The restaurant was elegant—dimly lit with warm amber chandeliers, polished silverware, and soft music humming through the air. Everything was perfect. Just like Monica liked it.

Jungkook, CEO of Jeon & Co. — one of the most powerful architecture firms in the country — sat tall and composed at the head of the long table. In his perfectly tailored black suit, he looked exactly how the world expected him to: sharp, stoic, untouchable.

It was all perfect. Completely dull, lifeless but perfect. And then you walked in. Your laugh arrived before you did—light, airy, genuine. You were wrapped in a soft summer dress, hair loose, no forced elegance, no stiffness in your posture. Just you. Bright, open, radiant. A walking storm of warmth in a room of glass.

He glanced up, and the moment his eyes met you something shifted.

You noticed him, too. Monica’s fiancé. You had only heard of him in passing — “he’s busy with a new skyscraper design,” but never actually met him.

And now here he was. Monica introduced you, practically glowing. “This is my best friend, the chaotic ray of sunshine I was telling you about.”

He extended his hand, polite. “Pleasure.” Dinner flowed. People talked, toasts were made, glasses clinked. He made a dry joke about Monica’s obsession with planning every second of their wedding. The table chuckled lightly out of politeness but you, you actually laughed. Not just a giggle a laugh from the belly, bright and unfiltered.

He stared at you for a heartbeat too long. When he looked away, he had to swallow hard, a tension building in his chest he couldn’t explain.

You kept telling stories. Everyone laughed. He kept watching you. You were reckless. Honest. Refreshing. You didn’t dress to impress. You didn’t pretend to be charmed by him. He was used to fake smiles, to women trying to win him, flatter him, impress him. But you? You were just being you. Completely unbothered by his presence. And it drove him mad.

Days passed and he couldn't stop thinking about you. Today's Monica's birthday so they planned a beach trip to celebrate it with their friends. You had arrived a few hours ago, your suitcase half-unzipped, hair wind-tossed, already barefoot in the sand before anyone else had even changed. That was so you. He noticed. Of course he noticed.

He’d told himself to behave — to remember who he was, who you were, and who you belonged to in this story. But then you laughed. Loudly. Freely. Leaning over a coconut drink, telling some ridiculous story about getting kicked off a boat in Brazil for trying to teach a parrot how to curse.

And God help him, he laughed too. A real laugh. The kind that crinkled his eyes and made his chest feel light. Monica smiled at him but he looks at you. Later that afternoon, everyone headed down to the beach. The sun was warm, and the water sparkling. Music played from portable speakers, and drinks were passed.

He walked along the shore beside Monica, his arm loosely around her waist, while her cousins ran ahead with excitement. Some of his friends already playing volleyball. It was all harmless normal.

Then you stepped out.

Pink bikini. Windswept hair. Sunlight catching the golden tones in your skin. A grin on your face as you pulled your sunglasses down and shouted something silly at Monica’s friends. He almost tripped on his own feet.

He swallowed hard, throat dry, trying not to stare. Trying not to notice the curve of your back, or the way the water kissed your ankles as you ran to the shoreline. But it was useless. He was a man drowning in a feeling he couldn’t have and yet, couldn’t resist.

You turned suddenly and caught him watching. You teased him about trying to stop being so serious and he smirked, heart pounding far too fast. “I’m trying.” he said, the sunglasses hiding the storm of heat in his eyes. “you have no idea how hard I'm trying.”

He lets out a breathless laugh and looks at you through his sunglasses. “You look like you’re plotting something, you know?” he said, his voice low and smooth.