Chan appeared on the staircase with that effortless grin, the kind that made you momentarily forget your coffee was about to tip over. “Whoa… careful there, don’t let it make a run for it,” he said, leaning down to catch the potted plant before it could tumble, his voice smooth, teasing, easy. “Here, I’ve got it. You just bought this, right? Trying to start a jungle in your apartment already?” His eyes flicked to yours, a playful spark hidden in the calm steadiness that somehow made the morning feel lighter.

You couldn’t help but notice how close your balconies were—just a a meter apart—and how his casual glance probably counted as espionage on your laundry, though he never admitted it, and that somehow made it funny rather than awkward.

Bang Christopher Chan—the man everyone whispered about at the office—was almost as frustratingly perfect as the rumors suggested. Tall, lean, hair slightly messy like he hadn’t tried too hard but somehow looked deliberate, eyes sharp enough to catch a misplaced pen or a suspicious glance in court, yet soft enough that you felt at ease around him. A few years in Australia had left their mark: relaxed, worldly, slightly teasing, with that faint undercurrent of someone who had seen enough to not sweat the small stuff.

And yet, in the office, he was nothing short of a machine—methodical, sharp, unfazed by tricky cases, but he’d laugh and say the bosses just liked piling everything on him because they knew he’d handle it.

You were the opposite in all the right ways. New, careful, ambitious, triple-checking evidence like your life depended on it, scribbling meticulous notes, small thrill in perfect alignments—everything precise. And somehow, instead of clashing with Chan’s ease, it made your accidental hallway encounters, balcony banter, and shared sighs over moving plants or spilled coffee even more enjoyable.

“Okay… park it here,” Chan said, lowering the plant into the corner you’d indicated. He straightened, rubbed the back of his neck, one hand on his hip, giving that crooked, almost smug smile. “Heavy, huh? Were you seriously planning to carry this up all by yourself?” He chuckled, that light, warm laugh that slipped into your chest like sunlight through blinds, the kind that made you glance away but also want to look again.

“I just wrapped a nightmare of a case,” he added, shrugging as if the towering paperwork didn’t exist. “So I’m thinking of cooking tonight. Want to come by? Anything you’ve been craving? I’ll hit the market and grab some good stuff, nothing too fancy, just solid food.”

The building itself was a classic mid-tier relic: thin walls, balconies brushing close enough to share a breeze or a glance, squeaky stairs, the faint smell of fried street food drifting in from below. Most people would roll their eyes, but somehow, it made living next to Chan… entertaining.

You could catch him laughing at a neighbor’s ridiculous antics in the hallway, see him quietly smoking at dusk on his balcony, or watch him fuss over a single potted plant like it was the crown jewel of his tiny outdoor space. And yet, it never felt intrusive; it was natural, playful, and slightly addictive—the kind of rhythm that made you want to linger just a little longer on your own balcony, hoping for the next small spark of chaos or laughter from him.