1% of Something—A contract romance that melts a chaebol’s frost into an unexpectedly tender love
Introduction
The first time I watched 1% of Something, I didn’t expect to feel my shoulders unclench the way they did. It begins with a brusque chaebol heir and a principled schoolteacher who treat “love” like an item on a to‑do list—and somehow I ended up rooting for both of them like they were old friends. Have you ever made a decision with your head, only to have your heart slowly, stubbornly re-negotiate the terms? That’s the sensation this drama bottles: the gentle, day‑by‑day shift from obligation to devotion. By the time the contract timer winds down, you’re honest‑to‑goodness invested in their future mortgage rates conversations and whether they’ll spend those hard‑won credit card rewards on a trip they keep promising each other. And when the last episode fades out, it doesn’t feel like a fairy tale; it feels like two adults choosing each other on purpose.
Overview
Title: 1% of Something (1%의 어떤것)
Year: 2016
Genre: Romantic Comedy, Romance
Main Cast: Ha Seok Jin, Jun So Min, Park Jin Joo, Choi Sung Jae
Episodes: 16
Runtime: About 40 minutes per episode
Streaming Platform: Viki (English subtitles)
Overall Story
Lee Jae‑in is the grandson of a powerful conglomerate chairman who treats affection like a liability and manners like a cost center. His life is spreadsheets, meetings, and immaculate suits, not PTA bake sales or field trips. Kim Da‑hyun, meanwhile, is an elementary school teacher who believes kindness is a daily discipline, not a hobby, and she’s the one who helps an elderly man who collapses near her school. That man turns out to be Jae‑in’s grandfather, who promptly rewrites his will with one quirky clause: Jae‑in can secure his inheritance if he dates Da‑hyun in good faith for six months. The setup isn’t coy about being a “contract” romance; it’s deliberate, a social experiment rubbing status against sincerity. Have you ever taken a job you didn’t want and found the people changed you anyway? That’s Jae‑in on day one.
The early “dates” feel like HR performance reviews. Jae‑in brings his boardroom tone to dinner; Da‑hyun brings her teacher’s calm, and neither of them blinks first. They draft practical rules, set boundaries, and agree on a start and end date—how adult does that sound? Yet awkward moments keep cracking their armor: a missed taxi in the rain, a forgotten umbrella shared between them, a too‑spicy stew that Jae‑in stubbornly eats because she cooked it. Each small inconvenience becomes a micro‑lesson in empathy, and Da‑hyun starts to see that Jae‑in’s arrogance is really just a fortress built around old wounds. He, in turn, begins to respect her work, the way she stays late for a struggling student, the way she stands up to him without turning it into a spectacle. Somewhere between the spreadsheets and the staff room, a pulse develops.
At the chaebol table, the contract is both scandal and sport. Jae‑in’s relatives assume Da‑hyun is after money, a prejudice the show treats with a precise scalpel. We watch her navigate backhanded compliments, “accidental” leaks to the press, and a deftly staged charity gala where she is introduced like a product. Have you ever walked into a room where you knew you weren’t wanted and decided to be gracious anyway? That’s Da‑hyun’s superpower. She refuses to be small to make others comfortable, but she never makes a scene; it’s the way she chooses her dignity that destabilizes Jae‑in’s world more than any grand gesture. He can’t buy that kind of steadiness, and that’s exactly why he can’t stop looking for it.
The school is our ballast, the place where we see Da‑hyun in her element and where Jae‑in realizes his power doesn’t matter. There’s a field trip fiasco that leaves him holding a first‑aid kit and trying not to panic; there’s a parent who mistakes him for a meddling donor, forcing him to introduce himself just as a boyfriend would. The contrast is delightful: the man who negotiates mergers fumbles with snack bags and sunscreen. When he tries to “donate” solutions, Da‑hyun counters with the quiet reminder that kids need time and patience more than fancy equipment. If you’ve ever had to unlearn the habit of fixing everything with your wallet, you’ll feel the pinch in these scenes. Slowly, his version of care evolves from purchasing to participating.
Midway through, the drama pivots from banter to vulnerability. A former fiancée surfaces with a glossy smile and a calendar full of “accidental” meetings. Corporate sharks smell blood, and the family whispers grow teeth. You can almost hear the contract ticking like a clock in the background as Jae‑in realizes he’s in danger of losing more than a share of stock. The two of them make a private pact to stay the course: no big declarations, just consistency. It’s the kind of adult romance that looks boring on paper and feels wonderful in practice—who knew showing up on time could be cinematic?
