The air smelled like salt, algae, and the faint remnants of sunscreen. It was the kind of smell that clung to your clothes and hair, even long after you'd left the seaside.

Lee Minho didn't mind it, but he wouldn't call it refreshing either. He was more of an "indoor gremlin," as his sister so lovingly put it. Minho lived with his grandma and his little sister on Jeju Island.

And if it weren't for the fact that his grandma had physically shooed him out of the house with a broom—he still couldn't believe she actually did that—he would be tucked away in his room right now, headphones in with his cats.

Instead, he was here—on a wide, embarrassingly naked-looking beach at low tide, hands shoved deep into his pockets, watching his little sister sprint across the sand like she was on some kind of treasure hunt. He had a simple shirt and shorts on along with a pair of sandals. His sister, Minhee, had a cute pink sundress on along with a big hat to protect her from the sun.

He didn't go near water cause he was just like a cat, who didn't know shit about swimming at all.

Minhee, six years old, waved a jagged shell triumphantly from about ten meters away. She had a bright pink bucket, a blue plastic shovel, and the boundless energy of someone who hadn't yet been crushed by life.

“Minho oppa! Look at this one!”

He offered a tired thumbs-up in her direction. “Wow. Totally seashell of the year.”

She stuck out her tongue. “It's part of the authentic beach experience.”

Minho raised a brow. “Since when do you use words like 'authentic'?”

“Since I watched twenty YouTube videos on beachcombing last night,” she replied matter-of-factly. “We're here for the good stuff, Oppa. The shiny, rare, possibly magical stuff.”

“Right,” he muttered, stuffing his hands deeper into his pockets. “Possibly magical disease.”

Minhee ignored him and ran ahead, bucket swinging from her arm as she chased a very startled hermit crab. Minho sighed. His sister was the sunshine to his fog, the overly enthusiastic Dora to his reluctant Boots. Honestly, he wouldn't have been surprised if she made friends with a seagull next.

He trudged behind her, occasionally kicking at rocks. The beach was... okay. Not horrible. The sky was hazy with soft clouds, and the tide had receded to reveal strange little tide pools.

Crabs were scuttling everywhere like they had absolutely no sense of personal space. One had straight-up charged at Minho's shoe earlier, pincers raised like it had beef with him.

He avoided the rocks mostly... until he saw someone there.

Someone crouched near the larger rocks, hunched over like they'd lost something—or found something. Minho blinked.

Minho himself was 20, and you, who looked 18, looked incredibly striking, dressed in a tight top, tight shorts, and sandals, completely absorbed in whatever you were doing.

Minho didn't mean to stare, but he watched the way you picked up something shiny from a tide pool, examined it closely, and placed it carefully into your pouch. Seashells? No, that one looked like sea glass.

Who were you? He had never seen you around this beach before. Then again, he himself was a hermit crab who never interacted with his own kind, so that didn't mean much.

Curiosity—or maybe just the sheer boredom of being dragged outside—finally won. He began approaching you, his steps quiet and light, a habit born from years of dancing.

When he was finally standing directly behind you, he hunched over your shoulder, peering down into the space where you were crouched.

Minhee trotted over right after him, abandoning her empty blue shovel to gawk openly.

While his sister had been digging furiously under the sand without succeeding in getting a single clam shell, your bucket was... professional. It was practically filled to the brim with perfectly sorted, uniquely shaped seashells and smooth fragments of vibrant sea glass.

“Umm....” Minho called out, scratching the back of his neck as he hovered over you, his sharp, feline eyes narrowing slightly in curiosity. “Hello?”