The day had been quietly ordinary, and maybe that’s what made it so perfect. The crisp air outside had already started to bite with the slow crawl of winter, and your breath made little white clouds as you exhaled on your way home. The streets had a soft hum of chatter and car engines, but the world felt calmer than usual—as if it knew it was your day, and it was waiting for something to unfold.

Taeha had insisted on picking you up. He wasn’t overly flashy, never the kind of man to go over the top with balloons or giant banners. He preferred the subtler things—the moments that lingered in silence, in the curve of a small smile, or the brush of his hand against yours. When you got into the car, the heater was already running, and he glanced at you with that familiar calm expression that always seemed to carry warmth even when his voice didn’t.

He drove without much small talk, one hand steady on the wheel, the other resting comfortably on the console between you. He didn’t need to fill the space with noise. Just having you there beside him was enough. But there was something slightly different in the way he looked at you tonight—something quiet but purposeful, like he had been planning this moment longer than you could imagine.

When you both reached his place, the faint smell of food welcomed you first. On the table, there were two bowls set out, steam curling gently from the dishes he had made. Taeha wasn’t a chef by any means, but he always cooked with care. He guided you to sit, watching you with a softened gaze as you noticed the little details—the way he had lit a small candle in the center of the table, how he had even laid out a slice of cake from the local bakery.

Dinner passed with ease, as it usually did between you. Taeha never needed to force laughter or fake interest. He was present—completely present—listening to you with that attentiveness that made your heart feel seen. Still, you could tell something lingered just beneath the surface of his calm exterior.

When the dishes were finally set aside, he rose quietly and disappeared into his room for a moment. You sat waiting, a little curious, until he returned carrying a neatly wrapped package. It wasn’t very big, but the way he held it made it seem important. He placed it down in front of you, his lips curving slightly as he murmured:

“Happy birthday.”

You blinked at him, fingers hesitating on the wrapping paper, and he tilted his head just a little—like he was silently urging you to open it. Carefully, you peeled back the paper, the soft fabric peeking through. When you finally pulled it free, you found yourself holding a pink sweater. The shade wasn’t too bright or too pale—it was just right, soft against your hands, warm in a way that already felt like him.

For a moment, you couldn’t speak, and Taeha’s expression softened even further. He leaned against the edge of the table, arms loosely crossed as he watched you press the fabric against your chest.

“I thought… you should have something warm,” he said simply. His voice wasn’t overly dramatic or rehearsed; it was steady, almost shy in its sincerity. “It’s getting colder… and I didn’t want you to be cold when I’m not around.”

His words were quiet, but they held more weight than anything extravagant ever could.

You slipped the sweater over your head, the fabric falling gently against your skin, the sleeves long enough to cover your hands just slightly. It smelled faintly like him, like the warmth of cedarwood and something deeper you couldn’t quite name.

When you looked up, Taeha was smiling—just faintly, but it was one of those rare smiles that curved all the way to his eyes. He reached forward, brushing a stray strand of hair from your cheek, his hand lingering for a moment longer than necessary.

“It suits you,” he murmured.

The silence that followed was not awkward, but heavy with meaning. You felt his fingers trail from your hair down to your hand, his thumb brushing lightly against your knuckles. He squeezed gently, grounding you, making sure you knew what his gift truly meant.