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Uncharted Waters || Bang Chan

Summary: Your life is in shambles. Your friends’ solution? Book a two-week adults-only Caribbean cruise to fix it. Chan is on the same ship, burning out and desperate for peace, so when you crash into each other and you pretend not to know who he is, something clicks. What starts as a drunken proposal to be each other’s “cruise bae” turns into something neither of you planned for; steamy nights, raw honesty, and feelings that don’t care about expiration dates. But when the cruise ends, reality doesn’t and choosing between protecting your heart and fighting for something real might be the hardest thing you’ve ever done.

Warnings: idol!bang Chan x f.poc!reader, reader is a SKZ fan but pretends like she doesn’t know who he is, Chan knows but goes along with it, He’s called Chris for majority of this, smut! nothing heavy but still MDNI!, unprotected sex (porfa, this is fan fiction don’t go doing this with strangers you just met even if it’s your bias), oral (m.&f.rec), kissing, fast burn i.e. they both can’t do casual for the life of them but pretend they can, some fluff,some angst, mentions of the other SKZ members and OCs as friends. As usual I might be missing some things.

W.C: 21.3k

A/N: This was a request from @penny44224. I really hope I did it justice and that I captured what you asked for.

I had these two songs on repeat while writing so for the sake of the plot let’s pretend I hate to admit is what he was working on in a very specific scene.

The intervention came on a Tuesday.

That’s what you had started calling it in your head—the intervention—even though your friends insisted it was just concern. Just love. Just them noticing that you hadn’t really laughed in three months, that you’d stopped posting on social media, that you showed up to their hangouts with a smile that never quite reached your eyes.

“You need this,” Mia had said, sliding the cruise brochure across the coffee shop table. “We all do, but especially you.”

You’d stared at the glossy images of turquoise water and white sand beaches, at the massive ship that looked like a floating city. Azure Escape: An Adults-Only Luxury Experience-14 Days Through the Caribbean. The tagline promised “sophisticated relaxation for the discerning traveler.” Translation, no kids, lots of alcohol, and people old enough to know better but young enough not to care.

Part of you wanted to argue, to insist you were fine, that you just needed time. But the larger part—the part that woke up every morning with a weight on your chest, the part that had stopped believing things would get better—that part was just tired of pretending.

The breakup had been bad. Three years of your life handed back to you in cardboard boxes and awkward silences. Finding out he’d been cheating for the last year of your relationship had been worse. Losing your job two weeks later had felt like the universe piling on. “Restructuring,” they’d called it. “Nothing personal.” As if being made redundant could ever feel anything but personal.

Watching your carefully constructed life crumble while everyone around you seemed to have it all figured out? That had been the final straw. You’d spent a week in bed, another week going through the motions, and by the third week, your friends had staged their intervention. So, you’d said yes. Because what did you have to lose? Your dignity was already in shambles. Might as well be in shambles somewhere with better weather.

Now, standing on the deck of the Azure Escape as it pulled away from Miami’s port, you had to admit your friends might have been onto something. The ship was massive; fifteen decks of restaurants, bars, pools, and more amenities than you could process. The sunset painted the sky in shades of orange and pink that looked too vivid to be real, like someone had oversaturated a photograph.

“To new beginnings!” Sophie raised her champagne glass, her enthusiasm infectious even through your numbness.

“To leaving our problems on dry land!” Jenna added with a grin.

“To getting absolutely wasted and making questionable decisions!” Mia finished, making all of you laugh.

You clinked your glass against theirs, the bubbles fizzing against your lips as you took a sip. The champagne was good, better than anything you’d normally buy for yourself. Everything about this cruise screamed luxury, from the marble floors in the lobby to the Egyptian cotton robes waiting in your cabin.

“Two whole weeks,” Sophie sighed contentedly. “Fourteen days of nothing but sun, drinks, and no responsibilities.”

“I still can’t believe you guys did this,” you said softly, emotion creeping into your voice despite your best efforts.

Mia squeezed your shoulder. “That’s what friends are for. Besides, we needed an excuse to get away too. Win-win.”

As the Miami skyline grew smaller on the horizon, you felt something shift in your chest. Not hope, exactly but maybe the possibility of hope and maybe that was enough for now.

You had two weeks to figure out how to be a person again. Two weeks to remember what it felt like to want something, to feel something other than the hollow ache that had taken up residence in your chest. Two weeks before you had to go back and face the wreckage of your life. You took another sip of champagne and watched the sun sink below the horizon, painting the ocean in shades of gold and crimson, and tried not to count down the days until this temporary escape ended.

Bang Chan was hiding.

It wasn’t something he was particularly proud of but there it was. He was hiding in a corner of the ship’s jazz lounge at eleven in the morning, nursing an espresso and pretending to read a book he wasn’t absorbing a single word of.

“There you are!” Felix’s voice cut through his attempted invisibility. “Hyung, we’ve been looking everywhere. Everyone’s at the pool.”

“I know,” Chan said without looking up from his book, some thriller he’d grabbed at the airport. “I was there. It got crowded.”

It wasn’t a lie, exactly. The pool had been crowded but that wasn’t why he’d left. He’d left because Changbin had started making plans for every single hour of every single day of the two-week cruise, creating an itinerary that was somehow more exhausting than their actual tour schedule. Chan had felt his chest tighten with that familiar anxiety; schedules, obligations, people needing him to be on. This was supposed to be a vacation. His first real break in two years. The company had insisted on it after he’d had that panic attack in the studio, the one he’d tried to hide but couldn’t. Two weeks. Mandatory.

“Before you burn out completely,” his manager had said, like it was a threat.

But somehow, he’d still ended up being the one everyone looked to, the one who was supposed to have all the answers, the one who couldn’t just…be.

“Chris,” Felix sat down across from him, his expression shifting from playful to concerned. “Are you okay? Like, really okay?”

Chan opened his mouth to give his standard response—I’m fine, just tired—but something in Felix’s eyes made him pause. They’d known each other too long for bullshit.

“I don’t know,” he admitted quietly. “I thought getting away would help, but I think I brought all my stress with me. It’s like…it’s in my bones now. I can’t remember how to not be anxious.”

Felix nodded slowly. “You know you don’t have to entertain us, right? We’re all adults. If you need space, take it. We’ll survive without you for a few hours. Hell, we’ll survive for a few days if that’s what you need.”

The permission felt like a weight lifting. “Thanks, Lix.”

“Just…try to have some fun? Even if it’s by yourself?” Felix stood, squeezing his shoulder. “That’s what we’re here for. Two whole weeks of nothing. Let yourself have and enjoy nothing for once.”

After Felix left, Chan did try to relax into his solitude. He ordered another espresso, actually read a few pages of his book, watched the ocean roll by through the floor-to-ceiling windows. But the relaxation felt performative, like he was trying to have a good time, which defeated the entire purpose. The voice in his head—the one that sounded like his producer, his manager, his own worst critic—kept whispering ‘You’re wasting time. You could be working. You should be working. What are you even doing here?’

Eventually, he gave up and decided to explore the ship. Maybe a walk would help. Maybe he’d find some quiet corner where he could just exist without the constant pressure of expectations.

He should have been watching where he was going.

You should have been watching where you were going.

But you were looking at your phone, laughing at a meme Jenna had just sent to the group chat, champagne from lunch making everything a little fuzzy around the edges and you definitely weren’t paying attention when you rounded the corner near the casino. The collision was inevitable.

You walked straight into what felt like a wall of solid muscle, your phone flying from your hand as strong arms caught you before you could fall. For a second, you were pressed against someone’s chest, catching a scent of expensive cologne and laundry detergent, feeling the solid warmth of another body against yours for the first time in months, and then you were being steadied, held at arm’s length by hands that were gentle despite their strength.

“I’m so sorry—” you started, looking up. The words died in your throat. You knew that face. You’d seen that face on your screen more times than you could count, had fallen asleep to that voice, had his music on every playlist you owned. Bang Chan. Christopher Bang. Leader of Stray Kids. And he was currently holding your arms, looking just as startled as you felt, close enough that you could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes.

“No, that was my fault,” he was saying, his accent crisp and clear in person, deeper than it sounded in videos. “I wasn’t looking, are you okay?”

Your brain was short-circuiting. Every instinct screamed at you to say something, to acknowledge who he was, to tell him how much his music meant to you. How “Levanter” had gotten you through the worst nights after the breakup, how you’d listened to his voice in the dark and felt less alone, but something held you back. Maybe it was the exhaustion in his eyes despite his polite smile. Maybe it was the way he was already glancing around, like he was bracing for recognition, for the moment when you’d start screaming or crying or asking for a photo. Maybe it was the tension in his shoulders, like he was preparing to be Bang Chan instead of just a person. He didn’t want to be Bang Chan right now. He wanted to be just a person. You could give him that.

“I’m fine,” you said, stepping back and bending to pick up your phone. The screen was miraculously uncracked. “Totally my fault. I was texting and walking, which is apparently just as dangerous on a ship as it is on the street.”

He laughed—a real laugh that sounded surprised out of him, like he hadn’t expected it. “Yeah, probably should be a law against it.”

“I’m sure there is, buried in the fine print of that novel they made us sign at check-in.” You smiled at him, keeping your expression friendly but not too familiar. Just another stranger. Just another person. “Sorry again for almost taking you out.”

“No harm done.” He was studying you now, and you wondered if he was trying to figure out if you knew who he was. You kept your face neutral, pleasant. Just another collision on a crowded ship.

Something in his posture relaxed slightly, his shoulders dropping just a fraction. “I’m Chris,” he offered.

“Nice to meet you, Chris.” You introduced yourself, shaking his hand like this was a normal interaction, like your heart wasn’t pounding, like you weren’t internally cataloging every detail to tell your friends later. His hand was warm, calloused, musician’s hands.

“Enjoy your cruise.”

“You too.”

You walked away before you could do something stupid like ask for a photo or tell him that his music had been the only thing that made sense when everything else was falling apart. You could feel his eyes on your back, but you didn’t turn around. Your hands were shaking when you finally made it back to your cabin. You’d just met Bang Chan. You’d had a full conversation with Bang Chan and you’d pretended not to know who he was. The question was, could you keep pretending?

You didn’t see Chris again for three days. The ship was enormous, carrying over two thousand passengers, and the itinerary was packed. Day two brought you to Key West, where your friends dragged you to every bar on Duval Street. Day three was a sea day, spent recovering by the pool with oversized sunglasses and aspirin. Day four was Cozumel, where you went parasailing and actually felt something like joy when you were suspended above the impossibly blue water.

Not that you were looking for Chris. Except you totally were, your eyes scanning every restaurant, every pool deck, every bar. It was ridiculous. You’d had one conversation. A collision and an exchange of names. That was it but you couldn’t stop thinking about the exhaustion in his eyes, the way his whole body had relaxed when you didn’t make it weird. The way his hand had felt in yours.

Meanwhile, your friends were making good on Mia’s promise of questionable decisions. There had been a wine tasting that turned into wine drinking, a midnight swim in the pool where Sophie had definitely flashed a group of very appreciative businessmen, and a karaoke night where Jenna had absolutely murdered “I Will Survive” while you and Mia provided very dramatic backup vocals. It was working, you had to admit. You were laughing more. Thinking less about your ex, about the job you’d lost, about the apartment you’d had to give up. The knot in your chest was slowly loosening, unwinding with each day further from shore.

On the fifth night, there was a formal dinner, one of those cruise traditions where everyone dressed up and pretended to be fancier than they were. You’d packed a black dress that hugged your curves, simple but elegant, with a back that dipped low enough to be interesting. Your friends had insisted on the full treatment; curls swept up, makeup that made your eyes look seductive, heels you’d probably regret by the end of the night.

“You look hot,” Jenna declared, wolf-whistling as you emerged from the bathroom. “Like, ‘make your ex realize what a massive mistake he made’ hot.”

“Fuck my ex,” you said, surprised by the venom in your own voice. “I’m not trying to impress him. I’m trying to impress myself.”

“That’s the spirit!” Mia handed you a glass of champagne. “To being hot for ourselves!”

You drank to that.

The dining room was stunning, all crystal chandeliers and white tablecloths, with floor-to-ceiling windows showing the dark ocean beyond. Your group was seated at a table for four, but the restaurant was packed, the noise level a pleasant hum of conversation and laughter. You were halfway through your appetizer, some kind of scallop thing that melted on your tongue, when you saw him.

Chris was across the restaurant, seated at a table with seven other guys you immediately recognized as the rest of Stray Kids. They were all dressed up, looking like they’d stepped out of a magazine spread; dark suits, styled hair, the kind of casual elegance that came from having stylists on speed dial. They were clearly having a good time, laughing and talking over each other in the way close friends did, comfortable and easy. Your heart did a stupid flutter.

