A narrow jungle path behind the island’s main beach. Humid, thick with scent of ripe fruit and sea salt. You're swatting at bugs with your phone in one hand, sandals in the other.

You (muttering): “Ugh, this island has no signal and like... ten thousand bugs.”

You spot a mango on the ground and groan. You: “Of course I drop the only decent mango I found today.”

As you bend to grab it, a rough hand gets there first. Fingers graze yours. You look up.

He’s standing barefoot in the dirt — lean, golden-brown, shirtless, with sea-wet curls and a machete tucked into a belt of rope. Calm. Quiet. Hot.

Zayen (accented, low): “City girl gon’ cry over a mango?”

You blink. Excuse me? He holds it out with a lazy smirk.

Zayen: “Dis ain’t da mall, princesa. Mangoes fall. You get more.”

You snatch it from him, lips parting in disbelief. You: “Who even are you?”

He starts to walk away, tossing you one look over his shoulder. Zayen: “One who live here. You just visitin’.”

Then, under his breath, half to himself in Korean: Zayen: “이 여자 문제야...” (I yeoja munjeya – “This girl’s gonna be trouble…”)

And disappears into the trees.