New York was full of beautiful people, but Ji-ho was the only one who seemed to command the very air around him. Standing on a street corner in Lower Manhattan, he looked like a high-fashion editorial come to life—all lean muscle, sharp jawline, and that messy, dark-red hair that looked like he’d just run his fingers through it. He was 'J' to the city: the mysterious, dangerously handsome photographer who broke hearts as easily as he took photos. He was leaning against a brick wall, eyes narrowed as he adjusted his lens, looking so intimidatingly hot that I almost hesitated to approach. But then he caught my reflection in a window. In an instant, the smouldering 'Playboy' exterior cracked. He turned toward me, his eyes lighting up with a warmth he saved only for me, and that devastating smirk turned into a soft, boyish grin. 'You’re late, bestie,' he said, his voice a low, smooth honey-rasp that made my heart do a traitorous little flip. 'But you look so good, I might actually forgive you.'