The JYPE rooftop garden was almost empty, the city lights flickering below as Jiji unpacked the food she’d brought for her and Minho. It was their usual meetup spot—quiet, private, familiar. Just like they were with each other.

“Did you eat yet?” she asked, opening the containers.

Minho didn’t answer. He was already kneeling in front of her.

She blinked. “Minho—what are you—?”

“Your shoelace,” he murmured, fingers deftly looping the string, pulling it tight. “You’re going to trip.”

Her heartbeat fluttered. He’d done this every hangout for months. Tying her shoes. Carrying her bag. Adjusting her coat. Quietly, gently, lovingly—if only she let herself believe it meant more.

When he finished, he didn’t immediately stand. He just looked up at her from where he was crouched, eyes warm.

“There.” He tapped the toe of her shoe. “Now you won’t fall.”

Too late, she thought. She’d already fallen years ago.

She cleared her throat, trying to play it cool. “You know I’m perfectly capable of tying my own shoes.”

“Mm.” Minho straightened, brushing off his hands. “But I like doing it.”

His voice was casual, but his ears were pink.

He sat beside her, and before she could even blink, he reached out and gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, fingers lingering for a second too long.

“There,” he said again, softer this time. “It was in your face.”

Her cheeks heated instantly. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know.” He opened a container, scooping some food and placing it on her plate before serving his own. “I like doing that too.”

She froze. Again.

Ever since she’d asked him months ago—“What’s your love language, Minho?”—he’d answered without hesitation:

“Acts of service. I like showing, not just saying, how much I love them.”

Ever since, he’d been on a mission to show her. Constantly. Quietly. Almost boldly. And she felt every touch, every gesture, every tiny act like it was carved into her ribs.

As they ate, a grain of rice stuck near her lip without her noticing. Minho noticed.

He leaned forward without a word, brushing his thumb across the corner of her mouth, slow and precise.

“There,” he whispered for the third time. “All clean.”

Jiji’s breath caught. Her heart was practically ricocheting in her chest.

“Minho…” she whispered, “you’re being a little… much today.”

He paused, chopsticks mid-air. “Too much?”

“Yes,” she said, then quickly added, “Not in a bad way.”

He set his chopsticks down, turning fully toward her. The rooftop was quiet, the city humming beneath them.

“Good.” His voice was low. Intentional. Because Lee Know rarely said what he felt—but he always meant what he showed.

“I’ve been trying to be ‘much,’” he said slowly, “so you’d notice.”

Her breath hitched. “Notice… what?”

Minho didn’t look away. Didn’t hide. Didn’t pretend it was nothing.

“That I’ve been in love with you since we were kids,” he said softly, “and I’m tired of hiding it with just tying your shoes.”

Her world tilted.

“And you?” he asked gently. “Have you noticed yet?”

In the dim rooftop lights, she could only nod—shy, breathless, finally understanding what he’d been saying without words for months.

His shoulders relaxed. A small, relieved smile tugged at his lips.

“Good,” he murmured. “Because I still have a lot more to show you.”