But secrecy has a half‑life. When news of the contract leaks, the relationship is reframed as a transaction in the court of public opinion, and it hurts in all the specific ways you’d expect. Da‑hyun feels humiliated not because strangers judge her, but because it appears she accepted affection as a stipend. Jae‑in, cornered by family politics, tries to problem‑solve like a CEO: damage control, statements, compensation. Have you ever offered solutions when what someone needed was your apology? He learns the difference the hard way. Their breakup isn’t explosive; it’s the quiet closing of a door, and that makes it ache more.
Time apart becomes a test of character. Jae‑in returns to the grandmother’s house for dinner—without fanfare—to apologize for his part in the spectacle. He starts spending weekends volunteering quietly at the school, not as penance but because the work recalibrates him. Da‑hyun, for her part, refuses to let heartbreak become her personality; she plans lessons, visits a seaside town with a colleague, and finally uses those travel insurance details she once filed away for school trips. The world keeps turning, and the show lets them grow without each other, which is why the eventual second chance feels earned. When they meet again, neither of them is trying to win; they’re trying to be honest.
The reunion is grounded and practical. They renegotiate terms—not of a contract, but of a life: what Sundays should look like, how to handle family holidays, where they’d live if work pulls them to opposite ends of Seoul. There’s a tender scene where they daydream about a tiny apartment and laugh about comparing mortgage rates like they’re trading baseball stats; it’s goofy, but it lands. Jae‑in offers a ring that isn’t about legacy but about taste—a modest, elegant piece that suits Da‑hyun’s fingers that are always ink‑smudged from grading. Have you ever seen someone learn to love in your language instead of theirs? That’s this proposal.
At the boardroom showdown, the grandfather’s clause turns out to be less about control and more about calibration. He wanted his heir to invest in a person who didn’t adore his balance sheet. A few relatives bluster about inheritance, but Jae‑in politely points out that a company that can’t make space for decency won’t survive its next crisis anyway. The drama frames corporate power as a stewardship, not a prize, and Da‑hyun’s presence shifts the tone of every room they enter. It’s not that she tames him—it’s that he chooses a different kind of ambition. The family can’t argue with results, and the audience gets the quiet vindication we were promised.
The finale is simple: no parade of exes, no bomb threats at the wedding, just family, friends, and vows spoken like a promise they plan to keep on weekdays, too. The camera lingers on small things—their linked hands under a table, the way he brings an extra cardigan because she always forgets, the lunch boxes they pack when their schedules clash. Have you ever realized the most romantic thing you can say is “I’ll be there at 7”? That’s how this love story signs its name. It’s not a sprint; it’s a practice. And that’s exactly why it lingers.
Highlight Moments
Episode 1 A will with strings attached upends two ordinary days. Da‑hyun’s good deed collides with Jae‑in’s inheritance clause, and the meeting is gloriously awkward: she thinks he’s condescending; he thinks she’s infuriatingly calm. Watching them draft dating rules over coffee—no surprises, no public displays, monthly check‑ins—feels like reading a project brief with emotional booby traps. The best part is the micro‑expressions: Jae‑in’s surprise when she won’t take a “thank‑you” gift, Da‑hyun’s side‑smile when he finally says “please.” It’s an opening chapter that promises friction and follow‑through.
Episode 3 A charity gala becomes a social X‑ray. Da‑hyun walks into a hall designed to make her feel small, and she refuses to shrink. Jae‑in watches her greet people by name, ask real questions, and leave conversations without apologizing for existing. When a relative implies she’s a gold digger, she responds with clear, unflustered dignity—and Jae‑in, for once, falls silent. It’s the first time he sees how she alters a room without raising her voice, and the audience recognizes the shift: respect has entered the chat.
Episode 6 Rain, a ruined umbrella, and an unscripted reveal. Stranded after a school event, they take shelter at a bus stop and talk without their armor: her fears about work, his resentment toward legacy. The sound design lets the patter of rain fill the pauses, and when he offers his jacket, it’s not chivalry; it’s care he doesn’t know how to name yet. They share street food, laugh about nothing, and for a moment the contract vanishes. It’s the episode where the chemistry stops being theoretical.
Episode 8 The leak. News of the contract turns their relationship into a headline, and the backlash is cruel in all the familiar ways. Jae‑in tries to smother the story with statements and legalese, but Da‑hyun recoils not at the public, but at the private betrayal of being framed as a “term” in someone’s deal. Their argument is heartbreaking: two competent adults who cannot translate need into words. When they part, it’s a door closing without a slam—and it lands harder because of it.
Episode 12 The apology that actually apologizes. Jae‑in shows up at the school during a community day and does the unglamorous work—folding chairs, wiping tables, taking instructions. He asks Da‑hyun what would make it right, and then he listens, which is new. Have you ever felt the exact moment a person chooses growth over ego? That’s this scene. It doesn’t fix everything, but it moves the needle from “sorry” to “I’ll do better.”