Chris looked…God, he looked devastating. His suit was perfectly tailored, emphasizing his broad shoulders and narrow waist. His hair was pushed back, revealing his forehead, and even from across the room you could see the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed.

And then, as if he could feel your stare, his eyes found yours. The moment stretched, pulled taut like a rubber band. His smile faltered, then shifted into something softer, more intimate. He raised his glass slightly in acknowledgment, and you felt heat flood your cheeks.

“Earth to you,” Mia waved a hand in front of your face. “Where’d you go?”

“Sorry,” you dragged your attention back to your table, your heart still racing. “Just people watching.”

“See anyone interesting?” Sophie waggled her eyebrows.

You have no idea. “Nope. Just observing.”

You managed to keep your eyes on your own table for most of the meal, forcing yourself to engage in conversation, to laugh at Jenna’s jokes, to actually taste the food that was probably incredible. But you could feel the pull of his presence like a magnetic field, your awareness of him hyperactive. Every time he laughed, you heard it. Every time he moved, you tracked it in your peripheral vision.

This was getting ridiculous. You needed to get it together.

After dinner, your friends wanted to hit the nightclub on Deck 12, a place called Pulse that apparently had an incredible DJ and a dance floor that converted into a skating rink during the day. You followed them, pleasantly buzzed from the wine pairing with dinner, ready to dance until your feet hurt and your brain shut off. The club was exactly what you’d expect from a luxury cruise ship; sleek and modern with mood lighting that shifted colors, a bar that glowed blue and seemed to float, and a sound system that you could feel in your bones, in your chest, in the hollow places you were trying to fill. The crowd was energetic, people already on the dance floor despite the early hour. Your group claimed a spot near the bar, ordering a round of cocktails that came garnished with elaborate fruit arrangements and tiny sparklers that threw shadows across your faces.

“To forgetting our problems!” Sophie yelled over the music, raising her glass.

“To making new memories!” Jenna added.

“To whatever happens at sea, stays at sea!” Mia finished with a wink.

You drank to that, the cocktail sweet and strong, and let the music pull you onto the dance floor.

Dancing had always been your therapy. You weren’t particularly good at it, but you didn’t care. Here, in the dark with the music loud and your friends around you, you could let go. Could stop thinking. Could just feel; the bass vibrating through your body, the heat of other bodies moving nearby, the way the alcohol made everything soft around the edges.

You lost yourself in it, eyes closed, arms raised, hips moving to the rhythm. This was what you’d needed. Not thinking about your ex, about the way he’d looked at you when you’d found the texts from her. Not thinking about the humiliation of being walked out of your office with your things in a box. Not thinking about the future, about what the hell you were going to do when you got back to shore.

Just this. Just now. Just the music and the movement and the feeling of being alive in your own skin.

You didn’t know how long you’d been dancing when you felt it, that prickle of awareness, the sensation of being watched. You opened your eyes, scanning the crowd, and found him. Chris was at the bar, a drink in his hand, watching you. Not in a creepy way,his expression was more…captivated. Hungry. Like you were the most interesting thing in the room and he couldn’t look away.

When your eyes met, he didn’t look away. Instead, he raised his glass slightly in acknowledgment, then took a slow sip, his eyes never leaving yours.

Your breath caught.

Your friends were distracted, Mia flirting with some guy in a designer suit, Sophie and Jenna lost in the music and each other’s company. On impulse—maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the darkness giving you courage, maybe it was the way he was looking at you like you were something precious—you made your way over to the bar.

“Stalking me, Chris?” you asked as you slid up next to him, close enough to smell his cologne, something woody and expensive.

He laughed, and God, that sound. Deep and genuine and surprised. “I could say the same to you. You seem to be everywhere I go.”

“It’s a big ship. But apparently not big enough.”

“Apparently not.” He took a sip of his drink, something amber, probably whiskey. His eyes traced over you, taking in the dress, the heels, the way your skin was flushed from dancing. “You look…you look incredible.”

The way he said it—rough and honest, like the words had been pulled out of him—made heat pool low in your stomach. “Thanks. You clean up pretty well yourself.” It was possibly the understatement of the century. He looked devastating in his fitted suit, his hair slightly mussed now like he’d been running his hands through it, his tie loosened just enough to see the hollow of his throat.

“Are you here with friends?” he asked, his voice pitched low to be heard over the music, intimate in a way that made you lean closer.

“Three of them. Girls’ trip. We’re celebrating, or maybe mourning, depending on your perspective.”

“What are you celebrating/mourning?”

You considered lying, keeping it light and surface-level. But something about the low lighting and the alcohol and the way he was looking at you—like you were the only person in the room, like he genuinely wanted to know—made you honest. “My life kind of fell apart a few months ago. Spectacular breakup, lost my job, had to move out of my apartment. They thought a two-week cruise would help me remember how to be a person again.”

Understanding flickered in his eyes, something dark and sympathetic. “Is it working?”

“Ask me when we get back to shore.” You gestured to his drink. “What about you? What brings you to the Azure Escape?”

“Similar story, actually. Different details, but same general theme. My friends—” he gestured vaguely toward where you assumed his table was, “—thought I needed a break before I burned out completely. Mandatory vacation.”

“And are you? Taking a break, I mean?”

His smile was rueful, almost bitter. “I’m trying. Turns out I’m not very good at relaxing. I keep waiting for someone to need something from me, to tell me what I should be doing, how I should be spending my time. It’s like I’ve forgotten how to just…be.”

“Same.” You caught the bartender’s eye and ordered another drink; something tropical and dangerous, the kind that tasted like fruit juice but would knock you on your ass. “We should form a support group. Type-A personalities who don’t know how to vacation.”

“Meeting here, same time tomorrow?”

“I think that would defeat the purpose of relaxing.”

He laughed again, and you felt absurdly proud of yourself for causing it, for making this beautiful, exhausted man smile. “Fair point.”

The DJ transitioned into a slower song, something with a deep bass that you could feel vibrating through the floor, through your chest. On the dance floor, couples were pulling together, the energy shifting from frenetic to sensual, bodies moving in sync.

“Do you want to dance?” The words came out before you could second-guess them, breathier than you’d intended.

Chris looked surprised, his eyes widening slightly, then darkening with something that made your pulse quicken. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

He set down his drink and offered you his hand. His palm was warm against yours, slightly calloused—musician’s hands, you remembered—and his fingers threaded through yours like they belonged there as he led you onto the dance floor.

You were hyperaware of every point of contact; his hand on your lower back, burning through the thin fabric of your dress, your hand on his shoulder feeling the solid muscle beneath his suit jacket, the way your bodies moved together like you’d done this a thousand times before, like you knew each other’s rhythms already. He pulled you closer, close enough that you could feel his breath against your temple, close enough that your hips brushed with every movement. The music was all bass and rhythm, something primal, and you let it guide you, let yourself sink into the feeling of being held, of being wanted.

“I have a confession,” he said, his mouth close to your ear so you could hear him over the music. The vibration of his voice sent shivers down your spine.

Your heart stuttered. “What’s that?”

“I’ve kinda been hoping I’d run into you again. Since that first day. I’ve been looking for you.”

“Why?”

“Because you didn’t make it weird.” His hand slid lower on your back, almost possessive, pulling you even closer. “Everyone always makes it weird, but you didn’t. You looked at me like I was just a person. Do you know how rare that is?”

If only you knew how weird I’m being internally. “Maybe I’m just very good at hiding how weird I am.”

“Or maybe you’re exactly as cool as you seem.”

You pulled back slightly to look at his face, trying to gauge if he was serious. His eyes were dark in the low light, intense in a way that made your breath catch, made heat pool between your thighs. His gaze dropped to your mouth, then back up to your eyes, asking a question.

“I’m really not that cool,” you admitted, your voice barely audible over the music.

“I don’t believe you.”

The song shifted to something even slower, and suddenly the space between you was nonexistent, your bodies pressed together from chest to hip, swaying more than dancing. You could feel his heartbeat against your chest—fast, as fast as yours—could smell his cologne mixed with something uniquely him, could feel the evidence of his attraction pressing against your hip. Your breath hitched and his hand on your back tightened, his fingers spreading wide like he wanted to touch as much of you as possible.

This was dangerous. This was so, so dangerous.

“Chris—”

“Do you want to get out of here?” He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, and there was no mistaking the heat in them, the want. “Go somewhere quieter? I’m not…I’m not trying to—” He took a breath. “I just want to talk to you. Away from all this. But if talking leads to something else…” He left the sentence hanging, let you fill in the blanks.

You should say no. You should make an excuse, go back to your friends, put distance between you and whatever this was becoming. This was Bang Chan. An idol. Someone who lived in a completely different world than you did. This couldn’t go anywhere. It couldn’t be anything but a mistake.

But God, you wanted to make this mistake. Wanted it more than you’d wanted anything in months.

The word that came out of your mouth was: “Yes.”

You texted your friends a quick excuse—met someone, I’m fine, will tell you everything later—and followed Chris out of the club. Your hand was still in his, his grip firm and sure, and you could feel the heat of his palm against yours, the slight tremor that told you he was just as affected as you were.

He led you through the ship’s corridors with surprising confidence, navigating the maze of hallways like he’d been studying the layout. You passed other passengers—couples heading back to their rooms, groups of friends stumbling drunk and laughing—and you wondered if it was obvious what you were doing, where you were going. If they could see the tension crackling between you and Chris, the way you couldn’t stop looking at each other.

Finally, you emerged onto an observation deck you hadn’t discovered yet. It was nearly empty, just a couple at the far end wrapped up in each other, too focused on themselves to notice you. The deck stretched out before you, lined with lounge chairs and small tables. Beyond the railing, the ocean was an endless expanse of darkness, the stars above so bright they looked fake, like someone had hung lights in the sky just for you.

“How did you find this place?” you asked, moving to the railing. The wind whipped your hair around your face, and you gathered it with one hand.

“I’ve been exploring. Looking for quiet spots.” He stood next to you, close enough that your shoulders almost touched. “I’ve needed a lot of quiet lately.”

“I get that.” You turned to face the ocean, letting the wind cool your flushed skin. “Sometimes silence is the only thing that makes sense.”

“Exactly.” He turned to face you fully, his hip against the railing. “Can I ask what happened? With your life falling apart? You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

You considered deflecting, keeping it light. But something about the darkness and the ocean and the fact that you’d probably never see him again after this cruise made you honest. Made you want to be honest.

“Breakup. Three years, down the drain. Found out he’d been cheating on me for the last year.” The words tasted bitter. “Then I lost my job, ‘restructuring,’ they called it, like that makes it better. Had to give up my apartment because I couldn’t afford it without my salary. Moved in with Mia, one of the friends I’m here with. General existential crisis about whether I’ve been living the life I actually want or just the life I thought I was supposed to want.” You laughed, but it sounded hollow. “The usual quarter-life crisis stuff, just arriving fashionably late since I’m almost thirty.”

“I’m sorry.” His voice was soft, genuine. “That’s…that’s really fucking hard.”

“Yeah.” You looked at him, really looked at him. “What about you? What drove you to mandatory vacation?”

He was quiet for a long moment, his jaw working like he was choosing his words carefully. “Panic attack. In the studio. I was working on this track, and I just…I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Everything just crashed down on me at once; all the pressure, all the expectations, the constant need to be perfect, to be ‘on.’ My manager found me on the floor hyperventilating and decided I needed a break before I completely fell apart.”

The raw honesty in his voice made your chest ache. “I’m sorry. That sounds terrifying.”

“It was. It is.” He ran a hand through his hair, messing it up further. “The worst part is, I can’t even enjoy this. This break, this vacation. All I can think about is everything I should be doing instead. The work I’m missing. The opportunities I might be losing. It’s like I’ve forgotten how to do anything that isn’t productive.”

Without thinking, you reached out and took his hand. “Hey. Look at me.”

He did, his eyes vulnerable in the starlight.

“You’re allowed to rest. You’re allowed to take up space without earning it. You’re allowed to just be yourself.” You squeezed his hand. “I know it doesn’t feel like it. Trust me, I know. But you are.”

“So are you.”

“I know. In theory.” You smiled sadly. “Practice is harder.”

“Yeah.” He looked down at your joined hands, then back up at you. “For what it’s worth, I think most people are just pretending to have it figured out. The ones who seem the most certain are usually the most lost.”

“Is that from experience?”

