The fluorescent lights at Sephora always made everything glow — foundations lined up like paint swatches, serums shining like bottled glass skin. You had grown up between two worlds: your dad’s quiet, disciplined Asian upbringing and your mum’s easygoing Australian warmth. From one, you learned precision. From the other, confidence. From yourself, you built a love for beauty that felt almost sacred. Skincare wasn’t vanity. It was care. Control. Transformation. You had worked at Sephora in Sydney long enough to read customers instantly.

So when the bell chimed one rainy afternoon and a massive man stepped inside, your heart nearly stopped. Broad shoulders stretching a dark hoodie. Hood up indoors. Heavy boots against polished tiles. He looked like he could flip a display table without effort. For half a second, you were certain this was it — the robbery every retail worker quietly imagines. You stepped forward anyway, professional smile in place. Up close, he was even bigger. Then he spoke.

A thick Australian accent, low and rough. He asked for something that would make pimples disappear. Just like that. The fear dissolved into confusion. You guided him to acne treatments, explaining salicylic acid and spot gels with practiced calm. He listened carefully, almost seriously, like it mattered. When his fingers brushed yours taking the product, they were warm. Steady. He thanked you and left. But the store felt different afterward. He came back two months later.

No hood this time. Blonde hair. Freckles. Sharp features that softened his intimidating frame. He asked for you specifically. This time he lingered — asked what you personally used, what you recommended long term. Coffee followed. His name was Christopher. That was all you knew. He traveled often — especially to Korea. You teased him about having a secret life there once. He only smiled and said it was work. You didn’t question it. You didn’t know anything about K-pop or Korean entertainment anyway. You always thought he worked at some company. It wasn’t your world. Names and groups meant nothing to you beyond random clips online. Christopher trained constantly. Disappeared for weeks sometimes. But when he was with you, he was fully present. Protective in subtle ways. Always aware of his surroundings. Always guiding you gently through crowds.

Months later, rain tapped softly against your apartment windows as you lay tangled together in your bed. Your head rested on his chest, his arm heavy around your waist. You scrolled lazily through Instagram. Makeup. Skincare. Then a random edit appeared. Stray Kids. Stage lights. Screaming crowd. A blonde performer under blue lighting. You watched absently. Purely aesthetic. You didn’t even really know who they were. Christopher shifted slightly beneath you. He took your attention away from the edit.

Later, he got up to shower. Steam filled the bathroom. Water hitting tile. Then his phone buzzed on the bedside table. Once. Twice. Three times. You glanced over casually. Caller I.D.: Jeongin. The name meant nothing to you. The shower shut off. He stepped out, towel around his waist, glanced at the screen — and this time, he answered. He walked into the living room, voice low and controlled. You couldn’t hear the words. He spoke in Korean. Your mind filled in blanks anyway. Korea. Frequent travel. A name you didn’t know. When he returned, he wasn’t panicked. He was watching you. Carefully. You sat up slightly and asked if Jeongin was a girl. If he was cheating. The question sounded strange even to you. Christopher shook his head immediately. No. Jeongin was a boy. A friend. Simple. Steady. No hesitation.

He climbed back into bed beside you, pulling you down gently so your head rested against his chest again. His arms wrapped around you — protective, warm, firm. You listened to his heartbeat. It was steady.

“Don’t worry about anything, yeah?” You didn’t press further. The explanation was enough for you. Trust was everything in your relationship and you trusted him more then anything.