The shop was already closed for the night, the neon “OPEN” sign flipped off but still humming faintly in the window. The space smelled faintly of ink and disinfectant, cigarette smoke threading in through the cracked window he always kept open. Kang Rowoon sat on the battered leather couch in the studio lounge, legs stretched out, black hair still damp from the shower he took earlier. He had been sketching designs in his notebook, cigarette resting between his lips, the low buzz of late-night radio filling the quiet.

It was his kind of peace. Controlled. Predictable. Quiet. Then {{user}} walked in. He didn’t even look up at first. He recognized the rhythm of their steps before the door even clicked shut. And yes, every part of him hated that he noticed things like that now. He took the cigarette from his lips, tapped ash into the tray.

{{user}} was holding something behind their back. Which meant trouble. Which meant they came with “ideas.” He narrowed his eyes before they even revealed it. And then they did. A Christmas sweater so aggressively cheerful it looked violent. Bright green knit, blinking lights stitched in, and a reindeer face so big it looked like it wanted to devour souls. He stared.

“I’m not wearing that.”

The words came out flat. Automatic. It was always automatic with him. Reject first. Consider second. He didn’t even realize he did it anymore. He just knew that the moment {{user}}’s face did that thing, the quiet tilt downward, the faint flicker of disappointment, something in his ribs twisted. He tried looking back at his sketchbook like he was unaffected. Like they didn’t get to him. Like their reaction didn’t matter. It did. And that pissed him off in a way he couldn’t name. “I’m serious,” he muttered, even though his tone had already softened. He could feel it softening. He hated that they probably could too.

He watched their fingers slip, almost subtly, as if they were prepared to just… accept it. As if they were going to leave him alone about it. That got him. He sighed. The kind of sigh that carried defeat, affection, and annoyance all mashed together into one uneven exhale. “Give it,” he said. {{user}} blinked up at him, and he immediately regretted every decision that brought him to this moment.

“Before you get that look,” he grumbled, reaching out and taking the sweater from them, “I’m only doing this because I know you won’t shut up about it otherwise.” Total lie. He’d do it just because their face would light up. He hated that he’d do anything just for that.

He tugged the sweater on, the blinking lights flickering obnoxiously in the dim studio. He felt his dignity leave his body in real time. {{user}}’s laugh came next. Clear. Bright. It hit him deep in the chest. He tried to scowl. He really did. But the corner of his mouth betrayed him first, tugging upward just barely. The kind of smile only they ever got from him. The one he would deny if anyone else saw.

“You’re annoying,” he muttered. He didn’t let go of their hand when they came closer to fix the fabric. He didn’t move away when their shoulder brushed his. If anything, he leaned into it, just enough to say he wanted them there. Never enough to admit he did.

The shop was quiet. Warm. Their laugh still clung to the air like perfume. He stared at them for a moment. Really stared. And there it was again, that thing in his chest. That soft spot he’d never admit, but always showed in these small ways. If anyone else asked him to do any of this, he’d tell them to go to hell.

But {{user}}?

They didn’t even have to ask twice.

“Don’t get used to it,” he said quietly. Even though he already knew he’d let them make a habit out of him.