“Yeah. I’ve spent the last few years building this career, chasing this dream, and somewhere along the way I forgot why I started. Everything became about the next goal, the next achievement. I can’t remember the last time I did something just because it made me happy, not because it would advance my career or make someone else proud.”

You understood that more than you wanted to admit. “So what makes you happy? When you strip away all the other stuff?”

He thought about it, really thought about it. “Music still does. But making it, not performing it. Not the staged stuff, the perfect stuff. Just…creating something from nothing. And being with people I care about, when there’s no pressure to be anything but myself. Cooking, weirdly. Taking walks. Really good coffee.” He smiled and it was genuine this time, soft. “Simple stuff.”

“Simple stuff is underrated.”

“What about you? What makes you happy?”

“I’m still figuring that out,” you admitted. “I thought I knew, but I think I was confusing ‘happy’ with ‘comfortable.’ I had this whole life planned out; marriage, promotion, house in the suburbs, maybe kids eventually. And when it didn’t work out, I realized I wasn’t even sure I wanted it in the first place. How messed up is that? I spent three years with someone, building toward a future I’m not even sure I wanted.”

“Not messed up. Human.” He shifted closer, and now your shoulders were definitely touching, his warmth seeping into you. “Maybe that’s what this is—a chance to figure out what we actually want instead of what we think we should want.”

“On a cruise ship in the middle of the ocean?”

“Why not? We’re literally untethered from everything. No responsibilities, no expectations. Just… possibility.”

The word hung between you, heavy with implication. The wind picked up, and you shivered despite the warm night air. Without a word, Chris shrugged off his suit jacket and draped it over your shoulders. It smelled like him—cologne and laundry detergent and something uniquely him—and you had to resist the urge to bury your face in it.

“Thank you.”

“So,” he said, a hint of something darker in his voice now, something that made your pulse quicken. “If we’re untethered from everything, what do you want? Right now, in this moment?”

The question felt loaded. Dangerous. Your heart was pounding and you weren’t sure if it was from the proximity, the alcohol, or the way he was looking at you like you were something he wanted to devour.

“Honestly?” The word came out barely above a whisper. “I want to stop thinking. Stop worrying about what I should do or what makes sense. I want to just feel something other than numb or anxious. I want to feel good again.”

“Yeah.” His voice was rough, strained. “Yeah, I want that too.”

The space between you was charged, electric. You could feel the moment building, the inevitable pull of two people who were both running from something and desperately wanted to run toward each other instead.

“Chris,”

“We’re on a ship,” he said quickly, like he needed to convince himself as much as you. “In the middle of the ocean. And in two weeks, we’ll both go back to our real lives. This doesn’t have to be complicated. It doesn’t have to mean anything unless we want it to.”

Your breath caught. “What are you suggesting?”

“I’m suggesting…” He reached up, tucking a stray curl behind your ear, his fingers lingering against your jaw, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. “That maybe we both deserve to stop thinking for a while. To just be. Together. For as long as we’re on this ship.”

“Like a vacation fling?” Your voice was steadier than you felt.

“Like a vacation from our lives. No pressure. No expectations. Just two people who found each other at the right time. Two people who need the same thing.”

It was a terrible idea. You knew it was a terrible idea. This was Bang Chan, international idol, and you were just…you. Living in completely different worlds that would never actually align. Plus, you were still putting yourself back together, still figuring out who you were without your ex, without your job, without all the structures you’d built your identity around. But maybe that was exactly why this could work. Because it was temporary. Because it was safe. Because in two weeks, you could go back to your real life and carry this with you like a beautiful secret, a reminder that you were still capable of feeling something. That you were still desirable, still wanted.

“Okay,” you said, and watched his eyes widen slightly, like he hadn’t expected you to agree. “But I have conditions.”

“What’s that?”

“We have to be honest with each other. Completely honest. No pretending to be someone we’re not, no playing games. If we’re doing this, we do it for real.”

Something flickered across his face; guilt, maybe, or concern. You wondered if he was thinking about the fact that you’d never acknowledged knowing who he was. But then he nodded.

“Deal. Complete honesty.”

“And no regrets. When this is over, we both walk away clean. No drama, no hurt feelings, no trying to make it into something it can’t be. Two weeks, and then we’re done.”

“Agreed.” He held out his hand like you were sealing a business deal. “So, we’re really doing this? Being each other’s…” He tr ailed off, searching for the right word.

“Cruise bae?” you suggested, then immediately wanted to die of embarrassment. “Oh my God, I can’t believe I just said that. The alcohol has clearly compromised my brain function. Forget I said—”

He was laughing, that full-body laugh you’d only heard in videos, and then he was pulling you closer, his hands on your waist. “Cruise bae. I love it. It’s perfect.”

“It’s ridiculous.”

“Exactly. Perfect.” His forehead was almost touching yours now, his breath warm against your face, smelling of whiskey and mint. “So, cruise bae, what do you want to do first?”

Your hands found their way to his chest, feeling his heartbeat under your palms. It was racing just as fast as yours. “I think you know.”

“I want to hear you say it.”

The command in his voice sent a shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the wind. “Kiss me, Chris.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

The kiss started soft, tentative, like he was giving you a chance to change your mind. His lips were warm and soft against yours, tasting like whiskey and something sweet. But when you pressed closer, threading your fingers through his hair and pulling him down to you, it deepened into something hungry, desperate, like you were both starving and had finally found sustenance. He groaned into your mouth, the sound vibrating through you, and his hands slid from your waist to your back, pulling you flush against him. You could feel every hard line of his body against yours, could feel the evidence of his desire pressing against your hip and it made you dizzy with want.

You’d been kissed before, but this was different. This was all-consuming, the kind of kiss that made you forget where you were, who you were, everything except the feeling of his mouth on yours and the way your body fit against his like you were made for this. Like every relationship before had just been practice for this moment. When you finally broke apart, you were both breathing hard. His lips were swollen, his hair mussed from your fingers, his eyes dark with desire, and he looked at you like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

“My room or yours?” he asked, voice rough and low.

Reality crashed back in for a moment. “I’m sharing with my friends. Two of us in one cabin.”

“I’ve got my own room.” He was already pulling out his phone, his hands trembling slightly as he checked something. “One of the perks of…well. I have my own room.”

“Very mysterious,” you said, but your heart was pounding. This was happening. This was really happening.

“It’s on Deck 10. Quiet hallway.” His eyes met yours, searching. “Are you sure about this? We can just talk. We don’t have to—”

You kissed him to shut him up, pouring every ounce of want and need and desperation into it. When you pulled back, his eyes were glazed. “I’m sure. Are you?”

“So fucking sure.” His hand found yours, lacing your fingers together. “Come on.”

The walk to his cabin felt endless. You passed other passengers in the hallways—couples heading back from dinner, groups of friends stumbling drunk and happy—and you wondered if it was obvious what you were about to do. If they could see it written all over you, the desire and anticipation making your skin feel too tight. Chris’s hand in yours was the only anchor, his thumb tracing circles on your palm that were simultaneously soothing and arousing. Every touch felt amplified, significant, like your nerve endings were firing on overdrive.

When you finally reached his door, he fumbled with the key card, his hands shaking slightly. It was endearing, seeing him nervous, seeing that you affected him as much as he affected you. The door swung open, and he pulled you inside. The cabin was nicer than yours—bigger, with a king-size bed instead of two doubles, a sitting area with a couch, and floor-to-ceiling windows that showed the dark ocean beyond. But you barely registered any of it because Chris was crowding you against the closed door, his hands cupping your face, his mouth finding yours again.

This kiss was different, deeper, more demanding. His tongue swept into your mouth, tasting you, claiming you, and you moaned into it, your hands fisting in his shirt. He pressed closer, pinning you against the door with his body and you could feel every inch of him, hard and wanting against you.

“Fuck,” he breathed against your mouth. “You’re so beautiful. Do you know that? You’re so fucking beautiful.”

“You barely know me,” you managed, but your voice was breathy, unconvincing.

“I know enough.” His mouth moved to your jaw, trailing hot kisses down to your neck. “I know you’re kind enough to let me pretend to be normal. I know you’re brave enough to admit when your life is falling apart. I know you kiss like it’s the only thing in the world that matters. I know I can’t stop thinking about you.”

His teeth grazed the sensitive spot where your neck met your shoulder, and your knees nearly buckled. “Chris—”

“Tell me what you want.” His hands slid down your sides, his thumbs brushing the sides of your breasts through your dress. “Tell me exactly what you want from me.”

“I want—” You could barely think, barely breathe. “I want you to make me forget. Everything. I want to feel good. I want you to make me feel good.”

“I can do that.” His voice was dark, promising. “I’m going to make you feel so good you forget your own name.”

He stepped back and you nearly whimpered at the loss of contact. But then his hands were on the zipper of your dress, slowly dragging it down, his knuckles brushing against your spine in a way that made you shiver.

“Is this okay?” he asked, even as the dress began to slip off your shoulders.

“Yes. God, yes.”

The dress pooled at your feet, leaving you in just your underwear; black lace that you’d chosen without thinking, without knowing you’d end up here. His eyes raked over you, taking in every curve, every inch of exposed skin and the hunger in his gaze made you feel powerful despite being nearly naked.

“You’re perfect,” he said, voice reverent. “Fucking perfect.”

You should have felt self-conscious. You’d gained weight since the breakup, stress eating and wine and giving up on the gym. Your body wasn’t what it had been, and your ex had made sure you knew it, little comments about how you should watch what you eat, how you used to be more toned but the way Chris looked at you—like you were a goddess, like he couldn’t believe he got to touch you—made you feel beautiful. Desirable. Wanted in a way you hadn’t felt in years.

“Your turn,” you said, reaching for his shirt buttons with hands that trembled slightly.

He helped you, shrugging out of his shirt and tossing it aside. And God. God. You’d seen him shirtless in photos and videos, but nothing prepared you for the reality of it. He was all lean muscle and smooth skin, his chest and abs defined but not overly bulky, his shoulders broad. There was a small scar near his ribs, and you wanted to know the story behind it, wanted to know everything about him.

But that wasn’t what this was. This was just tonight. Just physical.

You reached out, running your hands over his chest, feeling his heart pounding under your palm. He inhaled sharply when your fingers found his nipples, teasing them lightly, and you filed that reaction away for later.

“Bed,” he said, voice strained. “Now.”

He walked you backward toward the bed, his hands on your hips, his mouth finding yours again. When the back of your knees hit the mattress, you sat, looking up at him. He stood over you for a moment, just looking, his chest heaving. Then he knelt, right there on the floor between your legs and looked up at you with an expression that made your breath catch.

“Can I?” His hands were on your thighs, his thumbs tracing patterns on the sensitive skin.

“Please.”

He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh, then another higher up, his hands sliding up to the waistband of your underwear. Slowly, torturously slowly, he dragged them down your legs, and then you were completely bare to him. You expected him to dive in immediately, but instead he just looked at you, his hands on your thighs keeping them spread, his breath hot against your most sensitive skin.

“So pretty,” he murmured. “I’m going to make you come so hard you see stars.”

Then his mouth was on you, and you forgot how to breathe.

He started slow, teasing, his tongue tracing patterns that made you gasp and squirm. His hands held your hips down when you tried to grind against his face, keeping you exactly where he wanted you, completely at his mercy.

“Chris, please—”

“Patience,” he said against you, the vibration of his voice making you moan. “I want to savor this. Want to taste every inch of you.”

He was methodical, learning what made you gasp, what made you moan, what made your thighs tremble. When he finally focused on your clit, his tongue circling it with perfect pressure, you threaded your fingers through his hair and held on for dear life.

“That’s it,” he encouraged, his voice rough. “Let me hear you. No one can hear us. Let me hear how good I’m making you feel.”

When he slid two fingers inside you, curling them to hit that spot that made you see stars, your whole body went taut. The dual sensation of his tongue on your clit and his fingers inside you was overwhelming, and you could feel your orgasm building, coiling tighter and tighter in your core.

“Chris, I’m…I’m going to—”

“Come for me,” he commanded, and the authority in his voice combined with one more perfect curl of his fingers sent you over the edge.

You came with a cry that was definitely too loud, your whole body shaking with the force of it, your thighs clamping around his head. He worked you through it, his tongue gentling but not stopping until you were pushing at his head, oversensitive and trembling.

He pulled back, his chin wet, his eyes dark with satisfaction and barely restrained desire. “You taste incredible. And the sounds you make…” He groaned, adjusting himself through his pants. “I could do that for hours.”

You couldn’t form words. Your brain had short-circuited, your body still buzzing with aftershocks. But you could see how hard he was, could see the way his hands were shaking slightly, and you wanted to give him the same mind-blowing pleasure he’d just given you.

