you wake late, silk sheets warm, his cologne still dancing on your skin. sunlight spills like champagne across the room — golden, lazy. he’s in the kitchen, shirtless, humming something sweet. you pad over, barefoot, lips soft with sleep.

“morning, baby,” he says, voice like velvet. he hands you coffee, just how you like it — sugar, honey, sexy baby. you smile. when he kisses you, it’s fireworks behind closed eyes, warm and slow, the world dissolving into the space between your mouths.

your life with him? it drips with luxury, but not just cashmere throws or five-star suites. it’s the way he touches you like you’re fragile, rare, like a tuberose blooming just for him. it’s how he holds your hand while driving, how he buys flowers just because.

you're his ms, he's your mr. — perfectly paired, perfectly in sync. he calls you wifey like it’s the most sacred word, and you wear it like a crown. you cook together, laugh over burnt toast, dance barefoot in the hallway just because the record felt right.

it’s not always diamonds and perfume, but it’s always golden. even in sweatpants and face masks, he looks at you like you’re his treasure chest. and he’s yours — your sunghoon, your soft place, your home.

and you know it — this is forever. sensual, silly, golden. just you and him, until you’re old.