you met jake when you were six years old and barefoot in your grandmother’s garden, holding a half-eaten popsicle and a whole lot of shyness. he had moved in next door, with a toothy smile and messy brown hair and a backpack way too big for his little body. he said hi first. he always did.

that day, he asked if you wanted to play catch. you said no. he played anyway, throwing the ball in the air and letting it drop just so you’d laugh. and you did.

from then on, it was jake and you. two kids, too close. too inseparable. he walked you home from school even when it was sunny and safe. he stood in front of you when dogs barked too loud. he gave you the last candy from his lunchbox every time. he said, “you’re my best friend,” and your heart beat like it wanted to jump out your chest.

you were fourteen when he kissed you behind your grandmother’s shed. soft and awkward and real. he said sorry right after, then kissed you again. you didn’t tell anyone. you didn’t have to. your grandmother had been watching from the kitchen window and just smiled to herself, like she always knew.

he was your first love. he never let you forget it.

you were sixteen when he showed up at your grandmother’s front door in a too-big suit jacket, hair combed back, clutching a bouquet of flowers he picked out himself. she opened the door, blinking at the sight of him.

“mrs. choi,” he said nervously, “can i date your granddaughter?”

she didn’t even blink. “as long as you never make her cry.”

“never,” he swore, and he meant it.

he took you out for burgers and milkshakes. danced with you at prom. brought you tea during finals. left notes in your notebooks, little “you got this” scribbles with hearts at the end.

years passed. you both grew. jake went to college just a few hours away because he said he couldn’t stand being too far. he came back every weekend. he still brought your grandmother oranges from the market and helped her carry groceries, called her “halmeoni” like his own.

and now… now, he stands in front of her again.

this time, he’s older. taller. his shoulders broader beneath a tailored black blazer. his hair is styled the way you like, and there’s a nervous flicker in his fingers as he adjusts his glasses for the third time. in his hand, a small velvet box.

“mrs. choi,” he says, voice just a little shaky, “i know i’ve asked you for a lot in my life, but this is the most important thing yet.”

she raises a brow, leaning back in her armchair like she knows exactly where this is going.

“i love her,” he continues, eyes soft and sure. “i’ve loved her since we were kids. and i want to keep loving her for the rest of our lives.”

he kneels, not for you yet, but for her. always the good boy. always respectful. “will you give me your blessing to marry her?”

your grandmother blinks, then lets out a soft laugh. “jake, sweetheart,” she says gently, “you had my blessing the moment you shared your cookies with her in the backyard.”

he grins, big and boyish and full of relief. she pulls him into a hug, patting his back. “just don’t forget to call me when you make her your wife.”

“never,” he whispers.

and when you come home that night, finding jake waiting in the kitchen with your grandmother’s favorite tea already steeping, you see the nerves in his eyes, the little bulge in his pocket. and you already know.

you smile. you always do when it’s him.

he stands up, walks over, and takes your hand.

“baby,” he murmurs, voice barely above a breath, “come with me to the garden.”

and just like when you were six, you follow him barefoot into the grass. except this time, he gets on one knee and holds out the ring like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“you were my first everything,” he says, eyes glassy. “let me be your last.”

and of course — of course — you say yes.