“Come here,” you said, your voice husky.

He stood, and you reached for his belt, but he caught your hands.

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” you said, looking up at him through your lashes. “I want to taste you. Want to make you feel as good as you just made me feel.”

His eyes darkened further, and he released your hands. “Fuck. Okay. Yeah.”

You unbuckled his belt, unzipped his pants, and helped him push them down along with his boxers. When his cock sprang free, hard and thick and already leaking, your mouth actually watered.

“You’re beautiful,” you said, wrapping your hand around him. He was hot and hard in your palm, and when you stroked him once, experimentally, he groaned.

“If you keep looking at me like that, this is going to be over embarrassingly fast,” he warned.

“Good,” you said, and leaned forward to lick the bead of precum from his tip.

His hips jerked, and one hand flew to your hair, not pushing, just holding. “Fuck.”

You took him into your mouth slowly, savoring the weight of him on your tongue, the way he tasted, salt and musk and something uniquely him. You couldn’t take all of him, so you wrapped your hand around the base, stroking what you couldn’t fit while you sucked and licked and explored.

“God, your mouth,” he groaned, his fingers tightening in your hair. “You’re so good at this. So fucking good.”

You hummed around him, pleased with the praise, and he cursed, his hips stuttering forward slightly. You relaxed your throat, taking him deeper, and looked up at him through your lashes. The sight of him was almost enough to make you come again; his head thrown back, his abs tensing, his free hand fisted in the sheets. He looked wrecked, undone, and you’d done that to him.

“Stop,” he gasped suddenly, tugging gently at your hair. “Stop, I’m too close, and I want to be inside you when I come.”

You pulled off him with an obscene pop, and he groaned again at the sight.

“You’re going to kill me,” he said, pulling you up and kissing you deeply, tasting himself on your tongue. “Absolutely fucking kill me.”

He reached for the nightstand, fumbling for a drawer, but you stopped him.

“I’m clean,” you said. “And I’m on birth control. If you’re—”

“I’m clean too. Tested regularly.” His eyes searched yours. “Are you sure?”

“I want to feel you. All of you. I want you to fill me up and make me forget everything except how good you feel inside me.”

He made a noise that was almost a whimper, and then he was pushing you back onto the bed, crawling over you, caging you in with his arms. You could feel him, hot and hard against your entrance, and you lifted your hips in invitation.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he said, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. “Tell me if I need to stop or slow down.”

“I will. Now please, Chris, I need you inside me.”

He lined himself up and pushed in slowly, and the stretch was intense, bordering on too much. He was bigger than your ex and it had been months since you’d been with anyone. You gasped, and he froze.

“Okay?” His voice was tight.

“Yeah. Just, give me a second.”

He held still, pressing kisses to your face, your neck, murmuring praise against your skin. “You’re doing so well. You feel so good around me. So tight. So perfect.”

After a moment, you experimentally rolled your hips, and he slid in another inch. The fullness was overwhelming in the best way.

“More,” you breathed. “I can take it. I want all of you.”

He pushed in the rest of the way with one slow, deliberate thrust, and you both groaned when he was fully seated inside you. For a moment, you both just stayed like that, foreheads pressed together, breathing ragged, adjusting to the sensation.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “You feel incredible. Like you were made for me.”

“Move,” you pleaded. “Please move. I need—”

He pulled out slowly, almost all the way, and then thrust back in, and you saw stars. He found a rhythm that was deep and steady and perfect, each thrust hitting that spot inside you that made your toes curl.

“Yes,” you moaned. “Just like that. Don’t stop.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.” His voice was rough, strained. “You feel too good. Sound too good. Look too fucking good.”

He shifted slightly, changing the angle, and suddenly every thrust was dragging against your clit, and you could feel another orgasm building already.

“Touch yourself,” he commanded, his voice taking on that authoritative edge that made you clench around him. “I want to feel you come around my cock.”

You slid your hand between your bodies, finding your clit, and the added stimulation made you cry out. Your inner walls clenched around him, and he groaned.

“That’s it. Fuck, I can feel you getting close. You’re squeezing me so tight.”

“Harder,” you gasped. “I want to feel you tomorrow. Want to be sore. Want to remember this every time I move.”

Something in him snapped. His control frayed, and he began to fuck you in earnest, his hips snapping against yours with bruising force. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, obscene and perfect.

“Like this?” he growled. “Is this what you need?”

“Yes! Chris, yes, just like that—”

Your orgasm hit you like a freight train, sudden and overwhelming. You screamed his name, your back arching off the bed, your whole body convulsing with pleasure. He fucked you through it, prolonging it, until you were a shaking, oversensitive mess.

“I’m close,” he warned, his rhythm becoming erratic. “Where—”

“Inside me,” you gasped. “I want to feel you come inside me. Want all of you.”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” He thrust once, twice more, and then he was coming with a groan that sounded like it was ripped from his soul, his cock pulsing inside you as he filled you with his release. He collapsed on top of you, both of you trembling and gasping for breath. After a moment, he carefully pulled out, and you could feel his cum slowly leaking out of you, warm and obscene.

“That was—” he started but couldn’t seem to find the words.

“Yeah,” you agreed because you couldn’t either. He rolled to the side, pulling you with him so you were sprawled across his chest. His heart was still racing under your ear, and you could feel the way his chest heaved with each breath.

“Give me like ten minutes,” he said, his hand stroking lazily up and down your spine. “And I’m going to do that again. And again. I have two weeks to memorize every sound you make, and I intend to be thorough.”

You laughed breathlessly. “I think I’ve created a monster.”

“You have no idea.” He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “I’m not letting you out of this bed until morning. Maybe not even then.”

“What about food?”

“Room service exists.”

“What about my friends? They’ll worry.”

“Text them.” He reached over and grabbed your phone from where you’d dropped it, handing it to you. “Tell them you’re alive and busy and they’ll see you tomorrow.”

You did, typing out a quick message with shaking hands while Chris pressed kisses to your shoulder, your neck, behind your ear.

Still alive. Still busy. Will definitely have stories tomorrow. Don’t wait up.

Mia’s response was immediate: GET IT GIRL 🔥

You tossed your phone aside and turned in Chris’s arms to face him. His hair was completely wrecked, his lips swollen, and there were faint scratches on his shoulders from your nails. He looked thoroughly debauched, and you’d done that.

“So,” you said, tracing idle patterns on his chest. “Cruise bae. Think we can handle two weeks of this?”

His eyes darkened again, already hungry despite having just finished. “I think the question is whether two weeks will be enough.”

It was a dangerous thing to say, implying that this could be more than it was. But you were too sated, too content to worry about it right now.

“Ask me again in fourteen days,” you said, and kissed him before he could respond.

This time, the kiss was slower, more exploratory. Like you had all the time in the world. And for the next two weeks, you did.

True to his word, Chris woke you twice more during the night. Once with his mouth between your legs, bringing you to a slow, lazy orgasm before sliding inside you and fucking you with a tenderness that made your chest ache. Once with you on top, riding him while he watched you with dark, hungry eyes, his hands on your hips guiding your movements until you both fell apart.

Each time was different. Each time was perfect.

When you finally fell asleep in the early hours of the morning, tangled together with the gentle rocking of the ship lulling you into dreams, you felt more content than you had in months. This was temporary. This was finite. But for now, it was exactly what you both needed.

You woke to sunlight streaming through the windows and the gentle rocking of the ship. For a moment, you were disoriented, not sure where you were. Then you felt the warm body next to you, the arm draped possessively over your waist, and it all came flooding back.

Chris.

You’d spent the night with Chris. Bang Chan. And it had been…God, it had been incredible. He hadn’t been lying about being thorough. You were deliciously sore, your body aching in places that made you flush with the memory. You turned carefully, not wanting to wake him, and just looked. In sleep, he looked younger, the worry lines around his eyes smoothed out, his mouth soft and relaxed. His hair was a disaster from your fingers, and there were faint hickies on his collarbone that you definitely didn’t remember leaving but weren’t sorry about.

“You’re staring,” he mumbled, his eyes still closed.

“You’re in my space,” you countered. “It’s hard not to.”

He cracked one eye open, a slow smile spreading across his face that made your heart do something complicated. “Good morning.”

“Good morning.”

He pulled you closer, nuzzling into your neck, and you could feel he was already half-hard against your hip. “What time is it?”

You glanced at the clock on the nightstand. “Almost nine. We’re supposed to dock in Grand Cayman at ten.”

“Mmm. Don’t wanna move.” His hand slid down to your ass, squeezing appreciatively. “Want to stay here with you all day.”

“Me neither.” And you meant it. The idea of leaving this bed, this room, this bubble you’d created, felt impossible. “But I have excursions planned. Swimming with stingrays, apparently.”

“That sounds terrifying.”

“Little bit.” You propped yourself up on your elbow to look at him. His hand stayed on your ass, possessive even in his half-asleep state. “What about you? What are you doing today?”

“The guys want to go to Seven Mile Beach. Probably play volleyball, drink too much, pretend we’re not all pasty and exhausted.” He opened both eyes now, looking at you with an intensity that made your breath catch. “But I’d rather spend the day with you.”

Your heart skipped. “Chris—”

“I know. Two weeks. No expectations. I remember.” He ran his free hand through his hair, making it stick up even more adorably. “But I’m allowed to want things. That wasn’t part of the deal.”

“Fair enough.” You traced the line of his jaw with your finger. “We could…I don’t know, maybe meet up later? After our respective activities?”

“Yeah?” His face lit up. “There’s a sunset thing on the top deck tonight. Live music, dancing. We could not-so-accidentally run into each other there.”

“I’d like that.”

“Good.” He pulled you down for a kiss that quickly turned heated. When you finally broke apart, you were both breathing hard, and you could feel exactly how much he wanted you. “Before you go,” he said, voice rough, “let me—”

“Chris, we don’t have time—”

“We have time.” His hand slid from your ass to between your legs and you were already wet for him, still sensitive from last night. “I just want to touch you. Make you come one more time before you leave.”

You should say no. You should get up, shower, get back to your cabin before your friends sent out a search party. But his fingers were already sliding through your wetness, circling your clit with perfect pressure, and your resolve crumbled.

“Okay,” you gasped. “Okay, yes.”

He worked you with practiced efficiency now, knowing exactly what you needed, how you liked to be touched. When he slid two fingers inside you, curling them just right, your hips lifted off the bed.

“That’s it,” he murmured against your neck. “Let me make you feel good. Love watching you fall apart for me.”

It didn’t take long. You were still sensitive from last night, and he knew your body now, knew exactly how to play you. When you came, it was sharp and intense, and you bit down on his shoulder to muffle your cry.

“Beautiful,” he said, working you through the aftershocks. “So fucking beautiful when you come.”

When you could breathe again, you kissed him deeply, tasting the smile on his lips. “I really need to go,” you said reluctantly.

“I know.” He pulled his hand away, and you watched, mesmerized, as he brought his fingers to his mouth and sucked them clean. “Mmm. Never getting tired of how you taste.”

“You’re going to kill me,” you said, echoing his words from last night.

“Good. Then we’re even.”

You slipped out of his cabin wearing his t-shirt and sweatpants, your dress was too wrinkled and obvious. The walk back to your room felt different in daylight. More real. More dangerous. What were you doing? This was supposed to be simple. Uncomplicated. A vacation fling to remind yourself you were still alive, still desirable but there was nothing simple about the way your heart raced when he looked at you, or the way his laugh made your chest ache, or the way you were already counting down the hours until you could see him again.

You were in trouble. Deep, deep trouble.

When you finally made it back to your cabin, all three of your friends were waiting, sitting on the beds like a tribunal. “Well, well, well,” Mia said, her arms crossed but her eyes dancing with amusement. “Look what the cat dragged in.”

“Walk of shame at 9 AM?” Jenna whistled. “Impressive.”

“Are those men’s clothes?” Sophie leaned forward, squinting. “Oh my God, you actually did it. You had a one-night stand! Except it wasn’t one night because you literally never came back.”

“It wasn’t—” You stopped, because what could you say? It absolutely was more than a one-night stand. “Okay, yes. I spent the night with someone.”

They erupted in cheers, and you couldn’t help but laugh despite your confusion.

“Details,” Mia demanded. “We need all the details. Was he good? Please tell me he was good. You deserve good after that disaster of an ex.”

“He was…” You felt heat flood your cheeks, remembering exactly how good he’d been. “Really, really good. Like, multiple orgasms good. Didn’t know my body could do that good.”

