Chapter One - Tea Class

The 3PM Tea Class

The sun this afternoon is unusually warm, the kind that doesn’t scorch but seeps into your skin like silk. A low, golden light filters through the sheer curtains of the tea atelier, an old hanok tucked away from the city noise, where the hours seem to move slower.

It’s my usual 3PM private tea class.Or at least, it was supposed to be.

But today, someone else is here.A woman.

She’s seated across from me on the tatami mat, her back straight, hands resting lightly on her lap, dressed in soft, neutral tones that blend seamlessly into the wooden backdrop. Everything about her posture reads restraint, elegant, controlled, and entirely uninterested in anything outside the delicate world of her teacup.

I glance at the teacher, raising an eyebrow.“I thought this was a private session,” I murmur.

The teacher only gives a soft smile. “Miss Jang confirmed quite late. I hope it’s alright, Mr. Kwon.”

Miss Jang, huh.Does she not recognize me? Or worse, does she not care?

Who the hell signs up for a tea class at 3PM on a Tuesday?Doesn’t she have a job to do?I study her, searching for clues. Nothing loud. No luxury logos. No perfume that reaches across the table. Just... quiet presence. Still water.And not once does she look at me.

"Then we blend it, slowly like this," the teacher says, folding her fingers around the tea whisk with practiced grace."You don't press. Let the air mix naturally, see the bubbles?"

The room is hushed except for the whisper of bamboo tools and the scent of roasted green tea. I glance down, copying the motion, slow, circular strokes in the matcha bowl.

She does the same. Her wrist moves just right. Calm, fluid.

Not perfect. But focused.

And I find myself watching her instead of the tea.

There’s no effort to perform.No glance to see if I’m looking.Not even a hint of recognition in her expression.

It’s… confusing.

I shift slightly on the mat.

It’s been twenty minutes, and she hasn’t looked up, not once.Not when I walked in. Not when I sat down. Not even when the teacher said my full name.

Kwon. Jiyong.A name people usually glance up for, if only out of reflex.

But not her.She just keeps whisking the tea, slowly, deliberately, her eyes fixed on the pale green surface as if it holds all the answers she needs. Her breathing is quiet, her movements almost meditative. Like she came here to escape something.

Maybe someone.

"Now we pour, gently, tilt the bowl just enough to follow the edge of the cup."

She follows the instruction without hesitation. No wasted motion. No nervousness. No curiosity about the man seated across from her.

It’s irritating.And… intriguing.

I lean back slightly, watching her from the corner of my eye.Most people flinch under attention. Even in quiet places like this, there’s a ripple when I walk in, a faint tremor, a glance, a whisper.But she?Nothing.

She’s unreadable.

And now, all I can think about is reading her.

"Miss Jang," the teacher says kindly, handing her a cloth, "you have a very steady hand."

She nods, offering a polite, quiet smile. “Thank you.”

Her voice is calm, low, and nothing about it feels like an attempt to charm.She folds the cloth the way she was shown. Precise. Present.

Still no glance at me.

I clear my throat, just to see what she’ll do.She doesn’t blink.

I lift my teacup and make a small comment, half to the teacher, half to the room.

“Most people don’t take this stuff seriously. Just come for the Instagram story.”

Nothing. Not even a twitch of the brow.

She sips her tea. Eyes lowered.Dignified. Composed.

Untouchable.

I hate how that pulls me in deeper.

Who the hell is she?

And why does it feel like I’m the one being ignored for the first time?

The room smells faintly of roasted barley and wood polish, the kind of scent that lingers softly on skin. The class winds down with silence and warm cups in hand. The teacher steps out momentarily to prepare the closing sweets.

I should say something.

Anything.

But for the first time, I hesitate, not because I don’t have the words, but because I want her to look first. A flicker of acknowledgment. A moment of curiosity. A single glance.

Instead, she quietly places her empty teacup onto the tray with both hands. Her posture is precise, almost ceremonial. Not stiff, just... focused. She bows gently toward the cushion in front of her, not to me, but as part of the etiquette.

Still no glance. Still no voice.Just that quiet, maddening calm.

I stare openly now.She doesn’t break.

The teacher returns with small plates, two squares of yakgwa placed beside a wedge of omija jelly. I don’t touch mine.

She does, delicately picking up the sweet with chopsticks. She savors it, unfazed by the silence. As if I’m not even here.

I shift again.

“Do you come here often?” I finally ask, the cliché almost making me cringe, but I just want something from her.

She wipes her lips softly with a napkin. Then, very quietly..

“No.”

Just that. No explanation. No follow-up.

And once again, her gaze returns to the teacup she just finished.

Time ticks forward.

The session ends. She stands, thanks the teacher, bows politely. I do the same, slower, watching her every move.

Outside, the late afternoon sun kisses the gravel path warmly. The wind carries the scent of pine and incense. I take two steps ahead of her, holding the sliding wooden door open.

A soft breeze tugs at her coat as she passes me.

Still no glance.No thank you.No recognition.

