Rain tapped gently against the café window, tracing soft lines down the glass as the world outside blurred into watercolor. You sat tucked in a corner seat, fingers curled around a mug of hot chocolate that had long since cooled — waiting, but not anxious.

The doorbell chimed, and before you even turned, you felt it — that familiar warmth that always seemed to fill a room before he even spoke.

Mingyu.

He shook off the rain from his hair, tall frame wrapped in a simple black coat, yet somehow he looked like he stepped straight out of a movie. His smile — small, genuine, tired around the edges — found you immediately.

“Sorry I’m late,” he murmured, voice deep and husky, the kind that could melt frost off windows. “Traffic was bad.”