Episode 16 A proposal that sounds like a plan. No fireworks, no grand orchestra—just a simple ring, a promise about Sunday breakfasts, and a conversation about how to love each other when work is loud. Their families show up not as obstacles but as community, and even the grandfather looks quietly satisfied. The final shot—two people walking side by side into an ordinary future—feels like the drama’s thesis. Love isn’t the exception; it’s the habit. And yes, you’ll miss them the next day.
Memorable Lines
“Let’s be clear: I don’t need a performance. I need your honesty.” – Kim Da‑hyun, Episode 3 Said after a gala run‑in with snide relatives, this line resets the power dynamic. She isn’t asking for romance on cue; she’s asking for a person who means what he says. It’s the moment Jae‑in realizes sincerity is the one thing he can’t delegate. The line echoes through later episodes whenever they renegotiate what care looks like.
“If love is a contract, mine expires when you do.” – Lee Jae‑in, Episode 6 He blurts this out half‑joking during their rainy bus stop talk, and then he flinches at how true it sounds. The quip reframes the entire premise: paperwork may have started it, but choice is what keeps it going. It signals the beginning of his emotional literacy—the upgrade from compliance to commitment. From here on, the audience watches him choose her without being told.
“I can carry my own bag. I just don’t want to carry your pride.” – Kim Da‑hyun, Episode 8 During the fallout from the leak, Da‑hyun draws a boundary with surgical precision. She’s fine with public noise; she’s not fine with private disrespect. The sentence lands like a bell, separating help from control, love from management. It’s a thesis statement for her character and a compass for their second chance.
“I grew up learning how to keep assets; no one taught me how to keep people.” – Lee Jae‑in, Episode 12 This confession, offered without self‑pity, is the key in the lock. It explains his brusqueness without excusing it, and it invites Da‑hyun to see the boy inside the suit. The line also reframes his grandfather’s challenge as a curriculum, not a punishment. From here, Jae‑in starts practicing the everyday skills of staying.
“Let’s waste our credit card rewards on a terrible beach hotel and call it happiness.” – Kim Da‑hyun, Episode 16 It’s a playful jab in their post‑proposal scene that anchors the show’s ordinary‑magic vibe. She’s not angling for perfection; she’s choosing a life where togetherness outranks luxury—and yes, that’s why she also insists on the travel insurance. The joke turns future logistics into a love language. It’s how the drama sells you on grown‑up romance without a single glass slipper.
Why It's Special
If you’ve ever craved a rom‑com that feels like a warm hand around a mug of cocoa, Something About 1% is that comfort. The premise is classic—an arrogant hotel heir and a sunny elementary school teacher bound by a peculiar “contract romance”—but the storytelling leans tender rather than flashy, letting small gestures bloom into big feelings. And if you’re ready to press play, it’s currently streaming with English subtitles on Rakuten Viki in many regions, including the United States, making it easy to revisit or discover for the first time.
Part of the show’s charm is how it treats time. Episodes are a breezy watch, and the production trims the fat so every date, bicker, and reconciliation lands like a meaningful beat instead of filler. The direction by Kang Cheol‑woo favors intimate frames—handheld glances, quiet exhalations, a camera that lingers just long enough to make you wonder, “Have you ever felt this way?”
The writing, adapted by Hyun Go‑woon from her own novel, takes the “forced proximity” trope and makes it empathetic. Rather than punishing its characters for missteps, the script rewards honesty and growth. It’s a rom‑com that says the healthiest love is the one you earn day by day, not the one that just falls from the sky.
What absolutely sings here is chemistry. The famous kiss sequences didn’t go viral by accident; they’re staged as conversations without words—hesitations, breath, then a decision. Jun So‑min herself has singled out one of those moments as a career‑defining scene, a lovely nod to how the show captures intimacy with warmth rather than shock value.
Tonally, the series is feather‑light with just enough headwinds—pride, family expectations, old habits—to let the romance feel earned. The result is low‑angst storytelling that still knows when to tighten the heartstrings, especially when the leads must choose each other over comfort or convenience. When it does turn serious, the show treats healing with care.
Even the production quirks end up feeling endearing. Episode lengths vary, and the show resists piling on subplots simply to pad runtime. Critics have noted that the streamlined focus keeps attention on the central couple—an approach that makes this drama unusually rewatchable when you want something sincere and uncluttered.
Finally, Something About 1% belongs to a lineage: it’s a modern remake of the 2003 drama, itself based on Hyun Go‑woon’s popular novel. That pedigree shows in the clean narrative spine and the refined “contract love” beats—like a classic melody played with updated instruments, recognizable yet freshly romantic.
