep easily, but when the heart races ahead, the body’s fatigue loses its grip. He lay in bed, lights off, eyes closed, yet his mind refused to quiet. The hand that had passed him the door stopper, the casual tone of her voice as she tossed out the words, and his own stupid, frozen expression in response—every embarrassing moment of the day replayed in vivid detail.
Kang Chi-yeol pulled the blanket up to his chin and squeezed his eyes shut. “It’s really nothing…”
He said it, but he knew better. In life, there are moments when something insignificant feels like everything. The problem was that he had always been the type to take those moments too soon and too seriously.
He had never dated anyone, yet he was intimately familiar with the habit of racing ahead in his imagination. It had happened in high school. It had happened at twenty-eight, when a woman from a partner company said, “Manager Kang, you’re really kind.” For an entire week afterward, he had interpreted every small courtesy as meaningful—until he saw her fiddling with an engagement ring in the hallway and quietly returned to reality.
At thirty-three, a junior on his team had said, “It would be nice to meet someone like you, Manager.” Those words alone had sparked foolish hope, only for her to add, “My dad has exactly your vibe,” causing his soul to fold in on itself in silence.
So he knew. He knew how ridiculous it was to be the one who got shaken by a few casual words. And he knew how quietly that ridiculousness could wear a person down. That was why he had to be more cautious—especially around someone like Lee Do-hee.
She was clearly the type who drew precise lines. She could be kind, but she would hate for that kindness to be consumed as a signal of deeper emotion. Kang Chi-yeol had sensed this instinctively. Strangely, the more someone was like that, the more he found himself paying attention.
He tossed and turned until well past two in the morning before finally falling asleep.
The next morning, he deliberately kept himself busier than usual. The more emotionally unsettled a person felt, the more they needed to keep their hands moving. That was the survival strategy Kang Chi-yeol had learned over twelve years of corporate life. When his head was cluttered, he organized his email inbox. When his mood hit rock bottom, he sorted meeting materials. When relationships grew tangled, he built Excel spreadsheets. It didn’t solve the root problem, but at least it stopped his mind from leaking into pointless fantasies.
So today, he rewrote his pre-opening checklist with even greater detail: confirm oil delivery time, compare chicken supply unit prices, test lighting for delivery app menu photos, verify placement of tasting paper cups and toothpicks. And above all, he resolved to finalize the seasoning ratio today. He couldn’t let the flavor keep fluctuating before opening. At the very least, the chicken shouldn’t waver the way his heart did.
He fried chicken twice from early morning. The first batch was a little too crispy, the second had an awkward marinating time. By the third attempt, his fingers were beginning to remember the rhythm—adjusting oil temperature, watching the batter rise, timing the moment to lift the pieces with tongs. He liked the repetition. Standing in front of the heat made other thoughts fade. Or so he had thought.
The problem came at around ten-thirty in the morning, when Lee Do-hee paused briefly in front of the glass door. She was alone again today. Her black hair was tied back low as usual, and instead of the gray coat, she wore a deep khaki jumper. In her hands were a file folder and a coffee cup.
Chi-yeol had just placed a few freshly fried chicken pieces on a paper towel. The faint smell of oil still lingered inside the shop. Do-hee glanced inside through the glass, then tapped lightly on the door with her finger.
Kang Chi-yeol felt his heart skip a beat for no good reason as he opened the door.
“Ah, hello.”
“Hello.”
Do-hee lifted the coffee in her hand for a brief moment. “About what I mentioned yesterday.”
Kang Chi-yeol blanked for a second. “Sorry?”
“The coffee.”
Only then did he look properly at the cup she was holding. Do-hee continued in a calm, matter-of-fact tone.
“I bought it on my way back from the hardware store today. You said you’d pay yesterday, but I got it first… so let’s call it even with this.”
Then, with complete nonchalance, she held out the coffee. Kang Chi-yeol froze exactly as he was. His mind went completely blank for a moment.
She had said “Next time, let me buy you a cup of coffee” yesterday, but he had never imagined she would settle it so cleanly and casually the very next day. He accepted the cup in a daze.
“Ah… thank you.”
“It’s nothing.”
Do-hee spoke with an utterly ordinary expression. “Think of it as repayment for the door stopper from yesterday.”
The words were kind, neat, and precise. At the same time, they drew a line with crystal clarity. Repayment for the door stopper. In other words, yesterday’s remark had been nothing more than basic courtesy, and this single cup of coffee closed the account.
