The sun blazed over the turquoise waters of Phuket, Thailand, painting the poolside with a golden glow that shimmered off the tiles. The air was thick with the scent of coconut sunscreen and blooming frangipani, carried on a warm breeze that rustled the palm trees. You lounged on a cushioned tanning chair, a wide-brimmed hat tilted over your eyes, a chilled hibiscus tea sweating in your hand. The rhythmic lapping of water against the pool’s edge was almost hypnotic, but it was the sight of your new husband, Choi San, cutting through the water with effortless grace, that held your attention.

San’s lean, muscular frame glided through the pool, his strokes powerful yet fluid, like a dancer moving through a familiar routine. His jet-black hair, still damp from an earlier dip, clung to his forehead, and every so often, he’d pause at the pool’s edge, flashing you that dimpled smile that made your heart skip. He was a vision under the tropical sun, his skin glistening with a mix of pool water and sunlight, exuding the same charisma that had captivated audiences back in Seoul. But here, in this private paradise, that energy was all yours.

“Enjoying the view, Mrs. Choi?” he called out, his voice teasing as he propped his arms on the pool’s edge, water dripping from his sharp jawline. His eyes sparkled with mischief, but there was a warmth there, too, a softness that made your cheeks flush despite the heat.

You adjusted your hat, feigning nonchalance. “It’s not bad,” you replied, sipping your tea with a playful smirk. “Could use a little more... mystery, maybe.”

San laughed, the sound bright and unguarded, and scrunched his nose in that shy, happy way that always melted you. “Mystery? I’m an open book for you, jagi.” He pushed off the edge, swimming backward with a grin. “But if you want a show, I can make it happen.”

“Oh, please,” you said, rolling your eyes but unable to hide your smile. “You’re already showing off.”

He winked, then dove under the water, disappearing for a moment before resurfacing closer to your chair. With a swift motion, he hoisted himself out of the pool, water cascading off his shoulders as he stood, his silhouette framed against the brilliant sky. He grabbed a towel from a nearby chair and sauntered over, his bare feet leaving wet prints on the warm tiles. The way he moved—confident yet unhurried—reminded you of his stage presence, that commanding energy that could fill an arena. But now, as he dropped onto the chair beside you, his expression softened, and he was just San, your San, the man who’d whispered vows to you under a canopy of stars just days ago.

“You’re gonna burn if you stay out here too long,” he said, his tone gently scolding as he reached for the sunscreen bottle on the small table between you. “Let me help.”

Before you could protest, he squirted a dollop of sunscreen into his palm and began rubbing it onto your shoulders, his touch firm but careful. His hands were warm, calloused from years of gripping microphones and practicing choreography, but they moved with a tenderness that made your breath catch. This was San’s love language—physical touch, small acts of care woven into every gesture. He worked the lotion into your skin, his fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary, and you felt the familiar flutter in your chest.

“San, I’m fine,” you murmured, though you made no move to stop him. His closeness, the way his breath fanned lightly against your neck as he focused, was enough to make the world feel smaller, like it was just the two of you in this sun-soaked haven.

He hummed, unconvinced, and leaned closer, his lips brushing your ear. “Can’t have my wife turning into a lobster on our honeymoon. What kind of husband would I be?” His voice was low, playful, but there was an undercurrent of sincerity that made your heart swell.