“Okay, I’m jealous,” Jenna said. “And also, very proud. Look at you, having amazing sex with a hot stranger!”

“Surprisingly good?” Sophie asked. “Was he giving off bad-in-bed vibes?”

“No, I just, I haven’t been with anyone except my ex in years, and I forgot that sex could actually be, you know, good. That someone could care about whether I enjoyed it. That it could be about both of us, not just him getting off.” You sat down on your bed, suddenly overwhelmed. “He made me feel…desirable. Wanted. Like my pleasure mattered just as much as his.”

Sophie’s expression softened. “Oh honey. I’m so glad you’re remembering that you deserve to feel good. That you deserve someone who worships your body instead of criticizing it.”

“Are you going to see him again?” Mia asked, her tone careful. “Or was it just a one-time thing?”

You thought about Chris’s invitation for tonight, about the way he’d looked at you this morning, about the fact that you had eleven more days on this ship and you weren’t sure you had the willpower to stay away from him.

“I’m seeing him tonight,” you admitted. “We’re going to the sunset thing on the top deck.”

“So it’s not just a one-night stand,” Jenna observed. “It’s a vacation thing.”

“Yeah. A vacation thing. Two weeks, and then it’s over.” You said it firmly, like you could convince yourself.

“How do you feel about that?” Sophie asked gently.

“I feel like it’s exactly what I need right now. Something with an expiration date. Something that can’t hurt me because I know exactly when it ends.” You grabbed your toiletries and a change of clothes. “Now I really need to shower before we dock. I smell like sex and bad decisions.”

“The best kind of decisions,” Mia called after you as you headed to the bathroom. Under the hot spray of the shower, you let yourself think about last night. About the way Chris had touched you, like you were precious. About the way he’d listened when you talked, really listened. About the way he’d made you laugh even as he was making you come apart. About the way he’d looked at you this morning and said he’d rather spend the day with you than doing anything else.

This was supposed to be simple but nothing about the way you felt was simple at all.

Grand Cayman was beautiful; white sand beaches and impossibly blue water that looked photoshopped. The stingray excursion was exactly as terrifying and amazing as promised. You stood in waist-deep water while massive stingrays glided around you, their skin like velvet when you worked up the courage to touch them. Your friends were in their element, squealing and laughing and taking a million photos. And you were having fun, real, genuine fun but part of your mind was elsewhere, wondering what Chris was doing, if he was thinking about you too. You hated that. Hated that after one night, you were already that person, the one who couldn’t stop thinking about a guy. This wasn’t who you were. This wasn’t who you wanted to be, but when your phone buzzed with a text as soon as you got back on the ship and had signal, your heart still jumped.

Hey, cruise bae. Hope the stingrays didn’t eat you. Beach was good but would have been better with you there. Can’t wait for tonight.

You bit your lip, trying to suppress the stupid smile that wanted to spread across your face.

Stingrays were surprisingly friendly. How was volleyball?

Embarrassing. Changbin spiked the ball directly into my face.

Did you cry?

Almost. But I held it together. Barely.

Very brave of you.

Thank you. I accept praise in the form of kisses. Many, many kisses.

Greedy.

You have no idea.

You pocketed your phone, very

aware of your friends watching you with knowing looks.

“That’s a smitten face if I’ve ever seen one,” Jenna said.

“I’m not smitten. I’m just…enjoying myself.”

“Uh huh. Sure.” Mia linked her arm through yours. “Just be careful, okay? I know you said two weeks and done, but it doesn’t look like your heart got that memo.”

“My heart is fine,” you protested. But even as you said it, you knew it was a lie.

The sunset event was everything the cruise had promised; a live band playing soft jazz, string lights casting everything in a warm glow, and couples swaying together on the dance floor as the sun painted the sky in shades of orange and pink. You’d dressed carefully; a sundress that was casual but flattering, your curls down, just enough makeup to look like you’d tried but not too hard. Your friends had given you knowing looks but didn’t comment, which you appreciated. You spotted Chris almost immediately. He was at the bar with Felix and two other guys you recognized as Seungmin and Hyunjin, all of them dressed casually , relaxed in a way you suspected they rarely got to be.

Your eyes met across the deck, and the smile that spread across his face made your heart stutter. It was unguarded, genuine, full of warmth and something that looked dangerously like affection. He said something to his friends and made his way over to you, and you couldn’t help but watch the way he moved, confident and graceful despite his earlier claims of being unathletic.

“Hey,” he said when he reached you, and God, even just that one word in his voice made you want things you shouldn’t.

“Hey yourself.”

“You look beautiful.” His eyes traced over you appreciatively, lingering on the way the dress hugged your curves, but it wasn’t leering. It was warm, intimate, like he was remembering exactly what was underneath. “How were the stingrays?”

“Less terrifying than advertised. How’s your face after the volleyball incident?”

He laughed, touching his cheek ruefully. “Bruised but functional. Want to dance?”

“Thought you’d never ask.”

His hand found yours, and the touch felt significant now, weighted with memory; these hands on your body, inside you, making you come apart. You let him lead you onto the dance floor, hyperaware of the way your friends and his were watching. The song was slow, romantic, and he pulled you close without hesitation, like he had every right to hold you like this. One hand settled on your lower back, the other holding yours, and you rested your free hand on his shoulder.

“Your friends are watching us,” you murmured against his shoulder.

“So are yours. Should we give them a show?”

“I thought we were keeping this casual.”

“We are. But casual doesn’t mean secret.” His hand pressed against your lower back, pulling you incrementally closer. “Unless you want it to be?”

“I don’t know what I want,” you admitted. It was becoming a theme.

“That’s fair.” He was quiet for a moment, just holding you, swaying to the music. “For what it’s worth, I told the guys about you. Not everything, but that I met someone. That I wanted to spend time with you.”

Your heart did something complicated. “What did they say?”

“Felix said I look happier than I have in months. Changbin made inappropriate jokes. Seungmin told me not to be an idiot and fuck it up. Hyunjin asked if you’re real or if I made you up.” He pulled back slightly to look at you. “What about your friends?”

“They’re thrilled I’m getting laid.” You felt your cheeks heat. “And they want to know if I’m going to keep seeing you. They’re worried I’m going to get hurt.”

“Are you? Going to keep seeing me?“

You looked up at him, at the hope in his eyes mixed with something darker, more cautious. Like he was afraid of your answer.

“We said two weeks,” you said carefully. “No expectations but that doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy those two weeks, right?”

His expression shifted, something like relief flooding his features. “Right. Enjoy the time we have.”

It sounded reasonable. Mature. Exactly what you’d agreed to. So why did it feel like you were both lying to yourselves?

The song changed to something a bit more upbeat, and suddenly your respective friend groups were migrating toward each other, pulled together by curiosity and the cruise ship phenomenon of everyone wanting to make friends.

“So, you’re the mystery woman,” Felix said, approaching with a grin that was knowing and kind in equal measure. “I’m Felix. Nice to finally officially meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too.”

Introductions were made all around, drinks were procured, and somehow the two friend groups merged seamlessly. Your friends were star-struck but hiding it incredibly well—Mia was doing an excellent job of pretending she didn’t know exactly who she was talking to, and Jenna was keeping her inner fangirl completely locked down. Chris’s friends were charming and welcoming, treating you like you were just another person rather than some random fan their friend had picked up. Hyunjin was devastatingly beautiful in person and knew it, but in a playful way that was endearing rather than off-putting. Seungmin was quieter, more observant, but his dry humor had you laughing within minutes.

“So how did you two meet?” Changbin asked, his English accented but clear, his eyes dancing with mischief.

You and Chris exchanged a look, and you could see him fighting a smile.

“We literally ran into each other,” you said. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

“And I wasn’t watching where I was going,” Chris added. “Ended up nearly taking each other out near the casino on day one.”

“Love at first collision,” Jenna said dramatically, and everyone laughed.

“More like concussion at first collision,” you countered. “I dropped my phone and everything.”

“But you didn’t break it,” Chris pointed out. “So it was fate.”

“Or good phone case engineering.”

“I prefer fate.”

The banter was easy, natural, and you found yourself relaxing into it. This felt almost normal, hanging out with friends, laughing, enjoying the warm night and good company. If you didn’t think too hard about the fact that you were on a cruise ship with a K-pop group, it was almost like you and Chris were just…dating. Which you weren’t. Because this was temporary. Finite. You needed to remember that.

As the night wore on, the group splintered into smaller conversations. You found yourself talking to Felix while Chris was occupied with Mia and Sophie, who were asking him about music production with genuine interest.

“He seems really happy,” Felix said, watching his friend with an expression that was fond and slightly concerned. “I haven’t seen him this relaxed in…I can’t remember how long.”

“He told me about the panic attack,” you said quietly. “Is he doing okay? Really?”

Felix’s expression turned more serious. “He’s better than he was. But Chan has this thing where he thinks he has to take care of everyone else and never lets anyone take care of him. He burns himself out trying to be perfect, trying to be what everyone needs him to be.”

“That sounds exhausting.”

“It is. That’s why the company forced this vacation.” Felix looked at you directly now, and his eyes were kind but assessing. “Whatever this is between you two, it’s good for him. You’re good for him. He’s actually letting himself just be. That’s rare.”

The weight of that statement settled on your chest. “Felix, this is just, we’re just—”

“I know. Two weeks. He told us.” Felix’s smile was gentle. “I’m not asking you to be anything more than what you are. I’m just saying…thank you. For giving him this. For seeing him as Chris instead of Bang Chan.”

You didn’t know what to say to that, so you just nodded. Later, much later, when the party was winding down and people were starting to drift back to their cabins, Chris walked you back to your room, his hand in yours.

“That was nice,” you said. “Your friends are great.”

“So are yours.” He paused outside your door. “Can I…would you want to come back to my room? No pressure, we don’t have to do anything, I just—I’m not ready to say goodnight yet.”

You should say no. You should establish some boundaries, not let this become an every-night thing. But the way he was looking at you, hopeful and vulnerable, made the refusal die in your throat.

“Let me just grab some stuff.”

His smile was brilliant. You slipped into your cabin where Mia was already getting ready for bed, while Sophie and Jenna lounged on your bed, quickly throwing toiletries and clean clothes into your bag while she made exaggerated kissy faces at you.

“Be safe!” Mia called as you left.

“Use protection!” Jenna added.

“He’s got his own room, not his own pharmacy,” Sophie said. “But seriously, have fun.”

You flipped them off lovingly and slipped back out to find Chris leaning against the wall in the hallway, looking at his phone. When he heard your door, he looked up, and that smile again; the one that made your heart do acrobatics.

“Ready?” he asked, taking your bag from you like it weighed something.

“Ready.”

The walk back to his cabin felt different than last night. Less frantic, less desperate. But no less charged. His thumb traced patterns on your palm, and every touch felt significant, weighted with meaning you weren’t sure you should assign to it. Once inside his room, he set your bag down carefully and turned to you.

“Do you want to—” he started.

You kissed him, cutting off whatever question he was going to ask. Because yes, you wanted to. You wanted him to touch you, wanted to lose yourself in the feeling of being wanted, of being desired. But this time, when he started to undress you, you stopped him.

“My turn first,” you said.

You could see the confusion in his eyes, but also the darkening desire. “What?”

“Last night was…” You searched for the words. “Last night you were very focused on me. On my pleasure. Which was incredible. But tonight, I want to focus on you.”

Understanding dawned, along with something that looked like wonder. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to.” You pushed him gently toward the bed. “I want to watch you fall apart. Want to learn what makes you feel good. Want to make you feel as good as you made me feel.”

He sat on the edge of the bed, looking up at you with eyes that were dark and hungry and just a little bit vulnerable. “Okay.”

You took your time undressing him, pressing kisses to each new bit of exposed skin. When he was finally naked before you, his cock hard and already leaking, you knelt between his legs.

“Tell me what you like,” you said, wrapping one hand around him. “I want to know what drives you crazy.”

He groaned, his hips lifting slightly into your touch. “Tighter. I like it a little rough.”

You adjusted your grip, stroking him firmly from base to tip, and his head fell back with a moan. “Like that?”

“Fuck, yes. Just like that.”

You learned him the way he’d learned you, what made him gasp (twisting your hand on the upstroke), what made him curse (paying attention to the sensitive spot just under the head), what made his thighs shake (taking him deep into your throat while massaging his balls).

“Wait,” he gasped after several minutes, his hand in your hair. “Stop, I’m too close—”

“So come,” you said, looking up at him. “I want to taste you. Want to swallow everything you give me.”

“Fuck.” His hand tightened in your hair,pulling slightly. “You’re going to kill me.”

“Good,” you said, and took him back into your mouth.

