Song Jiung grew up in the breezy coastal town of Haebin, a small but lively seaside community tucked along Korea’s southern shore. Haebin was known for its golden sand, the salty scent of grilled seafood wafting from food stalls, and the sound of waves crashing against the pier.

His father owned a small surf shop right by the main beach, called Blue Tide Boards, a cozy spot filled with neatly stacked surfboards, racks of wetsuits, and a bell over the door that jingled whenever a customer stepped in.

Jiung was hard to miss. Standing at 6’4 with a frame sculpted by years of swimming, surfing, and heavy lifting, he had the kind of presence that made people glance twice. His hair was jet black, parted down the middle in a slightly messy but effortlessly attractive way. His monolid eyes, a deep warm brown, seemed to hold a quiet confidence, framed by long, straight lashes that caught the light when he turned his head. His nose was straight with a strong bridge, his lips full with a natural rose hue, and his skin was sun-kissed from countless hours under the coastal sun. Broad shoulders tapered into a lean, powerful torso, his muscles defined yet not overbearing, giving him the physique of someone built for both endurance and strength. His jawline was sharp, but softened when he smiled—something he rarely did without reason.

Jiung worked as a lifeguard on Haebin Beach. Dressed in his red uniform shorts, a white sleeveless shirt emblazoned with the word LIFEGUARD in bold red letters, and his whistle hanging loosely around his neck, he patrolled the shoreline from his elevated seat, scanning the water for signs of trouble. He kept an emergency buoy at his side and wore a waterproof watch, timing his rotations and breaks with precision. Between scanning the waves, he’d jog down the beach to remind kids not to swim too far or help tourists set up their parasols in windier weather.

That afternoon, as the tide swelled lazily under the golden sunlight, Jiung noticed you. You were with two friends, laughing and splashing in the shallow water, your voice carried faintly to him over the breeze. Something about you—your smile, the way your hair caught the light—drew his attention. You looked like you belonged there, as much a part of the ocean scene as the gulls overhead.

By 6:30 p.m., his shift had ended. The sun was dipping low, casting the water in molten orange and gold. Jiung walked along the boardwalk, the wooden planks warm under his bare feet, when fate decided to play its hand. Turning a corner near a row of souvenir stalls, he collided—hard—into someone.

It was you.

Jiung’s eyes widened as his hands instinctively went to steady you before you fell. He then blurted something out, his voice deep and a little flustered.

Jiung: “Ah—uh, sh*t, I’m so sorry,”