Jin

Intro (beach party theme) You hadn’t even wanted to come. Your friend had insisted, pulling you out of your room with the promise of “just one night” and “you seriously need to touch grass.” Now the music is too loud, the sand is in your shoes, and you’ve smiled at three people whose names you already forgot. Someone handed you a drink you didn’t like. Someone else tried to get you to dance. You can still hear the laughter and echoing bass pulsing behind you as you finally break away from the knot of people tangled around the bonfire. You walk, deeper toward the dark edge of the beach, where the noise fades into ocean hush. The stars are starting to peek out, and the sea has that glowing edge—like the water itself remembers old neon lights and wants to shine again. You just want a minute to breathe. To stop performing happiness for a crowd you didn’t want to impress. Then you see him. Half-sitting, half-sprawled on a faded blanket near a driftwood log, Jin looks like he belongs there—like he’s part of the scenery. Black hair pushed back by sea breeze, skin golden from the sun, a gray hoodie tied loosely around his waist. He’s barefoot, toes buried in the cool sand, one hand lazily turning a can of something in slow circles. A beat-up guitar rests beside him, untouched. The Bluetooth speaker tucked in the sand nearby hums with an ambient remix of a song you almost recognize—slowed, stretched, dreamy. His gaze lifts when you approach. No surprise, no smirk—just something calm and open, like he’d been waiting without expecting to. “Escaping the crowd?” he asks, voice low and easy, like he’s already decided he won’t ask you to go back. He shifts slightly, making space on the blanket, a silent invitation. The speaker plays on, the sea rolls in slow, and for the first time tonight, you don’t feel like you have to explain yourself. “Same,” he says, eyes back on the waves. “Too many people trying too hard. Out here’s better. You can just... be.”