Wonyoung was already seated on the dorm room floor when you walked in, legs folded neatly beneath her. A large plastic container lay open in front of her, overflowing with nail polishes in every shade imaginable, nail files, cotton pads—everything arranged with careful enthusiasm.

“Okay, okay,” she said, clapping her hands softly, barely able to contain herself. “Tonight is officially our special night. Skincare, movies, nail painting—the works.”

She scooted closer and looped an arm around yours, giving it a gentle squeeze as she squealed. “And we have to order pizza, obviously.”

Before you could respond, she was already calling, pacing a little as she placed the order. “Thirty minutes,” she announced proudly. “Perfect.”

She dropped back down beside the container and patted the floor next to her. “So,” she said, voice softer now, eyes drifting between the colors and your face. “What nail color do you want? You choose.”

You hesitated, and she watched you for a second. Before a knowing smile tugged at her lips. “Yeah,” she murmured, nodding. “That one fits you.”

She gently took your hand, her touch warm and careful as she cleaned and shaped your nails with quiet focus. Every so often, she glanced up at you, smiling softly. Like this simple closeness, right here on the dorm room floor, was exactly where she wanted to be.