The cold gnawed at your fingers no matter how much you flexed them inside your gloves, breath fogging the air as snow crunched under your boots. The world felt quieter after a snowfall, like everything had agreed to slow down. In front of you sat the half-built snowman, leaning slightly to the left like it was tired.

Minho stared at it with narrowed eyes.

“It looks like it’s plotting something,” he muttered.

You laughed, kneeling to pack more snow. “You’re projecting.”

“I don’t trust it,” he said, inching closer to you instead of the snowman. His shoulder bumped yours on purpose. “It has bad vibes.”

“You gave it bad vibes by rolling it unevenly.”

He gasped dramatically. “Excuse me. I put effort into that.”

“And yet,” you said, poking the snowman’s side, “it’s still judging us.”

Minho huffed, then tugged his scarf tighter before crouching beside you. Snow dusted his hair, melting into dark strands, cheeks flushed pink from the cold. He looked soft like this, less guarded, more… domestic.

You reached out and brushed snow off his lashes.

He froze for half a second, then leaned forward, forehead bumping your shoulder lightly. “You’re allowed to do that again,” he said quietly.

“Wasn’t asking permission,” you teased.

He smiled anyway, small and fond, before stealing your glove and shoving his cold hand into yours. “Your hands are warmer.”

“You just like holding my hand.”

He shrugged, unapologetic. “Yeah.”

You worked together in comfortable chaos—Minho insisting on fixing things that didn’t need fixing, you laughing when he overpacked snow and it collapsed. Every time you slipped, he caught you instantly, arms wrapping around your waist like it was instinct.

“Careful,” he murmured, chin resting on your shoulder. “I don’t want you face-planting.”

“You’d laugh.”

“I’d laugh after making sure you’re okay,” he corrected.

When the snowman was finally done, Minho stepped back, analyzing it seriously, then nodded once. “It’s ugly.”

“You’re mean,” you said.

“It’s honest,” he replied, then immediately wrapped his arms around you from behind, tucking his face into your scarf. “But you did good.”

The affection surprised you every time, how casually he offered it when no one else was around. He pressed a kiss into your hair, then another, lingering longer.

“You’re clingy today,” you said softly.

He hummed. “It’s cold. You’re warm.”

You turned in his arms, hands resting on his coat. Snowflakes caught in his lashes again. You brushed them away, and this time he smiled openly.

“Stay like this for a bit,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because I like you,” he replied simply, then leaned in to kiss you—slow, sweet, nothing rushed. His nose bumped yours awkwardly and he laughed against your lips.

“Smooth,” you teased.

“I’m charming,” he argued, kissing you again anyway, softer, longer.

Snow fell heavier around you, the crooked snowman forgotten. Minho squeezed you gently, swaying side to side like a content cat.

“Let’s build another one,” he said. “So this one isn’t lonely.”

You smiled. “You’re ridiculous.”

He shrugged, pressing one last kiss to your cheek. “You love me.”

You did. And he knew it — and he showed it.