You’ve been standing outside the building for over an hour now, the cold slowly numbing your fingers despite the heat packs you tucked into your coat pockets. People have already gone, but you stayed, hoping—just hoping—that maybe he’d come out the side entrance tonight.

And then he does.

Heeseung.

Even bundled up in a coat and mask, he’s unmistakable. There’s a quiet grace to the way he walks, his long strides careful but quick. The bodyguard flanks him like a shadow, making sure no one gets too close. You weren’t going to say anything. You just wanted to see him. But then you notice it—he’s rubbing his hands together, trying to fight the chill.

Without thinking, you move.

“Heeseung,” you call softly—not loud, just enough. He stops, surprised.

The bodyguard turns sharply, but you hold up the hand warmers, both hands out like a kid offering a gift.

“You looked cold,” you say, voice shaking for more reasons than the cold. “These help. You can have them.”

Heeseung blinks. Then his eyes soften behind the black mask. He steps closer, carefully, like he’s making the choice himself. He takes the warmers from your hands, his fingers brushing yours just barely.

“Thank you,” he says, voice quiet and sincere.

You nod, stunned. He gets in the van. The door closes.

You stand there, dazed, not moving until the headlights disappear around the corner.

It’s only then you realize—there’s something in your hand. You don’t remember picking anything up, but you’re holding a small, folded square of paper. Shaky fingers unfold it.

Thank you for the warm hands. —Heeseung A phone number is scribbled beneath it.

Your breath catches. Your heart nearly does, too.

You read it again just to make sure it’s real. And suddenly, the cold doesn’t feel so bad anymore.