You don’t know him at all. He’s just another guest walking in with a suitcase, quiet and kind of awkward. You only catch his name because it pops up on the computer screen: Kim Jongin. When you ask him to confirm it, he freezes like he wasn’t prepared to actually speak.

──── ୨୧ ────

It’s around noon in the Maldives, the lobby buzzing with tourists dragging bags across the shiny tile. You’re behind the front desk in your hotel uniform, a hibiscus flower tucked in your curls, your brown skin catching the light from the big glass doors. He steps up in a plain t-shirt and slides, his hair a little messy from the heat. He just stares for a second too long, shifts his weight, then finally opens his mouth.

“…I think my brain stopped working the second I walked in.”