The Last Coffee Beans

Yeon-jae's gaze flicked downward. It was the phone she'd left on the desk beside the piano. She looked away from the darkened screen she'd been staring at, though she couldn't stop glancing at it, hoping a message might come.

Last night, she'd left the coffee beans at the front desk before heading back. He should have received them by now. She'd left word with his executive secretary, so she'd expected at least a text — but the phone remained silent. From the end of her café shift until her piano academy lessons began, it hadn't made a sound.

"...Did he not get them?"

When Yeon-jae muttered the words, puzzled, the student sitting in front of her turned around.

"What'd you say, Teacher?"

"Nothing. Just talking to myself. Are you done?"

"Not yet! Can't you cut the practice a little? There's only ten minutes left!"

A glance downward revealed a score whose practice quota still hadn't been filled.

"Think that's going to work? The competition isn't far off, you know."

The student's cheeks, which had puffed up with hope that the practice might be waived, promptly deflated.

"Do as much as you can."

"Ugh, fiiine."

Yeon-jae closed the practice room door behind her. She glanced through the window at the student, who had started moving again, then turned — only to find the academy director approaching.

"Teacher Jeong, there's a visitor here for you."

"For me?"

At the word visitor, Yeon-jae's eyes went round. No one came looking for her except parents and students. Told the visitor was at the front desk, she started down the hallway. Her curiosity about who it might be didn't last long. Through the glass door, the back of the man standing at the front desk was all too familiar.

"What brings you here?"

At Yeon-jae's voice, the man turned. It was Je-heon — who hadn't sent a single message all day. She'd expected a text or a call, not for him to show up in person. She did have things she wanted to say to his face, but even so, the first thing that hit her was bewilderment.

"You're here, aren't you. I heard you came looking for me yesterday."

As if to say, You're the one with business here. Yeon-jae's eyebrows lifted slightly.

"You could have at least sent a message. I'm busy right now. I'm still in the middle of lessons."

There was still a full hour left before her classes ended. And once they did, she had to pick Ji-woo up from kindergarten. Yesterday, when she'd gone looking for Je-heon, she'd deliberately rearranged her academy schedule. The time they would have to talk was thirty minutes at most — a sliver. There was no way this man would wait over two hours for that.

"When are you done?"

Je-heon had already closed the distance and come to a stop in front of her.

"I have two more sessions. And after that I have to go get Ji-woo, so I don't have much time."

You could have let me know ahead of time. I was looking at my phone the whole day.

"Today's not really a good day... Please contact me when you have time. I'll come find you another day."

Je-heon regarded her for a long moment, then sat down at the table in front of her. The man she'd expected to turn around and leave had sat down instead, and Yeon-jae's pupils trembled faintly.

"Why are you sitting down?"

"Why? Can't I sit and wait?"

Je-heon settled deep into the chair, as if he truly had no intention of going anywhere. He sat at an angle, looking up at her, and there wasn't the slightest flicker in his eyes as he asked.

"Wait?"

"Yeah."

"Here?"

"Is that a problem?"

Even when Yeon-jae asked again, unable to believe it, Je-heon was unyielding.

"It's... not a problem."

"Then that's that. If you're thinking of me, maybe wrap up your lessons a little early."

The words It's a lesson — how am I supposed to leave early? rose to her throat, but she swallowed them. In the end, Yeon-jae had to turn away with a faintly sour expression.

Even as she continued the remaining lessons, she felt strange. The one who waited had always been her, never him.

No. There had been one time Je-heon had waited. He'd come to the café where she worked her morning shift and sat there until, in the end, he'd bought every last bag of coffee beans. That had lasted a little under an hour. And besides, she was the one who'd gone looking for him with something to say. Perhaps because she'd always believed that even when it came to finding Je-heon, she was the one who had to do the seeking, the feeling was simply... odd.

"You play the piano with your backside in the chair. The competition isn't far off, so don't you dare skip practice. Understood?"

"Yeees. Have a good day."

Only after the lesson ended and she'd sent the student off did Yeon-jae leave the practice room. Her steps toward the front desk picked up speed. Even as she walked, she was half in doubt. Would he still be waiting? This wasn't just anyone — this was Gu Je-heon.

At the end of that deepening thought, she opened the front desk door. Approaching the desk, which was bustling with children during break time, she spotted the academy director. At the table where Je-heon had been sitting when she left, children were now seated.

So he left after all. Well, he was never the type to wait that long for anyone.

She was just about to give up and turn back when—

"Teacher Jeong, go to Consultation Room 1."

The director pointed toward the counseling rooms.

Yeon-jae opened the door to the consultation rooms, set apart from the front desk. Unlike the desk, noisy with children, a hush hung over the corridor. Counseling rooms lined the straight hallway in a tight row. She knocked on the first one.

"Yes."

A spare, unadorned voice answered from inside almost immediately. After a short breath, she opened the door.

