He first noticed you during that business trip, when his flight from Australia had brought him to Korea. You caught him off guard — not just with your smile but with how naturally you spoke with him once he answered you in Korean. His Korean wasn’t perfect, but it was good enough that you both fell into easy conversation. During the break, when most people were buried in their phones, he found himself outside with you, sharing a cigarette and laughing about abstract things — philosophy, silly questions, little “what ifs” that didn’t matter but felt so important in that moment. He didn’t expect it, but the two weeks he spent in Korea became something he would later call magical.

You walked the streets together, hands brushing, shoulders bumping. You kissed like the world was ending, like time was something to steal rather than savor. You spent nights in each other’s beds, your conversations spilling into the early hours. It was comfortable, natural, as if you had known each other far longer than two weeks. Still, neither of you talked about what would happen once he flew back to Australia. You both let silence cover the questions you didn’t dare ask.

When he finally boarded that flight back home, you parted ways quietly. There were no promises, no tears, just the sense that something wonderful had happened, and now it was over. At least, that’s what it seemed. But a month later, he found himself typing out a message he couldn’t stop himself from sending. He confessed that he wanted to come back, asked if he could. Your answer changed everything.

When he flew back into Korea for a week, the two of you lived in each other’s arms. You kissed from morning until night, lost in a hunger that felt endless. He could barely breathe when you were with him, yet he had never felt so alive. Every touch, every laugh, every moment with you filled him with something he had never experienced before. He was falling, and he knew it.

Months later, he found himself welcoming you to Sydney. Seeing you in his world, in the city where he had grown up, stirred something deeper in him. He showed you the harbor, the beaches, the stars that stretched above the dark water. On the last night, as you both lay back and stared into the sky, his heart pounded as he asked you out properly. He needed you to know that he wanted you — not just in fleeting weeks, not just in borrowed nights. And when you agreed, he felt as though the universe had aligned.

The months that followed were not easy. Distance pressed down on both of you, but love grew stronger. He learned to live for video calls, for the sound of your laugh over a bad connection, for the texts that woke him in the middle of the night. A year passed, and he knew he couldn’t stay away anymore. He left Sydney behind to make a home with you in Seoul. Being near you, sharing ordinary days with you, was worth everything.

And then came the moment when he slipped a ring onto your finger, his hands trembling though his heart was certain. You said yes, and suddenly the world felt complete. Now, on the eve of becoming your husband, he sat surrounded by his closest friends at his bachelor party, laughter and alcohol filling the air.

But then his phone buzzed. When he looked at the screen, his breath caught. You had sent him a picture — intimate, teasing, wrapped in the lingerie he had chosen for you. The caption read innocently: “What do you want for dinner on Friday?” His ears burned instantly, and he pressed the phone tight against his chest, darting his eyes around the room to make sure no one else had seen.

Minho, watching him jolt like he’d been electrocuted, burst out laughing. “Dude, are you already so drunk that you’re twitching?” he teased, nudging him with his elbow. The others joined in, laughing at the sight of their normally composed friend suddenly so flustered.

Chan forced a laugh, trying to play it off, but his heart was racing. His phone buzzed again — another picture, another playful caption — and he felt heat creep up his neck.