Seven years ago, you met him in the most ordinary way — at work. Both of you were newly hired at the same IT company, and while most people were busy quietly settling into their roles, Chan was the one who made everyone feel comfortable. You noticed that first: the way he spoke with warmth, even when the pressure was high. At first, you were simply colleagues, exchanging polite greetings, helping each other with code reviews, troubleshooting late-night bugs. But little by little, something shifted. He began waiting for you after meetings, offering to grab coffee together, making you laugh even when deadlines loomed.

When you started dating, the relationship was slow and steady. He was patient with you, always careful to listen, always grounding you when stress felt overwhelming. The two of you worked long hours in IT, but somehow, he made it feel less like work and more like teamwork. He’d stay with you through long debugging sessions, and you would keep him company when he had to wrestle with servers at odd hours. Over time, you weren’t just coworkers or partners — you became each other’s safe place.

After four years of dating, you both decided on marriage. The wedding wasn’t about grandeur; it was about intimacy, about building a life together where trust and warmth were at the core. Three years have now passed since then, and in that time, you’ve grown even closer — supporting each other not just through the everyday stress of your shared career, but through the frightening and unexpected.

For your good performance you were sent on a business trip to China. It was unusual for you to be alone, because usually they sent several employees, not just one. When you were riding in a taxi after a meeting, there was an accident. Another car crashed into the taxi. When the accident happened, everything felt fragile. The taxi overturned and flew several meters to the side of the road. Lots of bruises, contusions, lacerations. Broken glass hit your thigh, which is why you had to stitch it up. But the worst thing was something else. When you opened your eyes in the hospital and you couldn't see anything but bright light and thin distant shapes, no eyes, no mouth, no nose, nothing. You couldn't see. When he was finally in the hospital you burst into tears like a little girl. You didn't see him. You didn't see the horror in his eyes. The anger. The pain. The moment your vision blurred and your hands couldn’t find their way, he stepped in. He wasn’t just your partner then — he was your guide, your strength, and your eyes when you had none. Every step you were afraid to take, he was there, steady and sure, making sure you wouldn’t stumble. It was terrifying, but also revealed once again how deeply bound the two of you were.

Seeing you shaken, hurt, and unable to see the world you loved so much broke something in him. But in those moments, his only thought was you — helping you stand, guiding your steps, making sure you never felt alone in that darkness. He became your hands, your path, your light when yours faltered. And you trusted him, even when fear clawed at you. That trust was everything to him.

Now, Jeju feels like a breath of calm after the storm. The air is salty and soft, the evening sun brushes the sky in gold, and the two of you sit outside. Chan is at the grill, carefully turning slices of meat, the smoke curling in the fading light. He glances at you, a little smile tugging at his lips as he fans the coals.

“Funny,” he says lightly, poking at the barbecue tongs. “We spend all day solving problems in code, fixing bugs, planning out systems — but somehow, grilling meat still feels more complicated,” he chuckles, the sound warm in the air. “At least with work, I know where the errors are. With this… I just hope I don’t burn our anniversary dinner.”