"Looks like you're done."

The door swung open, and Je-heon came into view, seated across a desk that was neither particularly large nor small. He'd been reading a pamphlet beside him; he set the paper down on the desk.

"I didn't think you'd still be waiting."

"I said I'd wait. I don't say things I don't mean."

"You're always so busy, after all."

Because he wasn't the kind of man who'd do something as inefficient as waiting two hours for a thirty-minute conversation. Swallowing the words that lingered in her mouth, Yeon-jae sat in the chair across from him. As she took her seat, Je-heon's gaze swept over her from head to toe.

Knowing it was for the sake of the foundation, a bitter feeling settled in her chest. She wondered if she'd ever been his first priority for any reason other than this. But that feeling lasted only a moment.

"Jeong Yeon-jae came looking for me because she had something to say. You think I could just sit tight after hearing that?"

"..."

"What did you have to tell me that was worth waiting for me?"

At Je-heon's blunt, unvarnished question, Yeon-jae's lips parted, then closed. Now that she was actually facing him, the words wouldn't come easily. But there was a light in the eyes watching her.

"Did you change your mind about signing with the foundation?"

"No. That's not what this is about."

The thought that it was so like Je-heon to think of the foundation first nearly drew a laugh from her, and she held it back. Yeon-jae gave a small shake of her head.

"Did you get the package? I left it at the front desk."

Je-heon, who had been watching her, leaned back in his chair. It hadn't been the question he'd wanted; the interest flickering in his eyes dimmed a notch.

"I got it."

At his brief reply, silence settled between them.

So he got them.

What Yeon-jae had roasted and delivered were the beans Je-heon had loved before he lost his memories. A café she'd stumbled upon by chance — a blend recommended by the owner, who roasted his own. She had liked Je-heon enough to learn roasting just to give them to him as a gift. Back then, if it wasn't those beans, he couldn't drink any other coffee. What about now? No — had he even tried them? Yeon-jae fidgeted with her hands beneath the table for no particular reason.

It was Je-heon who broke the awkward silence hanging between them.

"Those weren't store-bought beans."

"That's right. I made them myself."

"You did?"

He clearly hadn't expected she'd made them herself; the end of his question lifted.

"Yes. I roasted them."

"You know how to roast coffee too? I thought the piano was all you cared about."

"I learned. Someone kept saying he hated sour coffee every single day. I did a good job, didn't I?"

Yeon-jae beamed at Je-heon, who wore a faintly put-out expression.

"If you ever need more, just say the word. The Jeong Yeon-jae roast is for one person only."

She'd said it was for Je-heon, but the truth was she liked it when he came looking for her whenever he needed coffee. It made her feel like she'd become someone special to him. Even if he'd lost his memories, his tastes wouldn't have changed, so he would still like them. The only thing that had changed was the relationship between them. A bitter smile spread across Yeon-jae's lips.

Never mind the old memories — she needed to say what she'd come to say. She'd meant to start with an apology, to tell him she was sorry for the misunderstanding about Ji-woo.

"You really know how to send mixed signals."

At the low voice that seeped into her ear, Yeon-jae lifted her head.

"You know my coffee preferences. You can even roast beans to match my taste."

"..."

Je-heon, who had been leaning back, drew his body closer toward her.

"Or is your memory just unusually good? Good enough to remember the tastes of a man you used to like."

His straight gaze collided with hers, asking even now whether she still claimed not to like him, and Yeon-jae's brow furrowed slightly. Anything related to Je-heon was the kind of memory that wouldn't fade no matter how much she wanted it to.

"How could I forget?"

She'd heard it so many times her ears had grown calluses. Someone had forgotten it all so easily — but to her, those memories were everything.

"The beans... I gave them to you because I was sorry for the misunderstanding back then."

"..."

"It's not like Seoul here. There's nowhere that sells beans like that."

Yeon-jae forced the words out, squeezing her voice into something that sounded like nothing was wrong.

"Just so we're clear — I'm not giving them to you because I still like you, Representative. There's no ulterior motive."

She'd emptied herself out enough. For a woman busy just getting through each day, there was no way those feelings could still be left.

"And thank you for supporting the recital. But I'd prefer if you left it at that."

She'd considered saying more, but there was still time until Ji-woo's recital. There would be days they'd run into each other yet, so she decided it would be better to end things on the day of the performance.

"Anyway, I need to go pick up Ji-woo, so I'll be going."

Thinking that had been answer enough, Yeon-jae gathered herself and started to rise.

"...And if I need more beans?"

A voice caught her footsteps and held them.

"You'll give them to me whenever I ask?"

A faint smile touched Yeon-jae's lips. She'd never imagined the words she'd once said to him would come back to her like this. With an entirely different feeling.

"..."

"You're a capable man. I'm sure you can find something similar."

Beans that had lost their owner now had to disappear.