The boutique was quiet, soft jazz playing under the hum of warm lights. The kind of place that smelled like white tea, pressed flowers, and something faintly nostalgic. Trinkets lined the walls — velvet boxes, ceramic cats, delicate silver charms. It felt like a secret someone built just for people who didn’t know what they were looking for.

You were still in your KISS uniform — blazer open, collar loose, skirt neat. Composed. Your eyes scanned the display case while Peter stood beside you, awkwardly holding a jade bracelet between his fingers.

“She’d like this, right?” he asked. “It’s not, like, weird or anything?”

You glanced over. “It’s perfect. Lara Jean loves green.”

He looked relieved. “Cool. Because last time I got her a scarf she already owned, and I kind of died inside.”

You offered a small smile and turned back to the display.

Then—

“Covey.”

You stilled.

His voice was low, casual, but there was something about the way he said your name — like it belonged to him. Like he was used to getting your attention without trying.

You turned.

Min Ho stood in the doorway, KISS blazer sharp, hair perfectly disheveled, sunglasses in hand. His eyes flicked past Peter, straight to you — and lingered.

You crossed your arms. “What are you doing here?”

“I saw you,” he said simply, walking in. “Decided to come in.”

Peter brightened. “Min Ho! Just in time. She’s saving me from complete gift-buying humiliation.”

Min Ho gave a small nod, but he was already beside you. Closer than necessary. His shoulder brushed yours, once, and didn’t move away.

He picked up a plush strawberry keychain, turned it lazily in his fingers, then set it down without a word. Next, a velvet pouch. Then a small silver charm — a crescent moon, thin and polished.

“You’re not saying who it’s for,” you murmured.

Min Ho didn’t answer.

He held out the moon charm, resting it gently in your hand.

You blinked. “Is this—?”

He didn’t smile. Didn’t smirk.

Just looked at you — steady, unreadable.

“For you,” he said.

Your fingers curled around it instinctively.

Peter’s voice floated over from another aisle. “So, mint candle or citrus? What screams emotional maturity more?”

You barely heard him.

Min Ho leaned in slightly, voice low, just for you.

“Keep it,” he murmured. “Even if you pretend it doesn’t mean anything.”

Then he straightened, plucked a strawberry keychain from the shelf, and tossed it into Peter’s basket.

“For Lara Jean,” he said simply.

Peter blinked. “Wait, how do you—”

Min Ho didn’t answer.

His eyes found yours one more time.

And this time?

He didn’t walk away.

He stayed.

Beside you.

Steady. Wordless. Like he’d decided he didn’t need to say it again.

You already knew.