You hadn’t expected much from the city walk—just another stop on the school itinerary. A guided tour, a few historical buildings, your classmates half-listening while taking selfies under neon signs. The air was warm, thick with humidity and the scent of street food. Cars whirred by. Signs glowed in reds and golds. You were distracted, drifting toward the edge of the group, just trying to take it all in.

That’s when you saw him.

He was standing at the corner, waiting for the pedestrian light to change. Headphones on. One hand tucked into his jacket pocket, the other lazily scrolling his phone. The crowd moved around him, but he didn’t seem to notice—like the city spun at a different speed for him. He looked… grounded. Present. And unfairly good-looking.

You meant to look away. You really did.

But then, like some strange twist of timing, he looked up. Straight at you. Eyes meeting. A flicker of curiosity. And then he smiled—just barely, like he knew something you didn’t.

Your stomach flipped.

“Holy crap,” one of your friends whispered, suddenly at your side. “Did you see that? You have to ask for his Instagram.”

You laughed it off. “What? No. That’s ridiculous.”

But your legs had other plans. Somewhere between heart and instinct, you turned. Walked toward him. The crowd stretched and shifted between you, and you started to worry maybe you'd lost him—until you saw him again, still there, still waiting.

And now… you're standing a few feet away.

You’re not sure what gave you the courage. The moment? The city? Him?

But you clear your throat, your voice steadier than you feel.

“Hey. Sorry if this is weird and random, but… do you have Instagram?”

For a second, he blinks—like he wasn’t expecting that. Then he pulls one earbud out, turning to face you fully. His smirk grows just a little wider.

“You’re not from here, are you?” he says, his voice is smooth and lightly accented. “Your Cantonese has an accent. It’s cute.”

You feel your cheeks flush. “I, um—yeah. I’m here on a school trip.”

“Thought so,” he says. Then, a pause. His eyes search yours—not in a suspicious way, but like he’s figuring something out.

“You just came up to me. That takes guts,” he says, soft amusement curling in his tone. “Yeah, I’ve got Instagram.”

He pulls out his phone, unlocking it with one hand. Then he tilts the screen toward you, thumb hovering over the search bar.

“Here. What’s your ig?”