Popularity & Reception
Something About 1% found its second life not through splashy terrestrial ratings but through global streaming discoverability. On Viki, it continues to attract international viewers with multi‑language subtitles and a thriving comments section, the kind of “found family” space where fans swap favorite lines and swoon timestamps.
Across reviewers and longtime recappers, the consensus is remarkably consistent: electric lead chemistry anchors a sweet, uncluttered love story. Outlets praised how the couple’s push‑and‑pull feels playful rather than punishing, even as some wished for deeper world‑building around the secondary cast—an admitted trade‑off for its laser focus on romance.
The fandom conversation often circles back to those “legendary” kisses, and not just for heat—they’re carefully choreographed moments of consent and vulnerability. Jun So‑min has acknowledged the enduring popularity of the scenes, which amassed millions of views on YouTube, proof that tenderness travels well across borders and years.
Viewer word‑of‑mouth has been its strongest engine. Even years later, you’ll find fresh user reviews highlighting the show as a go‑to comfort watch, with many praising how convincingly the leads sell the evolution from bickering strangers to partners who actually listen. It’s the sort of drama people recommend when a friend asks, “What should I watch to feel better tonight?”
Awards weren’t its playground—2016’s trophy circuits largely celebrated high‑profile network hits like Descendants of the Sun and W, while this smaller cable rom‑com quietly built a devoted global following online. In hindsight, that trajectory feels right; it’s a love letter that audiences discovered together rather than a campaign built for red carpets.
Cast & Fun Facts
Ha Seok‑jin plays Lee Jae‑in, a third‑generation heir whose bark is far worse than his bite. He calibrates arrogance to hide insecurity, then lets kindness leak through in the smallest ways—a softened voice at her classroom door, a hand offered without fanfare. His performance turns a trope into a person: difficult, yes, but disarmingly earnest once he chooses to be brave.
In 2016 he was everywhere—leading Drinking Solo while headlining this remake—yet here he feels particularly at home. You can sense an actor relishing stillness: a micro‑smile at a cafeteria table, a gaze that warms by degrees instead of flipping like a switch. If you’re new to his work, this is the role that often makes viewers go looking for more.
Jeon So‑min is luminous as Kim Da‑hyun, the teacher whose common sense is her superpower. She meets bluster with boundaries, making the relationship feel like a negotiation between equals, not a fairy tale rescue. So‑min brings an everyday grace to Da‑hyun’s life outside romance—classroom scenes, family dinners—that makes falling in love feel like an extension of a steady, thoughtful woman.
Her off‑screen reflections add a sweet meta‑layer. She has openly discussed that “legendary” kiss, pointing to the little beats—hair tucked away, a laugh in the eyes—that make it feel authentic. Maybe that’s why Da‑hyun’s affection never looks staged; it looks lived‑in, the kind of love story you recognize in your own gestures when no one’s watching.
Joo Jin‑mo (1958) plays Chairman Lee Gyu‑chul, the grandfather who engineers the unlikely match. Rather than a crusty obstacle, he’s an instigator with a moral compass, nudging his grandson toward a fuller life while quietly mourning the years money can’t buy back. The series is kinder—and wiser—because he’s its anchor.
A veteran of film and television, Joo Jin‑mo has the gravitas to sell both stern patriarch and softhearted guardian. His résumé stretches from historical epics to contemporary thrillers, and you feel that history in the way he underplays emotion—one look across a dinner table says more than a monologue ever could.
Park Jin‑joo brightens every frame as Han Yoo‑kyung, Da‑hyun’s friend whose comedic timing is as precise as a drumbeat. She’s the confidante who steals scenes with one well‑placed quip, then surprises you with a gentler register when her friend needs more than a laugh. It’s a performance that rounds out the drama’s world with warmth.
If her face looks familiar, that’s because Park Jin‑joo has become a beloved supporting MVP across modern K‑dramas, from Jealousy Incarnate to Our Beloved Summer. Here, she threads that same needle—funny without undercutting feeling—reminding us that friends are the secret spice in every great romance.
Behind the camera, director Kang Cheol‑woo and writer‑novelist Hyun Go‑woon keep the series grounded in everyday tenderness. Their remake trims the story to its cleanest lines and trusts the leads to carry the weight, a choice that makes every confession feel intimate and every kiss feel earned rather than engineered.
Conclusion / Warm Reminders
If you’re searching for a drama that feels like being chosen—again and again—Something About 1% is an easy yes. Queue it up on your favorite video streaming service, settle in for 16 snackable episodes, and let two stubborn hearts learn how to listen. If you’re managing a tight subscription plan, this is the kind of show that rewards every minute you spend. And if you’ve ever felt that one small kindness could change everything, this romance will remind you why we keep believing in unexpected chances and love found through online streaming.
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