Kang Chi-yeol understood it in less than a second. He nodded with what he hoped looked like a smile.
“Ah, yes. Then… it’s exactly even.”
After answering, his mouth tasted faintly bitter. And he hadn’t even drunk the coffee yet.
Do-hee gave a single nod, her face impossible to read—whether she had noticed his expression or not.
“You must be busy preparing.”
“Yes, well… I suppose so.”
“I’m pretty swamped myself.”
“Ah, yes.”
It was an utterly ordinary, harmless conversation. The kind of greeting that would sound normal to anyone listening. Yet within those few short exchanges, Kang Chi-yeol felt an abnormal amount.
Lee Do-hee was kind. And at the same time, she was unmistakably clear. She was not the type to create confusion. Even when offering a small favor, she left no room for the other person to take another step forward. She was exactly the kind of person he had resolved to be cautious of yesterday.
Finally, Do-hee spoke lightly. “Well, I’ll leave you to it.”
Then she turned immediately. Without a single unnecessary word.
Kang Chi-yeol stood at the door and watched blankly as she entered the shop next door. The coffee cup in his hand was warmer than he expected. Yet strangely, one corner of his heart felt as cold as if it had been dipped in ice water.
“Wow…”
He muttered it so quietly that only he could hear. Lee Do-hee hadn’t said anything dramatic. She hadn’t hurt him. If anything, she had handled things with exceptional neatness and politeness. The problem was that her brief, tidy resolution had surgically excised the meaning he had privately assigned to the moment. And honestly, that stung a little.
Around lunchtime that day, when Jo A-ra came in, Kang Chi-yeol had already finished the coffee. He had thrown the empty cup in the trash under the counter, but the moment A-ra stepped inside, she narrowed her eyes like someone catching a scent.
“What’s with you?”
Chi-yeol deliberately asked as if nothing was wrong. A-ra looked at him, scanned the shop, then glanced at the neighboring store before speaking.
“Something happened, didn’t it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Right now, your face is exactly… the face of someone who got hurt all by himself.”
Kang Chi-yeol closed his mouth at how precisely she had hit the mark. A-ra walked straight over to the counter.
“Don’t tell me.”
“Don’t tell you what?”
“The lady next door drew a line?”
Chi-yeol let out a hollow laugh. The phrase “drew a line” was so accurate that it was almost funny.
“Are you a shaman or something?”
“I was right.”
A-ra folded her arms with an expression of near certainty. “What did she say?”
“She didn’t say anything.”
“Liar.”
“It’s true.”
“Then why do you look like that?”
Chi-yeol hesitated for a moment before finally telling the truth.
“You know the door stopper from yesterday?”
“Yeah.”
“She brought me coffee today.”
“Oh.”
“As repayment for the door stopper.”
A-ra froze for a brief second, then slowly nodded.
“Wow.”
“Why ‘wow’ again?”
“No, I mean… she really is the type who draws lines perfectly.”
“Exactly.”
Chi-yeol opened and closed the refrigerator door for no reason. A-ra didn’t laugh. Instead, her face was more serious than expected.
“But you know…”
“What?”
“That’s not necessarily a bad thing.”
“I know.”
“For someone like you, it’s actually better.”
Chi-yeol looked up. “What’s better about it?”
“It’s better than someone who gives you vague hope.”
She was right. So right that it made him feel even stranger. Better than someone who gives vague hope. It really was. Kang Chi-yeol was a man who had spent months attaching meaning to ambiguous words and attitudes. Logically, he should feel grateful for this kind of clean boundary-drawing.
But the human heart never moves according to logic. Even though his head understood that this was better, one side of his chest still stung.
“It’s not like I was expecting anything,” Chi-yeol muttered quietly. A-ra shot back immediately.
“People like you are the ones who expect the most.”
“I’m telling you I didn’t.”
“Then why do you look so deflated right now?”
Chi-yeol was at a loss for words. That was what frustrated him most. He really hadn’t held some grand expectation. Just… a very small thought that maybe, using the coffee as an excuse, they might exchange a few more words. He wanted to believe that level of hope was too trivial to even call expectation.
But hope isn’t measured by size. Even a small one makes the same sound when it breaks.
A-ra watched him for a long moment, then spoke in an unexpectedly gentle tone.
“Boss.”
“What?”
“It’s okay.”