She simply walks past, her heels clicking softly against stone, disappearing into the sunlight as if I never existed.

I blink.

And for the first time in a long time, I realize...

I want to be noticed.

By her.

--

"Hyung, when’s my next tea class?" I ask without looking up, eyes on the city lights flickering outside the van window.

There’s a short pause before Tiger hyung answers, "Next month, I think? You’ve got Übermensch Korea prep all month, concert meetings back to back."

"Oh… right."I nod, but my fingers tap restlessly on my thigh. The silence stretches."Can you check the teacher’s schedule? And… the attendance list?"

Tiger hyung looks at me from the front seat, brow raised through the rearview mirror.

"I’ll see what I can do."A beat. Then..."Anyone specific?"

I don’t answer.

What the hell am I doing?

Instead of responding, I let out a dry laugh and lean my head back against the seat. The leather feels too cold. My chest feels too warm.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

I wave him off casually. "Just… remembering how bad I was at whisking tea."

It’s a lie. I don’t care about the tea. I can’t even remember what it tasted like.What I do remember is her wrist movement. Her silence.Her refusal to look at me.

A quiet, polished woman who sat across from me like I was just… air.Like she didn’t know, or didn’t care, that she was sharing a room with G-Dragon.

And somehow, that unsettles me more than any hate comment or tabloid headline ever has.

--

Two weeks.

Back-to-back meetings.Late-night choreo rehearsals.Übermensch this, stage that, deadlines, edits, decisions, nonstop noise.

And now, finally, silence.

Here I am again.Shoes off, breath slow, kneeling in the stillness of the tea room like some worn-out monk craving peace.

But that’s not why I came.Not really.

I’m waiting.For someone.

Where is she?

I glance at the door as the teacher finishes arranging the tools on the tray. She gives me a gentle nod, ready to begin.

So it’s back to being a private class.Of course it is.

Maybe she was just a one-time guest. Maybe it meant nothing.Maybe I’m just being...

...Click.

The soft sound of the door opening stops everything.

She walks in, graceful but breathless, her steps light and precise. Her hair’s slightly tousled, like she was rushing. Still elegant. Still calm. But there’s a faint flush to her cheeks.

She’s late.

She bows politely to the teacher, then to the room.

Still doesn’t look at me.

Not once.

She lowers herself onto the cushion across from me, adjusting her sleeves with care, unfolding the cloth just like she did last time. Her movements are quiet, precise.

Unbothered.

I should be offended.I should be bored.But instead…

I find myself smiling.

What the hell is wrong with me?Am I insane?

This isn’t how it’s supposed to go.She should’ve looked at me by now.Said something. Asked something. Reacted.

But she just starts whisking her tea, the same calm rhythm as before. Like she’s here for herself, and no one else.

And for reasons I still don’t understand…

I can’t stop watching her.

“Jiyong-ssi, you did a good job today,” the teacher says kindly, as she finishes checking my tea.

I bow my head slightly, murmuring a polite, “Thank you.”And just as I look up...

She glances.

But not at me.

At my tea.

Her eyes flicker down to my bowl for half a second. Assessing. Silent. Then back to her own.

She pouts slightly. Just a tiny push of her lips. Barely noticeable.But I notice.

God. Why did I notice?

The sound of my heartbeat fills the space between us like thunder.My hands are still steady, but inside I’m spiraling.

Damn it, Jiyong. Stop.

She’s not doing anything. She’s not even trying.

But that poutThat silent little reaction to my tea being praisedIt hits me harder than a sold-out stadium.

She’s… cute.So cute.

And I’m not okay.

I lean back slightly, trying to hide the stupid smile pulling at my lips.

What the hell is happening to me?

The teacher sits between us, smiling warmly as she gestures to the bowls in front of us.

“Both are good,” she says kindly, “but very different in intention.”

She points to mine first.

“Jiyong-ssi, yours has more energy. A faster rhythm, slightly more bubbles. Confident. Expressive.”“Miss Jang, yours is calm. Controlled. Very focused. A bit cooler in temperature, but beautifully balanced.”

I glance across the table.She nods at the feedback, graceful as always, and adjusts the edge of the cloth beside her tray. No reaction. No glance. Just silence and soft movements.

I’m going insane.

The class ends with a quiet bow.The teacher excuses herself, humming softly as she leaves the room to tidy up.

Now it’s just us.

The air suddenly feels heavier.

She begins packing up, efficient, delicate movements. Folding the cloth, cleaning the whisk, tucking things away. No rush. No pause.

And still, not a word.

I stare for a moment too long.

Just say something, idiot.

"Hi," I finally say, my voice quieter than I expected.Almost awkward.

She pauses, but only for a second.Then she bows, just a polite dip of the head.

And walks right past me.

Out the door.

Gone.

What the—?!

I blink at the empty doorway, my mouth still half open.Was that it?

She didn’t even answer. No smile. No “Hello.” Not even a glance.

Is this woman immune to me?

I slump back onto the cushion, running a hand through my hair.

Frustrated.