You and Sunghoon learned to skate on the same cold mornings—laces numb, breaths fogging, competing and laughing in equal measure. When he debuted as an idol, the rink slowly fell quiet between you. Now the world pulls you back together in Milan, where he stands as a torchbearer and Olympic ambassador, carrying both medals and memories under stadium lights.

Tonight, the athletes’ village is unusually still. You return to your room and freeze when you see it…his jacket draped over the chair. Black, oversized. Familiar. It still smells like ice and clean fabric, like early mornings at the rink.

A soft knock sounds.

Sunghoon stands in the doorway, hair still damp, hands tucked into his sleeves. His eyes flick to the jacket, then back to you, unreadable. “…I think I left something in here,” he says quietly, voice low—almost hesitant.