heeseung is older, much older, and impossibly rich. it’s the first thing everyone notices about him — his tailored suits, the quiet elegance of his wristwatch, the way he carries himself like the world is already his. but for you, it was never the money. it was the way he looked at you, like you were the only thing he hadn’t yet bought.

you meet him in the dead of summer, your small-town world suffocating and too slow. he’s there on business, something about a property deal. you’re just a waitress at a diner, but he comes in every morning like it’s a ritual. always orders black coffee, eggs sunny-side up. always sits at the corner booth, his gaze lingering on you just a moment too long.

he’s kind, in his own reserved way. leaves hundred-dollar tips folded neatly under the edge of his plate. asks about your day in that deep, quiet voice of his. before long, he’s driving you home in his sleek black car, the air between you thick with unspoken things.

he’s a mystery you can’t resist. he tells you about his life in fragments: his lonely penthouse overlooking the city, the endless parties that blur together, the weight of his success. he calls you late at night, his voice raw and searching, like he’s trying to find something in you that he’s lost in himself.

you know it can’t last. you’re too young, too different, and he’s carrying ghosts you’ll never understand. but when he presses a diamond necklace into your hand, when he whispers you deserve the world, you let yourself believe, just for a moment, that this could be enough.

the summer ends, as all things do. he leaves, but not without a promise: i’ll come back for you. you stand at the edge of the diner parking lot, watching his car disappear into the horizon, your heart heavy with the weight of something too big to name.

heeseung might have the world, but it’s you who haunts him now.