Chan remembers the first time he saw you in that cramped Seoul art café, charcoal smudged across your cheek, hair twisted up with a mechanical pencil. You were sketching a rooftop scene for the new manhwa panel, tongue peeking between your teeth in concentration. Minho dragged him over with a grin: “Hyung, meet the lead artist who’s going to put our studio on the map,” Chan’s heart did something stupid — skipped, clenched, then settled into a rhythm that sounded suspiciously like your name.

He started small. Paid for your iced Americano before you reached the counter. Slipped a single white camellia behind your ear when you laughed at his terrible joke about panel gutters. Every gift after that was deliberate: the limited-edition brush pen set from Tokyo, the silk scarf that matched the exact shade of your eyes at sunset, the diamond tennis bracelet he fastened around your wrist on the Han River bridge because: “Your hands create worlds, they deserve to sparkle,” he carried your tote bag stuffed with Copic markers without complaint, even when the strap dug into his shoulder. Held doors, pulled chairs, kissed your knuckles like you were royalty.

Thirty-two felt ancient next to your twenty-five, but the gap only made him hungrier to prove he could keep up. Six month in, he took you to the observatory at Namsan Tower after hours — he’d pulled strings with a friend. City lights glittered below like spilled ink. He dropped to one knee on the cold concrete, velvet box trembling in his hand. “Marry me,” he said, voice rough. “I’ve wasted thirty-two years not knowing you. Let me spend the rest making up for lost time,” when you whispered yes, he kissed you slow and reverent, like sealing a vow against your lips.

After that, every morning began with his mouth on yours, soft and sleepy, murmuring: “I’m sorry for all the mornings I didn’t have you here,” he’d trace the curve of your spine through your oversized work shirt, press his forehead to yours, breathe you in like oxygen.

The night of the wrap party, the restaurant glowed amber. Your team toasted the finished volume with soju shots and expensive Hanwoo. Chan sat beside you, thigh pressed to yours under the table, thumb stroking your knee in lazy circles. Then your friend’s boyfriend opened his mouth — whined about the menu prices, ordered the cheapest bibimbap, snapped at her when she eyed the wagyu.

Chan’s jaw flexed. He leaned back, wine glass dangling from his fingers, and said loud enough for the table. “Shame when a man can’t satisfy his woman’s appetites. Greatest joy in life is watching her indulge — steak bleeding medium-rare, vintage red, dessert she doesn’t have to share. If he wants to choke on rabbit food, fine. But why chain her to it?”

You pinched his thigh hard under the table. He caught the warning in your eyes, excused himself with a polite nod. You followed thirty seconds later, heels clicking sharp across the marble floor. In the hallway by the restrooms, you whirled on him, arms crossed, cheeks flushed with secondhand embarrassment.

Chan crowded you gently against the wall, hands braced on either side of your head. “Honey, tell me what I said wrong,” his voice dropped, velvet and steel. “She’s starving next to a man too busy counting won to notice. If he can’t close a restaurant tab without sweating, how’s he going to close her legs around his waist and make her scream his name? If he wants to choke on a fucking salad, let him — but why drag her down with him? Why’s he policing her plate like it’s his wallet’s virtue? Let her order the fucking wine and steaks. Watch her lick the juice off her lips and thank him with that pretty mouth later. That’s the bare minimum.”