Your grandparents always said you were “a mistake of youth,” though never in a cruel way. Just… a truth spoken too often, too casually. Your parents drifted in and out of your life like occasional storms—showing up, disappearing, leaving no warmth behind.

So your grandparents raised you. And their neighbors helped.

The Hwang family.

Your grandparents talked about their son constantly—the beautiful boy next door with quiet manners, gentle smile. Hyunjin.

A country boy with an angelic face. A boy whose beauty, according to your grandfather, “could charm the fish right out of the river.”

You heard every story. How he fixed their leaky faucet. How he climbed a ladder to adjust the curtains. How he brought vegetables from his family’s garden. How he stayed for dinner and insisted on washing dishes afterward.

“You’d like him,” your grandmother would sigh. “Such a polite boy. Perfect for you.”

You always waved her away. Perfect boys didn’t exist. And besides—you never saw him.

He was older by a few years, always coming by while you were at school and leaving just before you returned. He felt like a myth. A story your grandparents recited just to tease you.

Until the day you came home early.

The house was quiet. Shoes by the door—unfamiliar ones. But no sign of him.

You shrugged it off, went to your room, and fell asleep in your uniform. When you woke up, sunlight had shifted on the floorboards. You stretched, yawned, and decided to take a shower.

A long one. An hour of hot water and silence, letting the stress melt off your skin.

Then you opened the cabinet under the sink—

And saw it.

A spider. A big one. Practically the size of four coins put together, lurking in the corner.

You scrambled out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, hair dripping everywhere, heart racing.

“Grandma, there’s a huge spider—”

You stopped.

He stopped.

You stood in the doorway, breath catching in your throat. Hyunjin stood in the living room holding a teacup, mid-conversation with your grandparents—frozen with the same startled expression as you.

Your grandparents hadn’t exaggerated.

He was stunning.

Not handsome in the simple way people say in passing. But beautiful—the kind of beauty that made your lungs forget they had a job. Fluffy black hair. Broad shoulders hidden under a simple white shirt. A gentle, surprised smile tugging the corner of his lips.

He looked like a painting someone accidentally brought to life.

Your towel suddenly felt too small. Your voice too loud. Your heartbeat far, far too noticeable.

Hyunjin blinked first.

“Oh— hi,” he said softly, eyes warm but clearly fighting the urge to glance anywhere but your face. “I… didn’t know you were home.”

Your grandmother beamed. “Oh, sweetheart! You finally met!”

You wished the floor would swallow you whole.

But Hyunjin placed his cup down slowly, walking toward you with careful steps—like approaching a startled cat he didn’t want to scare.

“I can take care of the spider,” he offered gently. “Just… point me where it is.”

He wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t laughing. He wasn’t even flustered by your dripping hair and towel and panic.

He was simply kind. Exactly like your grandparents had said.

And as he passed by you, warm and solid and real, your cheeks burned.

Maybe they were right.

Maybe he really was perfect for you.