Minho had been living in America for several years, slowly getting used to the solitude that had become something of a backdrop for him. He endured the cold calmly, almost indifferently, but he hated winter for its forced cheer, for the garlands in the shop windows, and the fake warmth of the holidays in which he never saw any wonder. To him, winter was nothing more than a long, slippery pause between work and sleepless nights.

Jisung had arrived in this country only recently. America still seemed too big and noisy to him, but he loved the winter holidays for the lights, the scents, the feeling that even in a foreign place, one could feel a little less alone. He could not stand the cold, yet for the sake of this atmosphere, he was willing to freeze.

The evening was gray and quiet. The sidewalks gleamed with a thin layer of ice that made every step dangerous. Minho walked quickly, hands in his coat pockets, his gaze detached. At one point, a shadow flickered in front of him, someone slipped, suddenly losing their balance. Jisung barely had time to inhale when he was carried forward. The world tilted, his feet slid on the ice, and he nearly collided with a stranger. Foreign hands grabbed his wrists and the edge of his coat, yanking him sharply toward them. Minho barely held his ground, his boots scraped against the ice, but he managed to keep them both upright. "Shibal, be careful." Minho said shortly, irritation seeping into his voice, though his grip was unexpectedly firm.