“What is?”
“All of it. Getting excited by yourself, then feeling embarrassed by yourself, then feeling like you got neatly organized by yourself.”
Chi-yeol laughed awkwardly. “Don’t describe it in such detail.”
“It’s obvious, that’s why.”
A-ra rested her chin on the counter and added with playful eyes, “But honestly, I’m getting more interested.”
“In what?”
“You’ve already started to waver a bit, and the lady next door is still an iron wall.”
“She’s not exactly an iron wall.”
“You’re already defending her.”
“It’s not defending…”
Chi-yeol trailed off. Then he finally admitted it.
“She just seems like the type of person who’s always been that way.”
A-ra didn’t laugh this time. Instead, she nodded slowly.
“Yeah. She does seem like someone who naturally keeps her boundaries.”
“Right.”
“Then she’ll bother you even more.”
This time, Kang Chi-yeol couldn’t answer. Because she was right. Strangely, people tend to linger longer on those who don’t carelessly offer them hope. Because in front of such people, you try harder not to look frivolous. And in that effort, you end up becoming more conscious of them without realizing it.
That afternoon, Kang Chi-yeol deliberately tried not to look toward Lee Do-hee’s shop. He did it consciously. He avoided looking out the glass door, didn’t react to the sound of it opening and closing, and tried not to perk up his ears even when he heard her voice on the phone. It might have looked petty, but right now he needed it. He had to calm himself down. He didn’t want to act like someone who got excited alone, got hurt alone, and wrote his own story alone.
The problem was that Lee Do-hee noticed it immediately.
Around four in the afternoon, Chi-yeol was attaching a delivery app sticker to the front of the shop. His posture was awkward, causing the tape to keep going on crooked, which only made him more irritable. Then a quiet voice came from beside him.
“A little more to the right than that would probably look better.”
Chi-yeol turned his head in surprise. Lee Do-hee was standing right next to him.
“Ah.”
“At that position, it would be hidden by the handle.”
She spoke completely naturally, as if discussing nothing but business. For a moment, Kang Chi-yeol felt even more embarrassed about how he had been sulking by himself.
“Ah, yes. You’re right.”
He hurriedly tried to peel the sticker off and reattach it, but one side of the tape stuck to his finger. The vinyl clung like static electricity, making his hands even clumsier. Do-hee watched for a moment, then gave a very brief smile.
“Just a second.”
She casually took the edge of the sticker and straightened it out. Their fingertips touched for the briefest instant. It really was only for a moment, yet Kang Chi-yeol felt even more awkward because of that short contact.
“This should be fine,” Do-hee said, taking a step back.
Chi-yeol nodded quickly. “Thank you.”
“It’s nothing.”
She was about to turn away when she suddenly added one more thing.
“You seemed to be deliberately avoiding looking at me earlier.”
Kang Chi-yeol froze on the spot. His heart really did sink with a thud. Do-hee delivered the words without changing her expression, in a tone so dry it was almost refreshing.
“Ah, no…”
Chi-yeol began a defensive reply but stopped immediately. He had no idea what to say. Denying it would be too obvious, but admitting it would be even stranger. Do-hee observed his discomfort for a moment, then this time the corner of her mouth lifted in the faintest smile.
“I’m joking.”
With that, she gave a light wave of her hand and turned away. That was really all there was to it.
Yet Kang Chi-yeol remained standing there for a long time.
What was that just now?
Joking.
She had teased him first. It was a very small, thin joke, but it was clearly a playful nudge that stayed safely within the boundaries. That single remark strangely shook the heavy feeling that had been pressing down on him all day.
Hurt, embarrassed, then suddenly a little relieved—the flow of emotions was so absurd that Kang Chi-yeol finally lowered his head and let out a small laugh.
“Ha…”
She drew the line, but she wasn’t a complete wall. He didn’t yet realize how much more dangerous that was.
That night, when Kang Chi-yeol returned home, he opened his notebook. Below the opening preparation checklist, another line appeared without him realizing it.
Neighbor shop owner — Draws lines, but sometimes smiles
And even smaller underneath:
Dangerous
He stared at those two words for a long time before finally letting out a soft chuckle. Anyone who saw it might think he was some kind of romance expert, but in reality he was a forty-one-year-old motae solo whose mood could swing wildly over a single small joke.
Still, there was nothing he could do about it. The heart always jumped out ahead of logic, after all.