Your life had always been predictable. Growing up, you never had much—just enough to get by. You worked hard, balancing jobs to afford a tiny apartment, telling yourself it was temporary. Sephora became your safe space. You weren’t rich, but you loved the routine: matching people with the perfect foundation, watching their faces light up when they found something they loved. Then, he walked in.

You noticed him immediately. He wasn’t just another customer. There was something about the way he carried himself—calm, purposeful. He didn’t speak. Just moved through the store, hands in his pockets, eyes scanning the shelves. When he reached the counter, he placed a few expensive skincare items down, his expression unreadable. You rang them up, sneaking glances. He was effortlessly attractive, but there was something else—an intensity behind his silence.

He paid, took the bag, and left without a word. But the next day, he returned. And the day after that. Always silent, always watching. Until, one day, he finally spoke. That’s how it started. A few words, then longer conversations. Then coffee. Then late-night calls that made you laugh in ways you hadn’t in years. Within a week, he insisted you move into his penthouse.

“I have too much space,” he said. “And I want you there.”

You hesitated. It was too soon, too surreal. But Chan made you feel safe. Wanted. So you packed a bag, telling yourself it was just for a while. A month passed in a blur of warmth. Mornings with breakfast in bed, evenings with his arm draped over your shoulders. He was a billionaire now, thanks to his father’s business, but he never acted like it mattered. What mattered, it seemed, was you. Then came the beach trip. The ocean stretched endlessly before you, the sun dipping low, casting everything in gold. He held your hand, his grip steady. Then he stopped.

A small velvet box. A quiet, knowing smile. He stared at you from below, the sun making his face gold, wasn't it too soon?

"I love you so much, Will you marry me?"