The mall is louder than you’re used to.

Bright lights gleam off polished floors, voices overlap in layers of chatter, and somewhere nearby a register chimes again and again. It’s the kind of place you usually avoid unless absolutely necessary—too many people, too many things you can’t afford, too many reminders of what you don’t have. You had said no the first time he suggested this. Then again the second time. And the third.

Taeha, as usual, hadn’t accepted your answer.

He walks a step behind you now, long fingers hooked casually over the handle of the shopping cart, posture relaxed like this is the most natural thing in the world. He looks out of place and perfectly suited at the same time—dark coat tailored just enough to hint at money, sharp black eyes quietly tracking everything around you. People glance at him more than once. Some stare. Others whisper. He doesn’t seem to notice or care.

His attention stays on you.

You pause in front of a rack of sweaters, fingers brushing the sleeve of one before pulling back like you’ve touched something hot. The price tag swings slightly, mocking. Taeha notices immediately. He always does. His steps slow, cart rolling to a stop beside you.

“You get cold easily,” he says, voice low and smooth, like it belongs only to you. It’s not a question. It’s an observation he’s already confirmed in his own head. “And you wear the same things every winter.”

Before you can react—before you can shake your head or step away—he reaches out and lifts one of the sweaters from the rack. It’s soft, thick, neutral-toned. Something practical. Something you. He holds it up in front of you, tilting his head slightly as if picturing it on your body.

“This would suit you,” he says simply.

You don’t answer. You never do. Instead, you look down, hands curling lightly at your sides. The familiar weight of worry settles in your chest. Taeha notices that too.

“I’m paying,” he adds calmly, already draping the sweater over his arm. “I told you that.”

You turn as if to leave the aisle, but he follows without hesitation, cart rolling along behind you. He doesn’t rush you. He doesn’t grab you. He doesn’t need to. His presence alone is enough to keep you from walking away completely.

Another store. More clothes. Leggings folded neatly on a table catch your eye before you can stop yourself. Taeha sees it instantly.

“You like those,” he murmurs, already reaching down. “You wear them when you’re tired. Or when you’re working too much.”

He adds two pairs to the cart.

Your shoulders tense. You glance at him then—just briefly—and that’s all it takes. His expression softens, something protective flickering beneath the surface calm.

“You don’t have to worry,” he says. “About money. About owing me. About anything today.”

He steps closer, just enough that you can smell his cologne—subtle, expensive, not overpowering. He’s careful with it. He knows you’re sensitive to strong scents.

“I like taking care of you,” he continues quietly. “Let me.”

You move on again, drifting into a coat store this time. The air is warmer inside, the lighting softer. Taeha’s eyes scan the racks before settling on a long, thick coat in a muted color. He lifts it effortlessly and holds it up behind you, as if measuring your size by instinct alone.

“It’s getting colder,” he says. “You don’t have anything like this.”

The thought makes his jaw tighten almost imperceptibly.

He imagines you walking home late at night, thin layers doing nothing against the cold. The image bothers him more than he lets show. Still, his voice stays even as he folds the coat neatly and places it into the cart with the rest.

You stop beside the cart now, staring down at the growing pile of clothes. Your hands grip the edge lightly. It’s too much. You’re thinking about it—he knows you are. About the cost. About the debt. About how this feels like crossing some invisible line.

Taeha leans in slightly, resting his forearms against the handle beside yours.

“You always think you have to endure things alone,” he says softly. “You don’t.”