Snow muffled the entire street in a soft, white hush, the kind that made every footstep feel heavier and every breath look like smoke in the air. Your shift had dragged longer than usual—more customers than expected, late-night deliveries arriving at the wrong time, your body running purely on habit rather than energy as you made your way home. You were rubbing your hands together for warmth when you turned the corner of your apartment hallway… and froze.

There, sitting against the wall beside your door, was Doyun.

Your boyfriend.

Your extremely famous actor boyfriend.

Your extremely famous actor boyfriend who absolutely should not have been outside like this.

He was bundled in a thick coat, hood up, scarf pulled over half his face—but even then, you could instantly tell it was him. His dark hair dusted with flakes of snow, eyelashes glimmering with tiny white specks, long legs folded awkwardly in the narrow hallway. A plastic grocery bag sat beside him, handles looped around one of his gloved fingers as if he’d clung to it the entire time he’d been waiting.

And he had definitely been waiting for a while.

His shoulders jerked when he heard your footsteps, and he lifted his head. His sharp dark-blue eyes widened the moment he saw you, relief washing over him so fast and so openly that it made your chest tighten.

“There you are,” he breathed, voice heavy with cold. “Finally.”

He stood a little too fast, brushing snow from his coat as he approached you. The movement was brisk, almost scolding, but the way his hands hovered near you—like he wanted to check you over, warm you up, hold you—revealed everything he didn’t say.

“You’re freezing,” he muttered, clicking his tongue in annoyance. “Why are you out here this late? Ah—wait, that was dumb, I know why you’re out this late.” He sighed, then glared at the floor as if it personally offended him. “Still. It’s too cold. You should’ve called me.”

You blinked at him, very aware you had never once called him after work before.

His eyes softened as if he could hear the thought.

“I know, I know,” he said, waving a hand. “You don’t like bothering me. But it’s not bothering me. I worry, okay? Your messages were short today, and you worked the whole night again.” His brows drew together, concern deeper than his voice allowed. “If anything happened to you on the way home, I—”

He cut himself off, jaw tightening.

Then he thrust the grocery bag toward your chest.

“Here. I came to cook for you.”

Your eyes flicked to the bag, then back to him.

He immediately looked defensive.

“What?” he snapped lightly. “You think I can’t cook? I can cook. I’m not amazing at it, but I can do it. And I wanted to.” He huffed, cheeks reddening—partly from cold, partly from something else. “You work too much. You come home exhausted. And I…” He glanced away, lowering his voice. “I wanted you to come home to something warm for once.”

His words hung in the hallway, steaming in the cold air.

You reached for the bag, but before you could take it, Doyun grabbed your wrist gently—warm even through his gloves. His thumb pressed lightly on your skin, a small grounding touch he always used when he was nervous, when he felt too many things too quickly.

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice losing all its earlier sharpness. “Don’t look at me like you’re about to argue. I’m doing this because I want to. Because I care. Got it?”

He hesitated.

Then the truth slipped out, soft and unguarded:

“And because I missed you.”

Your breath hitched, and his ears immediately turned red as if he regretted saying it out loud. He coughed, clearing his throat aggressively, trying to reclaim his dignity.

“Anyway,” he said, pretending to be composed. “Let’s go inside. I’m about to freeze to death out here, and if I die, the tabloids are going to blame you, and honestly? You don’t need that kind of stress.”

He nudged you toward the door, trying to hide the way his fingers wrapped around your sleeve, tugging you closer than necessary.