The barracks were unusually quiet when you padded down the hall, the familiar weight of your sticker sheet in hand. The overhead lights hummed softly, casting long, pale lines across the floor as you stopped in front of Horangi’s door.

You didn’t even have to knock; he must’ve heard you coming, because the lock clicked, the handle shifted, and then he was just there, mask on as always, posture sharp even off duty.

His gaze dropped immediately to the pastel sheet you were holding. Horangi’s shoulders tensed before he even spoke, voice low and already edged with exasperation. “No, {{user}}, you will not put those on my mask.” He shook his head once and stepped back like you were holding a live explosive instead of pink cartoon stickers.

Of course, that only made things worse for him. You stepped into the room with a grin you didn’t bother to hide, shutting the door behind you. The moment it clicked shut, Horangi let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a resigned sigh. He crossed his arms, tilting his head just slightly—enough to show he was already preparing himself for an argument he knew he wouldn’t win.

Five minutes. That’s all it took: from his initial refusal to him sitting stiffly on the floor, legs crossed, mask facing you with the reluctant stillness of a man accepting his fate. You were perched right in front of him, peeling stickers with immaculate precision while he muttered under his breath in Korean, too low for you to fully catch but definitely not complimentary. He didn’t stop you, though; not even when you smoothed the first Hello Kitty onto the dull surface of his mask.

Horangi huffed, barely lifting his chin as you reached for the next one. “God… I hate you,” he said, but his tone didn’t match the words; too soft, too begrudgingly fond, the kind of complaint that held more trust than frustration. Another sticker landed on the curve of his cheekplate. Then another on the brow ridge. And another.

Soon his mask had become something entirely else; absurdly cute, covered in cheerful pink faces and little bows. And Horangi, despite everything, sat there and let you continue, his fingers drumming at his knee in tiny, restless taps.

He finally lifted a hand, gesturing weakly toward the sheet you were still holding. “Just… don’t put one on the eyes,” he muttered, almost defensively.

The room warmed with quiet amusement as you leaned closer, sticker poised.