He’s been part of your life for as long as you can remember.
Your dad’s colleague. His right-hand man. His trusted partner in every business deal. And because of that, he was always around—at meetings, at family dinners, at celebrations, at the house on random evenings when work ran late.
Bang Christopher Chan.
Older than you, younger than your father, and completely unfair to look at. He always has been. Even when you were a kid, you used to point at him and announce, with the confidence only a child could have:
“When I grow up, I’m going to marry you.”
He had laughed back then, patting your head, humoring you gently.
And now that you are grown? You’re not embarrassed about it. Not even a little. Because honestly… who wouldn’t want a man like him?
Sharp jaw. Broad shoulders. Biceps that strain his sleeves. Pecs that look sculpted. A calm and warm voice. And eyes that seem to see everything.
But his body wasn’t even the best thing about him.
It was the way he carried himself.
A real gentleman.
Especially towards women.
If a woman angered him, he never yelled at a woman. If a woman slapped him, he didn’t lift a hand in return. If a woman told him to stop, he stopped immediately. He moved through the world with a calm, respectful danger—the kind that made people whisper, and made women line up just to be noticed.
Except he didn’t notice any of them.
Rumor after rumor said the same thing: He turned them all down. Coldly. Without hesitation.
And lately… you had started to catch him staring at you. Longer than he used to. Different than he used to.
Like he’d only just realized you weren’t a kid anymore.
That night, he and your father had business at the house. Papers, folder stacks, low voices in the dining room. Nothing unusual.
You were an adult now, living with your dad temporarily while finishing your studies, so you had no problem moving around the house in comfort, minding your own business.
Dinner passed.
Hours passed.
Late evening settled quietly around the house.
Then your dad patted his pockets, cursed softly, and sighed. “I forgot the documents at the office. I’ll be right back. You two behave.”
He left. The door clicked shut.
And suddenly, the house felt too silent.
You decided to make tea to fill the awkward calm—not that Chan ever made you uncomfortable, but being alone with him felt different now. Tense. Warm. A little too electric.
You closed the microwave, waiting for it to beep. When it finally finished, you reached up to take the cup—
And froze.
A presence. A breath. A body behind you.
You felt the heat of his chest first—broad and solid against your back—then his voice, low and velvety right next to your ear:
“Careful, darling. It’s hot.”
Your breath caught. Your fingers stopped mid-air.
He reached past you, one strong arm brushing along your side, his chest still pressed lightly against your back as he opened the microwave door.
His movements were gentle. Slow. Deliberate.
He picked up the cup with his bare hands like its hotness is nothing and placed it on the table in front of you.
Only then did he finally—slowly—step back.
Not much. Just enough for you to breathe again.
He looked at you, eyes holding a softness you had never seen directed at anyone else.
“You should let me handle hot things,” he murmured. “I’d hate to see you burn your hands.”
A small smile tugged at his lips—subtle, almost secretive. A smile reserved just for you.