It only took a few more strokes before he was coming with a shout, his whole body going taut, his release flooding your mouth. You swallowed it all, working him through it until he was pushing at your head, oversensitive. When you pulled off, his eyes were glazed, his chest heaving.

“That was…” He reached down, pulling you up and kissing you deeply, tasting himself on your tongue. “That was incredible. You’re incredible.”

“We’re not done,” you said against his mouth.

His laugh was breathless. “Give me like five minutes. I’m not twenty anymore.”

“I can work with that.”

You climbed onto the bed, and he followed, pulling you into his arms. For a while, you just lay there, touching and kissing lazily, letting the urgency build slowly.

“Can I ask you something?” he said eventually, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your hip.

“Anything.”

“Do you ever wish things were different? That we’d met under different circumstances?”

Your heart clenched. “Chris—”

“I know. I’m not trying to change anything. I just…” He sighed. “I keep thinking about what it would be like. If we lived in the same place. If I could take you on actual dates. If we had more than two weeks.”

You didn’t know what to say to that, because you’d been thinking the same thing. And it was dangerous, letting yourself imagine a future that couldn’t exist. “I think,” you said carefully, “that if circumstances were different, we wouldn’t be having this. The whole reason this works is because it has an expiration date. Because we can both be completely honest and vulnerable knowing it’s temporary.”

“You’re probably right.” But he didn’t sound convinced.

“Besides,” you added, trying to lighten the mood, “you don’t even know if you’d like me in the real world. Maybe I’m secretly terrible. Maybe I’m a nightmare girlfriend who’s clingy and jealous and doesn’t let you have any fun.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“You don’t know. I could be a total disaster.”

“Then we’d be disasters together.” He pulled you closer. “But you’re right. This works because it’s temporary. I’m just being greedy, wanting more time.”

More time. Two simple words that held so much weight. You had eleven days left. Eleven days until this beautiful bubble burst and you both went back to your separate lives. Eleven days to memorize every touch, every sound, every moment. It felt like forever and no time at all.

“Stop thinking,” you said, sliding your hand down his body. He was already half-hard again, his recovery time impressive. “We have eleven more days. Let’s not waste time worrying about what ifs.”

“You’re right.” He rolled, pinning you beneath him, and the sudden shift made you gasp. “Let’s make the most of right now.”

This time was different from last night. Slower, more deliberate. He took his time exploring your body, finding new places that made you gasp; the spot behind your ear, the inside of your wrist, the curve where your hip met your thigh. He mapped you like he was trying to memorize every inch, and when he finally pushed inside you, it felt less like fucking and more like something deeper, more intimate.

“Look at me,” he said, echoing his words from the night before. “I want to see you.”

You locked eyes with him as he moved, and it was almost too much, too intense. You could see everything in his expression; desire, yes, but also something softer, more tender. Something that looked dangerously like the beginnings of real feeling. When you came, it was with his name on your lips and tears in your eyes, overwhelmed by sensation and emotion you weren’t ready to name. He followed moments later, his forehead pressed to yours, and you felt the moment he let go completely, surrendering to the pleasure.

After, wrapped in his arms with the gentle rocking of the ship lulling you toward sleep, you let yourself imagine—just for a moment—what it would be like if this was real. If you could wake up next to him every morning, not just for two weeks but for always. But then you pushed the thought away, buried it deep where it couldn’t hurt you.

This was temporary. This was finite. You just had to keep reminding yourself of that.

The following days fell into a rhythm that felt dangerously close to a relationship. Mornings were your own; you’d wake in Chris’s bed, tangled together, and spend an hour or two just existing in that soft, drowsy space between sleep and waking. Sometimes you’d fuck slowly, sweetly. Sometimes you’d just talk, sharing stories from your lives, learning each other in ways that went beyond the physical.

You learned that he sometimes still felt guilty about choosing his career over being there for his siblings as they grew up. That he loved to cook but rarely had time, and that his favorite thing to make was carbonara even though he could never get it quite right. He learned that you’d wanted to be a writer when you were younger, but had convinced yourself it was impractical, that you needed a “real job.” That your relationship with your ex had started good but slowly eroded your sense of self, little criticisms and comments that made you question your worth. That you were terrified of being thirty and still not knowing what you wanted from life.

Days were spent with your respective friend groups; excursions in Jamaica where you climbed Dunn’s River Falls and Chris sent you photos of himself looking miserable and wet, a beach day in Haiti where you napped in the sun while Mia read romance novels aloud in dramatic voices, a snorkeling trip in Turks and Caicos where you saw a sea turtle and actually screamed with excitement. But you always found ways to see each other. A coffee date between activities. A stolen kiss in a quiet hallway. Text messages that ranged from sweet (thinking about you) to dirty (can’t wait to get you alone tonight and make you scream my name) to just mundane updates about your day (Changbin just fell off a jet ski and blamed the jet ski).

Evenings were spent together, sometimes with both friend groups, sometimes just the two of you. You had dinner at the fancy French restaurant where Chris charmed the sommelier into recommending the perfect wine and then admitted he couldn’t tell the difference between a $20 bottle and a $200 one. You went to the ship’s comedy show and laughed until your sides hurt, Chris’s hand never leaving yours. You spent a late night in the observation deck stargazing, and he taught you about different constellations, making up ridiculous stories for the ones he couldn’t remember.

And nights…nights were spent exploring each other in every way possible. You learned that Chris had a thing for being praised during sex, that telling him how good he felt inside you or how perfect his cock was, made him lose control. That he loved going down on you, would spend hours between your legs if you let him, getting off on your pleasure as much as his own. That he had surprising stamina and could go multiple rounds if properly motivated. He learned that you had a thing for his voice, that when he spoke in Korean—which he did sometimes without thinking, usually when he was close to coming—it made you clench around him. That you loved when he got a little rough, when he gripped your hips hard enough to bruise or pulled your hair just shy of painful. That you could come from nipple stimulation alone if he was patient enough, which he proved one night just because he wanted to see if he could.

The sex was consistently incredible, but it was the after that was becoming truly dangerous. The way he held you while you fell asleep, like you were something precious he was afraid of losing. The way you woke up tangled together, unable to tell where you ended and he began. The way he looked at you in the morning light, soft and unguarded, like you were the best thing he’d seen. You were falling for him. You knew you were falling for him. And every logical part of your brain was screaming at you to pull back, to protect yourself, to remember that this was temporary but you couldn’t seem to stop. Your friends had started making comments. Gentle at first, then more pointed.

“You know this ends in five days, right?” Mia said on day nine, watching you get ready to meet Chris for dinner. “I’m not trying to be a downer, but you look at him like he hung the moon, and I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

“I know what this is,” you insisted, even as your heart clenched. “I’m going into this with my eyes open.”

“Are you?” Sophie asked gently. “Because from where we’re sitting, you look like someone falling in love.”

“I’m not falling in love. I’m just enjoying the moment.”

“Honey,” Jenna said, “you sleep in his room every night. You have breakfast together. You literally have inside jokes already. That’s not just enjoying the moment. That’s dating.”

“It’s temporary dating,” you argued. “We both know it ends when the ship docks.”

“And you’re okay with that? Walking away and never seeing him again?”

The question hung in the air, heavy and unavoidable. Were you okay with that?

“I have to be,” you said finally. “Because that’s what we agreed to. That’s the only way this works.”

Your friends exchanged looks but didn’t push further. You appreciated that, even as part of you wished they would. Wished someone would tell you what to do, how to protect your heart while still holding onto this beautiful thing for the few days you had left. Chris’s friends had apparently been having similar conversations with him. You knew because Felix pulled you aside one evening while Chris was at the bar getting drinks.

“He’s going to get hurt,” Felix said without preamble. “I need you to know that. When this ends, it’s going to wreck him.”

Your stomach dropped. “Felix—”

“I’m not blaming you. I know what you agreed to. I know this was supposed to be casual.” He looked at you with those too-knowing eyes. “But it’s not casual anymore, is it? Not for either of you.”

“What do you want me to do?” you asked, feeling helpless. “We live on different continents. He has a career that requires him to be in Korea, to tour constantly. I don’t even have a job right now. How would that even work?”

“I don’t know,” Felix admitted. “But I do know that Chan hasn’t been this happy in years. And I know that when you look at each other, it’s like the rest of the world disappears. That’s not nothing.”

“It’s not enough,” you said quietly. “Feeling something isn’t enough to build a life on. We’d be setting ourselves up for failure.”

“Maybe. Or maybe you’d be setting yourselves up for something amazing.” He squeezed your shoulder. “I’m not telling you what to do. I’m just asking you to think about it. To really think about whether you’re letting fear make your decisions for you.”

The conversation haunted you for the rest of the night, even as you smiled and laughed and pretended everything was fine.

Later, in Chris’s bed, he could tell something was off.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his fingers trailing up and down your spine in that soothing way he did.

“Nothing. Just thinking.”

“About?”

You considered lying, but you’d promised each other honesty. “About what happens when this ends in five days.”

His hand stilled on your back. “Oh.”

“Felix said something earlier. About…about us. About this not being as casual as we planned.”

“Felix needs to mind his own business,” Chris muttered, but there was no heat in it.

“He’s not wrong though, is he?” You propped yourself up to look at him. “This doesn’t feel casual anymore.”

Chris was quiet for a long moment, his jaw working. “No,” he finally admitted. “It doesn’t.”

“So, what do we do?”

“I don’t know.” He pulled you back down against his chest, like he couldn’t bear the distance. “I’ve been trying not to think about it. Trying to just enjoy what we have while we have it.”

“But we can’t ignore it forever. In five days, we dock. And then what?”

“And then we say goodbye. Like we agreed.” His voice was strained. “We go back to our lives. We remember this as a beautiful two weeks. We move on.”

“Can you do that?” you asked. “Can you just…move on? Forget about this?”

“No.” The admission was raw, honest. “But I’ll have to, won’t I? Because there’s no alternative. I can’t ask you to upend your life for me. I can’t offer you a relationship where we see each other maybe a few weeks a year between tours and promotions and recordings. That’s not fair to you.”

“What about what’s fair to you?”

“I chose this life. I knew what I was signing up for.” His arms tightened around you. “I can’t have both. I learned that a long time ago. So, I choose my career, and I let go of everything else.”

“That’s a really lonely way to live.”

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “It is.”

You lay there in the darkness, listening to each other breathe, and felt the weight of the inevitable pressing down on both of you.

“Can we make a new agreement?” you asked.

“What kind of agreement?”

“Let’s not talk about the end anymore. Not until we have to. Let’s just be here. Be present. Make these last five days count.”

“I can do that.” He pressed a kiss to your forehead. “I want every moment we have left. Every second. I want to memorize you so completely that I’ll carry you with me for the rest of my life.”

The words should have been romantic. They were romantic. But they also felt like mourning, like you were both already grieving something that hadn’t ended yet.

“Make love to me,” you said, needing to feel close to him, needing the physical connection to drown out the emotional turmoil. “Make me forget everything except us.”

He did, with a tenderness that made you want to cry, and when you came apart in his arms, you let yourself believe—just for a moment—that this could be forever.

Day ten brought the ship to Barbados, and your friends had signed you all up for a zip-lining excursion through the rainforest. It was exhilarating and terrifying, and when you finished, adrenaline pumping through your veins, you had an overwhelming urge to see Chris.

You texted him: Where are you?

Back on the ship. Guys wanted to go into town but I needed some quiet. You okay?

Yeah. Can I come find you?

Always.

You ditched your friends with a promise to meet them for dinner and headed back to the ship. You found Chris on his balcony, sitting with his laptop, headphones on, completely absorbed in whatever he was working on. For a moment, you just watched him. This was the side of him most people didn’t see; completely focused, in his element, creating something from nothing. His fingers flew across the keyboard, his head nodding slightly to whatever beat he was hearing. You knocked on the glass door, and he looked up, his face transforming into a smile that made your heart ache.

“Hey,” he said, pulling off his headphones and setting them aside. “I thought you had ziplining?”

“I did. It was amazing but I wanted to see you.” You stepped out onto the balcony. The ocean stretched endlessly before you, beautiful and vast and somehow lonely. “What are you working on?”

He looked almost guilty. “Just…music stuff. I know I’m supposed to be on vacation, but I had this melody in my head, and I needed to get it out before I forgot it.”

“Can I hear it?”

He hesitated, and you could see the vulnerability in his expression. This was different from performing, from the polished tracks that got released to millions. This was raw, personal.

“It’s rough,” he warned. “Not finished. Probably not even good.”

“I still want to hear it.”

