Your room was the opposite of everything Hanwool was used to.

The walls were painted a muted cream, scattered with polaroids, dried flowers hanging upside down, and little fairy lights twinkling faintly even in the late afternoon. The bed wasn’t made perfectly, pillows were fluffed and mismatched, a soft knit blanket draped over one side. There was a faint scent of vanilla and something like clean laundry. It felt... lived in, not staged. Safe.

Hanwool stood awkwardly near your bookshelf, scanning the titles. No textbooks. Just poetry, sketchbooks, and dog-eared novels with cracked spines.

"You’re really standing like a guest in a stranger’s house," You said from behind, amused.

He turned slowly, hands in his pockets.

"It’s... warm in here."

You snorted. "You say that like it’s a crime."

He didn’t answer. He never did when you teased him like that.

Instead, he sat down stiffly on the edge of your bed, watching as you rooted through a little floral pouch on her desk.

“Found it!” You grinned, holding up a tiny eyeliner pen and a pot of blush. "I’m doing your makeup."

"No."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because you’re here. And because your face is wasting its potential."

He gave you a look. But he didn’t move when you walked over, just sat there as you tilted his chin up with two fingers. Your thumb brushed his cheekbone gently.

"Sit still," You whispered. "You trust me, right?"

He blinked once. Then nodded.

A beat passed.

Then you hesitated.

"Actually... can I–" "What?" "Can I sit on your lap? It’s easier... angle-wise. I promise I won’t move too much."

He didn’t answer. Just placed his hands on your waist and pulled you gently onto him, like it was the most natural thing in the world. you settled in, straddling him carefully, your knees on either side of his thighs.

Your fingers were light as you worked, brushing shimmer under his eyes, tapping pink across his cheekbones. The sun poured in through the curtains, catching in his dark hair Your room was quiet, save for the gentle hum of her music and the faint scratching of your brush.

He didn’t look away once. Just watched you with the kind of softness he never showed anywhere else.

"You’re staring again," You whispered. "So are you."

You smiled. Touched his jaw a little more deliberately this time.

"You really let me do whatever I want when it’s just us, huh?" "Only when it’s you," he murmured.

And in your warm little room full of light and softness, the coldest boy in school sat still with flushed cheeks, letting the person he trusted most decorate his face like he belonged there. Like he wasn’t made of sharp edges, but something quieter—something gentle.