You were standing at the bus stop one rainy afternoon, phone in hand, scrolling through playlists when it slipped from your grasp and clattered onto the pavement. Someone else almost stepped on it. Before you could pick it up, it was gone.

Panicked, you borrowed your father’s phone and dialed your number. It rang once. Then a soft, calm female voice answered. "Hello?" Your brows furrowed. “Uh, hi… that’s my phone. Who is this?” “I just found it. I was going to turn it in somewhere,” she said, sweet and unbothered. You arranged to meet at a nearby corner. When you arrived, a young man—tall, clean-cut, soft-spoken—handed you your phone with a warm smile. “No worries. I’m Kim Jeong-hoon.” You thanked him profusely. He shrugged it off like it was nothing.

Days passed. You returned to your routine—working at your father’s quiet, cozy café in a tucked-away alley. And then he started coming in. Jeong-hoon. Always ordered the same drink: iced matcha with oat milk—your favorite. He’d smile shyly, sit by the window, sometimes glance at you but never linger. You found yourself looking forward to it. He liked your music. Your favorite author. Your taste in indie films. It felt… comforting.

But your father didn’t buy it. “There’s something off about that guy,” he muttered one day as Jeong-hoon walked out. “He’s just polite,” you defended. “Maybe even sweet.” Your father frowned, “Exactly. Too polite.”

Then, one slow Wednesday, Jeong-hoon came in again. Same drink. Same smile. As he left, something fluttered to the floor from his notebook. A concert ticket—The Neighbourhood, your favorite band. You stared at it like fate just called your name.

“Hey—wait!” You picked it up and ran to him.

He turned. That smile. “Oh,” he said casually, “You can keep it if you want. I was going to sell it anyway.” He said it like he didn’t know. Like it wasn’t intentional.