He studied you for a moment, then nodded, offering you his headphones. You put them on, and he hit play.

The track was beautiful; melancholic and hopeful at the same time, with lyrics in Korean that you couldn’t understand but could feel. The production was layered, complex, with a melody that was somehow both painful and comforting. There was something raw about it, something vulnerable that made your chest tight. When it finished, you pulled off the headphones and just looked at him.

“What’s it about?” you asked, even though you thought you knew.

“It’s about…” He ran a hand through his hair, not meeting your eyes. “It’s about finding something unexpected. Something you weren’t looking for but desperately needed. About holding onto something even when you know you can’t keep it.”

Your breath caught. “Chris—”

“It’s about you,” he said, finally looking at you, and the raw emotion in his eyes nearly undid you. “I’ve been working on it for days. I can’t seem to write about anything else.”

You didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to respond to that kind of vulnerability, that kind of honesty.

“I need to tell you something,” he continued, the words coming faster now, like a dam breaking. “And I know it breaks our agreement, I know it’s not what we said, but I can’t keep pretending—”

“Don’t.” You put your hand over his mouth, stopping the words you knew were coming, the words that would make this real and complicated and impossible to walk away from. “Please don’t. Not yet. We still have four more days.”

He pulled your hand away, holding it against his chest. You could feel his heart racing. “What if I don’t want to wait four more days? What if I want to say it now, while we’re here, while it matters?”

“It will still matter in four days.”

“Will it? Or will we convince ourselves it was just the cruise, just the bubble, just temporary insanity?” His grip on your hand tightened. “I’m falling for you. I might already be in love with you. And I need you to know that before we get to the end, before we dock and go our separate ways. I need you to know that this meant something to me. That you mean something to me.”

Tears were streaming down your face now, and you didn’t know when you’d started crying. “You said you couldn’t have both. You said you chose your career.”

“I know what I said. But I’m starting to think I was wrong. Or maybe just scared.” He cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs wiping away your tears. “What if we tried? What if we at least tried to make this work?”

“How?” The word came out broken. “Chris, be realistic. You live in Korea. You tour constantly. Your life is schedules and obligations and being in the public eye. I live—well, I don’t even know where I live right now, but it’s in the U.S. I need to find a job, rebuild my life. How would we make that work?”

“I don’t know. But people do it. People make long-distance work all the time.”

“Not people in your situation. You can’t exactly pop over for a weekend visit. And what about the public nature of your life? The fans? I’m not—I can’t be that person who gets torn apart online for dating you.”

“We’d keep it private. Just for us.”

“For how long? Until someone takes a photo? Until it leaks?” You pulled back, needing distance to think. “Chris, I care about you. So much it scares me. But I can’t be someone’s secret. I can’t be the thing you hide because I’m not good enough for public consumption.”

“That’s not what I meant—”

“Isn’t it though?” Your voice was sharper than you intended, edged with all the fear and insecurity you’d been trying to bury. “You’re Bang Chan. You’re successful and talented and loved by millions. I’m unemployed, living with my friend, still figuring out who I am. What happens when you realize I’m not worth the hassle? When the reality of trying to make this work becomes too much?”

“You think I care about any of that?” He looked genuinely hurt. “You think your job status or where you live matters to me?”

“It should. We’re from completely different worlds, Chris. This—” you gestured between you, “—this worked because it was temporary. Because we could pretend those differences didn’t matter. But in the real world, they do matter.”

“So that’s it?” His voice was flat. “You won’t even consider trying because you’re convinced it won’t work?”

“I’m trying to be realistic. One of us has to be.”

“No, you’re trying to protect yourself. You’re so scared of getting hurt that you won’t even take the chance.” He stood up, pacing the small balcony. “Your ex really did a number on you, didn’t he? Made you think you’re not worth fighting for.”

The words hit like a slap. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it? You keep saying we’re from different worlds, that you’re not good enough, that this can’t work. But what I’m hearing is that you don’t think you deserve this. That you don’t think you deserve to be happy.”

“And what I’m hearing is that you’re willing to blow up both our lives for something that has a very high probability of failure!” Your voice rose, months of pain and fear and self-doubt bubbling to the surface. “You want me to what? Move to Korea? Give up any chance of rebuilding my career in the U.S? Become the secret girlfriend who sits around waiting for you to have a few free hours between schedules?”

“I never said you had to move to Korea. I never said any of that.”

“But that’s what it would be, isn’t it? Because you can’t leave. Your career is there. Your life is there. So I’d be the one making all the sacrifices, and what happens when it’s not enough? When the distance and the secrecy and the loneliness become too much?”

“So instead, you’d rather just walk away now? Not even try?”

“Yes!” The word was torn from somewhere deep inside you. “Yes, I’d rather walk away now while I still can. While this is still something beautiful I can remember fondly instead of something that destroyed me.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Chris stared at you, and you could see the moment your words landed, the moment he accepted what you were saying.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “Okay. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed.”

“Chris—”

“No, you’re right. This was always temporary. I got caught up in it, started believing it could be more, but you’re right. It’s better to end it now, before it gets more complicated.” He wouldn’t look at you, his jaw tight. “You should go.”

“What?”

“You should go. Back to your cabin. I think—I think we need some space. Some time to think.”

Your heart was breaking, actually breaking. “I don’t want to leave like this.”

“And I don’t want to say something I’ll regret.” His voice was carefully controlled, too controlled. “Please. Just go.”

You stood there for a moment, wanting to take it all back, wanting to tell him you were wrong, that you were scared but willing to try. But the words wouldn’t come. Because you weren’t wrong. You were being realistic, practical, protecting yourself from the inevitable heartbreak.

So why did it feel like you were making the biggest mistake of your life?

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

“Me too.”

You left, and the sound of his door closing behind you felt like the end of everything.

You didn’t see Chris for two days.It shouldn’t have been possible on a ship carrying two thousand people where you’d been managing to find each other constantly, but somehow you both succeeded in completely avoiding each other. He wasn’t at any of the usual spots. You didn’t go to any of the evening events. Your friend groups, sensing the tension, stopped trying to merge. Your friends didn’t push you to talk about it, which you appreciated. They just stayed close, kept you distracted, made sure you got out of bed and ate and didn’t completely fall apart.

But you felt like you were falling apart anyway. Like you’d ripped out some essential part of yourself and left it in Chris’s cabin. You kept replaying the fight in your head, analyzing every word, wondering if you could have said something different. Wondering if he was right, if you were just too scared to take a chance. Wondering if protecting your heart was worth the pain you were feeling now.

On day twelve—two days before the cruise ended—Mia finally broke.

“Okay, I can’t take this anymore,” she said, barging into the bathroom where you were getting ready for dinner. “You’re miserable. He’s miserable. Felix told me Chan hasn’t left his room except for meals and he’s barely eating. This is ridiculous.”

“What do you want me to do?” you asked, applying mascara with shaking hands. “I can’t give him what he wants.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes, it matters!” Mia took the mascara from you, forcing you to look at her. “Honey, I know you’re scared. I know your ex did a number on you; made you doubt yourself but this is different. Chris is different.”

“Is he? Or am I just projecting what I want to see?” You slumped against the counter. “Mia, I’ve known him for less than two weeks. That’s not enough time to make life-changing decisions.”

“Says who? People get engaged after less time. People move across the world for someone they met on vacation. People take chances on love all the time.”

“And people get their hearts broken all the time. People make impulsive decisions based on vacation feelings and then reality sets in and it all falls apart.” You felt tears threatening again. “I can’t go through another breakup. I can’t rebuild myself again. I don’t have it in me.”

“So instead, you’re going to walk away from potentially the best thing that’s ever happened to you because you’re scared it might not work out?” Mia’s expression was soft, but her words were firm. “That’s not protecting yourself. That’s giving your ex power over your future. That’s letting your fear win.”

“I’m being realistic—”

“You’re being terrified. There’s a difference.” She squeezed your shoulders. “Look, I’m not saying you have to marry the guy. I’m not even saying you have to commit to anything right now. But you have two more days on this ship. Two more days with him. Don’t you think you owe it to both of you to at least talk? To figure out if there’s any possible way to make this work before you completely give up?”

“What if we talk and it’s still impossible? What if there’s no solution?”

“Then at least you’ll know. At least you’ll have tried. And you can walk away knowing you gave it a real chance instead of spending the rest of your life wondering what if.”

You hated that she was making sense. Hated that the idea of talking to Chris, of seeing him again, made your heart race with hope you didn’t want to feel. “I don’t even know what I’d say to him.”

“Start with ‘I’m sorry for freaking out.’ Move on to ‘I’m scared but maybe we can figure this out together.’ See where it goes from there.” Mia pulled you into a hug. “You deserve to be happy. You deserve someone who looks at you the way Chris looks at you. Don’t let fear steal that from you.”

After she left, you sat on your bed, staring at your phone. You could text him. It would be easy. Just a few words. But what would you say? What could you possibly say that would fix this?

Your phone buzzed, and your heart leaped but it wasn’t Chris. It was Felix.

He’s on the observation deck. The one where you first kissed. He goes there every night around 10. Just thought you should know.

You looked at the time. 9:30. You had thirty minutes to decide if you were brave enough to try.

At 9:55, you found yourself standing outside the observation deck, your heart pounding so hard you could hear it in your ears. You could see him through the glass doors, sitting on one of the lounge chairs, staring out at the dark ocean. Even from here, you could see the tension in his shoulders, the defeat in his posture.

You’d done that to him. Your fear had hurt him. Taking a deep breath, you pushed open the door. He turned at the sound, and the hope that flashed across his face before he could hide it nearly broke you.

“Hi,” you said, your voice small.

“Hi.” He stood up slowly, like he was afraid sudden movement would spook you. “What are you doing here?”

“Felix texted me. Told me where to find you.”

“I’m going to kill him.”

“Please don’t. He was being a good friend.” You took a few steps closer but maintained distance between you. The air felt charged, heavy with everything unsaid. “Can we talk?”

“Do you want to?”

“I don’t know. But I think we need to.”

He nodded slowly and sat back down. You took the chair next to him, and for a moment you both just sat there, looking out at the ocean.

“I’m sorry,” you both said at the same time.

Despite everything, you almost smiled. “You first.”

“I’m sorry for pushing you,” Chris said, his voice quiet but clear. “You were right. We agreed to two weeks, no expectations, and I tried to change the rules without warning. That wasn’t fair.”

“I’m sorry for freaking out. And for some of the things I said. You weren’t trying to make me your secret or asking me to give up everything. I just…I panicked.”

“I know.” He finally looked at you, and his eyes were red-rimmed like he hadn’t been sleeping well. “I scared you. This whole thing scared you.”

“It terrified me,” you admitted. “It still does. Chris, I meant what I said, we barely know each other. We’ve known each other for twelve days. That’s not a solid foundation for turning our lives upside down.”

“I know that too. Logically, I know you’re right.” He ran a hand through his hair. “But it doesn’t feel like twelve days. It feels like I’ve known you forever. Like you’re the missing piece I didn’t know I was looking for.”

Your chest ached. “I feel that too. But feelings aren’t enough. Logistics matter. Reality matters.”

“So, what do we do?”

That was the question, wasn’t it? The one you’d been avoiding for days.

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “I’ve been thinking about it constantly. Trying to figure out if there’s any way this could work. And I just…I can’t see it. The distance, your schedule, the public nature of your life, it’s too much. It’s too many obstacles.”

“What if we took it slow?” he suggested, and you could hear the desperation in his voice, the need to find a solution. “What if we just stayed in touch? Texted, video called when we can. No pressure, no expectations. Just see what happens?”

“And then what? We do that for months, maybe years, seeing each other a few times a year if we’re lucky? That’s not a relationship, Chris. That’s torture.”

“So you’d rather have nothing? You’d rather walk away and never speak to me again?”

“I don’t want that either!” The words burst out of you, raw and honest. “I don’t want any of this! I don’t want to walk away but I don’t want to set us up for failure. I don’t want to lose you, but I can’t have you. There’s no good option here!”

“Then let’s pick the least bad option.” He reached over, taking your hand. You should have pulled away, but you couldn’t. “Let’s stay in touch. Let’s see what happens. Maybe it won’t work; maybe the distance will be too much, maybe we’ll realize this was just a cruise thing. But maybe it won’t. Maybe we’ll figure it out. Maybe we’ll find a way.”

“And if we don’t? If we drag this out for months and it still ends badly?”

“Then at least we tried. At least we didn’t give up without fighting for it.” His thumb traced circles on your palm, and the familiar gesture made your eyes sting with tears. “I know I can’t promise you forever. I can’t even promise you next month. But I can promise that what I feel for you is real. And I can promise that I want to try. Don’t you?”

