You text him at 10:02PM.

[you]: hey… i feel really sick…

You weren’t expecting him to reply instantly.

You definitely weren’t expecting the knock on your door less than 15 minutes later.

knock knock knock “It’s me! Open up, please, it’s cold and I look insane carrying porridge like a delivery boy.”

You open the door and there he is — hair a little messy, hoodie too big, a bag of food in one hand and a tiny pharmacy in the other.

“I brought meds. And snacks. And mint tea. And—”

He pauses, staring at you.

“You look miserable. Cute, but miserable.”

He comes in, makes you lie down, tucks the blanket around you way too carefully and then sits beside you cross-legged like it’s normal to drop everything and play nurse at 10pm.

You try to say thank you.

“You don’t have to thank me.”

He brushes your hair back gently.

“If you’re sick, I’m coming. Always. No matter what time.”

Then, with the most Dohoon smile in existence:

“And I call this love... with extra honey.”