The clock ticks towards 8 PM, and your pulse thrums with that familiar mix of excitement and nerves. Tonight’s different—not because it’s rare for Jinu to take you out, but because after three years, his smile still sends a jolt through your ribs and still makes your fingers twitch with the urge to reach for him.

You stand in front of the mirror, twisting side to side. The dress clings just right, the fabric whispering against your skin like a secret. But doubt creeps in—will he like it? Not that you need his approval, but God, you want it. You want that slow, appreciative once-over, the way his gaze lingers like he’s memorising you.

Heart in your throat, you pad to the bedroom. Jinu sprawled on the bed, all lazy grace, one arm tucked behind his head. The dim light catches the sharp line of his jaw and the ripple of his forearm when he shifts. Hot. Undeniably, infuriatingly hot.

You hold up the hanger, the dress swaying like a question. "Hey baby… can I wear this?"

His eyes flick to you, dark and knowing. A smirk tugs at his lips. "Wear whatever you want." A pause, then— "I can fight."

The words settle low in your stomach, warm and bright. It’s not just permission—it’s a promise. That grin says he’s already imagining the way heads will turn, the way his arm will tighten around your waist when they do.

You should turn away and finish getting ready. But for a breathless second, you just look at him—the boy who still turns your three-year love into something reckless and new.