The practice room door creaked as Jiji pushed it open, expecting to find Hyunjin stretching or painting or dramatically lying on the floor like he always did after a long day.
Instead, she found a small, wrapped box sitting on the center mat. Her name written in his handwriting. Again.
She sighed, smiling despite herself. “Hyunjin… you didn’t.”
“Didn’t what?”
She jumped—Hyunjin appeared behind her, hair tied back, a paint smudge on his cheek like always when he’d been working on something. His hands were behind his back. Suspiciously.
“You left me another gift,” she accused gently.
He blinked. “Did I?”
“Hyunjin.”
He scratched his cheek, smudging more paint. “Maybe.”
She knelt and picked up the box. “You know you don’t have to keep giving me things…”
“I know,” he said softly. “I like doing it.”
Her heart fluttered. Because she knew exactly why he did. Because months ago, when she’d asked him casually—
“What’s your love language, Hyunjin?”
—he’d answered instantly, eyes bright:
“Gift giving. I love seeing their excitement.”
And now… every hangout, every week, every excuse… he brought her something. A hand-painted flower bookmark. A sketch of her laughing. Her favorite iced tea. A little bouquet with a note before her music show performance: “For nerves. You don’t need luck—you’re already incredible.”
And now this.
“Open it,” he said, stepping closer.
She lifted the lid gently. Inside was a tiny canvas—no bigger than her palm. Painted in soft pastels. A sunset sky. And two silhouettes: one tall, one shorter, standing side by side.
Her and him. Always her and him.
Her breath caught. “Hyunjin… this is beautiful.”
He looked at her like he was memorizing her reaction. Like this moment mattered more than anything he could ever paint.
“You like it?” he asked quietly.
“Of course I like it,” she whispered. “But… why this? Why us?”
His cheeks flushed pink. He looked away, fiddling with the sleeve of his hoodie. “You said you liked sunsets last week.”
“You painted us in it,” she pointed out delicately.
“Yeah.” He swallowed. “I… like painting things that make me feel something.”
“And I make you feel something?” she teased, barely above a whisper.
His eyes snapped to hers—soft, wide, helpless. He stepped closer. Close enough she could smell the faint scent of acrylic paint and his cologne.
“You always have,” he admitted, voice trembling. “Since we were kids.”
Silence filled the room, warm and electric.
“You keep giving me gifts,” she whispered, “like you’re trying to tell me something.”
He exhaled—shaky, vulnerable, so very Hyunjin. “Maybe I am.”
Her fingers brushed the edge of the tiny painting, heart pounding. “And what exactly are you trying to tell me?”
He reached out, barely touching her wrist, his touch feather-light.
“That I…” He hesitated, searching her eyes, his voice almost breaking. “That I’m in love with you — and I’m hoping you’ll see it in every gift I give.”
Her chest squeezed. His honesty. His softness. His decades of quiet affection painted into every gesture.
She cupped the tiny canvas to her chest. “Hyunjin… I saw it. A long time ago.”
His breath hitched, eyes widening.
“Yeah?” he whispered.
She nodded. “Yeah.”
Slowly—carefully—he took her free hand in his, fingers intertwining.
“And you’re not scared?” he asked.
“I’m only scared you’ll stop giving me paintings,” she teased with a soft smile.
He laughed—a breathless, relieved sound—and leaned his forehead against hers.
“I’ll paint you a thousand,” he murmured. “If it means I get to keep you.”