Did you?

You thought about going back to your life in the U.S. Finding a new job, rebuilding your routine, moving on. You’d be safe. Protected. No risk of getting your heart broken. You’d also be miserable. Wondering what if. Regretting not taking the chance.

“I’m scared,” you whispered.

“Me too.” He squeezed your hand. “But I’m more scared of losing you without trying.”

You looked at him, really looked at him. At the hope and fear and vulnerability in his eyes. At the way he was holding your hand like it was a lifeline. This man had seen you at your lowest and made you feel beautiful. Had listened to your broken stories and offered comfort without judgment. Had made you laugh and cry and feel more alive than you had in years.

Maybe Mia was right. Maybe you did owe it to both of you to try.

“Okay,” you said, and watched his eyes widen. “Okay, we try. No promises, no expectations about where this goes. We just…see what happens.”

“Yeah?” The hope in his voice was almost painful to hear.

“Yeah. But I have conditions.”

“Of course you do.” But he was smiling now, really smiling, and it made your heart flutter.

“We have to be honest with each other. If it’s not working, if the distance is too much, we talk about it. We don’t let it drag on out of guilt or obligation.”

“Agreed.”

“And we have to be realistic about what this is. I can’t—I can’t put my life on hold waiting for the next time I might see you. I need to move forward, find a job, build something stable. You need to focus on your career without feeling guilty about not being available. We have to have our own lives.”

“I understand. What else?”

“I need time. Before we…before we tell anyone or make this official or whatever. I need to see if this actually works in the real world before we complicate it further.”

He nodded slowly. “How much time?”

“I don’t know. A few months? Long enough to know if this is real or just residual vacation feelings.”

“Okay. A few months of just us. Private. Seeing if we can make it work.” He pulled you closer, until you were sitting on his lap, his arms wrapped around you. “I can do that. As long as I get to keep talking to you, keep knowing you, I can do anything.”

You buried your face in his neck, breathing him in, trying to memorize this moment. “I’m still scared.”

“I know. So am I.” He pressed a kiss to your temple. “But we’re going to try anyway. That’s pretty brave.”

“Or pretty stupid.”

“Maybe both.”

You pulled back to look at him, and the tenderness in his expression made you ache. “We have two more days on this ship. What do we do with them?”

“We enjoy them. We be together. We make memories we can hold onto when this gets hard.” His hand cupped your face. “And then we dock, and we go back to our lives, and we start figuring out how to do this for real.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

It sounded simple. You knew it wouldn’t be but right now, sitting in his arms under the stars with the ocean surrounding you, you let yourself believe it could work.

“I need you to know something,” you said. “Before we do this. I need you to know that I—” You took a breath. “I’m falling for you too. Maybe already in love with you. That’s why this is so scary. Because it matters. Because losing you would break me.”

His arms tightened around you. “Then we don’t lose each other. We fight for this. Together.”

“Together,” you echoed.

He kissed you then, soft and sweet and full of promise, and you let yourself fall into it. Let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, this crazy thing could work. You had two more days on the ship. Two more days to be together without the complications of the real world intruding. You were going to make them count.

The last two days on the ship were bittersweet.

You spent almost every moment together, trying to pack a lifetime of experiences into forty-eight hours. You had breakfast in bed while watching the sunrise. You went to a wine tasting and got pleasantly drunk, laughing at each other’s terrible attempts to describe the flavors. You convinced Chris to go to the karaoke night, which somehow made you love him more. You made love with a desperation that came from knowing it would be the last time for a while. Slow and tender, mapping each other’s bodies like you were memorizing them. Fast and urgent, trying to satisfy a hunger you both knew would linger. In the shower, on the balcony in the early morning when no one was around, against the wall when you couldn’t make it to the bed. Each time felt like goodbye and hello at the same time. An ending and a beginning.

“What’s the first thing you’re going to do when you get home?” Chris asked on the last night, both of you tangled together in his bed, neither of you willing to sleep and waste these final hours.

“Probably cry,” you admitted. “Then start job hunting. Figure out where I’m going to live long-term. Try to build a life that makes sense.”

“And us? Where do we fit in that life?”

“I don’t know yet. I guess we figure it out as we go.” You traced patterns on his chest. “What about you?”

“Back to the studio. We have an album to finish.” He was quiet for a moment. “I’m going to write you so many songs. You know that, right? You’re going to be in everything I create for the foreseeable future.”

“That’s a lot of pressure.”

“That’s a lot of inspiration.” He tilted your face up to kiss you. “I mean it. You’ve changed something in me. Made me remember why I started doing this in the first place. Not for the success or the recognition, but because creating something that connects with people, that makes them feel less alone, that matters.”

“You’re going to make me cry.”

“Good. Then we’re even.”

You talked through the night, sharing everything you could think of. Childhood memories, future dreams, random thoughts that probably didn’t matter but somehow felt important to share. Building a foundation of knowledge about each other that you could build on from a distance. When the sun started to rise on your last morning together, neither of you had slept.

“The ship docks in three hours,” you said quietly, watching the sky turn pink and gold.

“I know.”

“Are you ready?”

“No.” His arms tightened around you. “But I don’t think I’ll ever be ready to let you go. So three hours from now is as good a time as any.”

The actual goodbye, when it came, was worse than you’d imagined. You stood at the terminal, both friend groups giving you space but lingering nearby. Your suitcase was at your feet. Chris’s was next to him. In a few minutes, you’d go in different directions, you to your noon flight, him to his 3 PM flight.

“So, this is it,” you said, trying to smile and failing.

“For now.” He pulled you into his arms, and you buried your face in his chest, trying not to cry. “We’re going to make this work. We’re going to try.”

“I know.”

“Text me when you land?”

“Of course.”

“And we’ll video call this weekend?”

“Yes.”

He pulled back, cupping your face in his hands. “I love you. I know we said we’d take it slow and not put labels on things, but I need you to know. I love you and I’m going to keep loving you, whether we’re together or apart.”

The tears you’d been holding back spilled over. “I love you too. So much.”

He kissed you one last time, deep and desperate and full of everything you couldn’t say. When you finally broke apart, you were both crying.

“Go,” he said, even though you could see it was killing him. “Before I do something stupid like get on your flight with you.”

“Goodbye, Chris.”

“Not goodbye. Just see you later.”

You picked up your suitcase and walked away, your friends flanking you like bodyguards. You didn’t let yourself look back, even though every instinct screamed at you to run back to him. This was the right choice. The only choice. So why did it feel like you were leaving half your heart behind?

Six Months Later

The Seoul apartment was tiny, barely bigger than a closet, but it was yours. You’d found it after three weeks of staying in a hotel, with help from Chris and his connections. The rent was astronomical, but you’d found a job; contract work for a Korean company looking to expand to Western markets, plus some freelance writing on the side. Your Korean was still terrible, but you were learning.

It hadn’t been easy. The first month had been brutal; culture shock, homesickness, moments where you’d questioned every decision that had led you here. You and Chris had fought, real fights about boundaries and expectations and the complications of dating someone whose life was so public. There had been a moment, about two months in, where you’d almost given up. A tabloid had published photos of you together, and the fan reaction had been…mixed. Some were supportive. Others were vitriolic. You’d cried in Chris’s arms and said maybe this was a mistake, maybe you should go home.

He’d held you and said he’d understand if you needed to leave. But he’d also said he thought you were stronger than you knew, and this rough patch wouldn’t last forever. He’d been right. The storm had passed. Most fans had moved on to other news. You’d learned to keep your social media private, to avoid reading comments, to build a life in Seoul that existed independent of Chris’s career.

You’d made friends; other expats, some of Chris’s non-idol friends, even a few of the members’ partners who understood the unique challenges of dating someone in the industry. You’d found a coffee shop that reminded you of home, a park where you could walk and think, a rhythm to your days that felt sustainable. And Chris. Chris had been everything he’d promised and more. Patient when you were frustrated, supportive when you doubted yourself, present even when his schedule was insane. He’d helped you build a life here, but he’d also encouraged you to build it for yourself, not just for him.

The decision to move hadn’t been immediate. You’d spent three months doing the long-distance thing, and it had been exactly as hard as you’d feared. The time difference, the conflicting schedules, the ache of missing him constantly but it had also been worth it. Every video call, every message, every stolen weekend when he was in town, it had all reinforced that what you felt was real. That this was worth fighting for.

So when your contract job had offered you the option to work from their Seoul office, you’d taken it. When Chris had carefully, nervously asked if you’d ever consider moving to Korea, you’d said yes. When your friends had asked if you were sure, if you weren’t giving up too much, you’d told them the truth; you weren’t giving anything up. You were choosing something better.

Now, six months after that cruise, you were standing in your Seoul apartment waiting for Chris to arrive for dinner. You’d cooked; not well, Korean food was still beyond you, but you’d tried. The table was set with mismatched plates from the secondhand store. The door opened, and Chris walked in, his face lighting up when he saw you.

“Hey, cruise bae,” he said, using the ridiculous nickname that had somehow stuck.

“Hey yourself.” You kissed him, deep and familiar. “How was practice?”

“Exhausting. But good. We’re almost done with the new album.” He looked at the table, then back at you. “You cooked?”

“Don’t sound so shocked. I’ve been practicing.”

“I’m impressed. And slightly terrified.”

“Smart man.”

Over dinner—which was actually pretty good, if you did say so yourself—you talked about your days, your plans for the weekend, the mundane details of a life you’d built together. It was normal. Comfortable. Real. After, curled up on your tiny couch with his arms around you, Chris pressed a kiss to your temple.

“I love you,” he said. Simple. Easy. True.

“I love you too.”

“Do you ever regret it? Giving up your life in the US to come here?”

You thought about it, really thought about it. “No. Sometimes I miss my friends, and I definitely miss understanding what people are saying without having to think so hard. But regret? No. This is the best decision I ever made.”

“Even when it’s hard?”

“Especially when it’s hard. The hard parts mean it’s real. That we’re building something that matters.” You shifted to look at him. “Do you regret it? Asking me to come?”

“Never. Not once.” He twirled a loose curl around his finger. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Even better than that first week on the cruise.”

“I don’t know, that week was pretty great.”

“This is better. Because it’s real. Because we chose it, knowing it would be hard, and we did it anyway.” He paused. “Actually, speaking of the cruise…”

He shifted, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small box.

Your heart stopped.

“Chris—”

“Wait, let me; I had a whole speech planned.” He took a breath. “I know we said we’d take things slow. I know six months isn’t very long but I also know that I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life than I am about you. About us.”

He opened the box, revealing a simple, elegant ring.

“I’m not asking you to marry me. Not yet, not unless you want to. But I’m asking you to keep choosing this. Keep choosing us. Keep building this life together.” His eyes met yours, vulnerable and hopeful. “Will you?”

You were crying, and you didn’t care. “Yes. God, yes.”

He slipped the ring on your finger, and it fit perfectly. Of course it did.

“I love you so fucking much,” he said, pulling you into his lap and kissing you deeply. “Thank you for taking a chance on me. On us.”

“Thank you for making me believe I was worth taking a chance on.”

Later, in your bed, he made love to you with a tenderness that still took your breath away. And when you came apart in his arms, you knew with absolute certainty that this was where you were meant to be.

You thought about that scared, broken vrsion of yourself who’d stepped onto that cruise six months ago. The woman who’d been so afraid of taking risks, of being hurt, of wanting more than the safe, comfortable life she’d built. That woman had been brave enough to take a chance. To say yes to possibility. To fall in love with a stranger and follow him halfway around the world on nothing but hope and faith and the belief that sometimes, the scariest thing is exactly what you need.

Your phone buzzed with a text from Mia.

Monthly check-in. Are you still alive? Still happy? Still insanely in love with your K-pop boyfriend?

You smiled and typed back: Alive, happy, and yes. Also, he just gave me a promise ring. I think I’m going to marry him.

The response was immediate: WHAT. DETAILS. NOW.

Tomorrow. Right now, I’m busy.

Busy doing what?

You looked at Chris, who was watching you with soft eyes and a smile that made your heart flutter.

Busy living my best life, you typed. Busy being happy. Busy not regretting a single thing.

And you meant it. Every word.

The cruise had been meant to be an escape, a brief reprieve from a life that had fallen apart. Instead, it had been a beginning. The start of something real, complicated, and beautiful and worth every hard moment. You’d gone looking for a vacation from your problems. You’d found a future instead and it had all started with a collision, a lie of omission, and a drunken proposal to be someone’s cruise bae.

Best terrible idea you’d ever had.

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