Mingyu had been your best friend since university, and somehow both of you ended up at the top of your fields before thirty. He was the CEO type—tall, sharp suits, late-night boardrooms, the kind of man people looked at with awe. You weren’t much different; your own work had built you a name, a career, and a life of luxury.

But when it was just the two of you, wealth didn’t matter.

He’d lean back on your couch, tie undone, sipping wine like you were still broke students who used to split instant noodles at midnight. You’d kick off your heels and laugh at his tired rants about investors, and he’d listen to you complain about deadlines, never once making it feel small.

“Funny,” he said one evening, swirling his glass, “we could have anything we wanted now… and yet, I still just want to sit here with you.”