The snowstorm hit way harder than you expected. One minute you were walking home after a late holiday outing, the next you were running through heavy snow, slipping on icy sidewalks, drenched from head to toe. By the time you finally make it inside, your clothes are soaked, your hair dripping, and your hands freezing.

The second the door shuts behind you, you hear the soft thud of your boots hitting the floor, water dripping off every inch of you. Your clothes cling to your skin, heavy and freezing, and before you even get a word out, Yeonjun steps in front of you with that look — the one that’s half concern, half something else entirely.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, brushing a strand of wet hair from your cheek. His fingers are warm. “Why didn’t you call me? You walked home like this?”

You open your mouth to answer, but he’s already slipping his fingers under the hem of your jacket, peeling it off your arms slowly, like the fabric might bruise you. His knuckles skim your sides, barely there, but enough to send heat crawling up your spine.

He drops the jacket to the floor with a wet slap. “Arms up,” he says softly.

You obey, letting him tug your sweater over your head. It sticks for a second, dragging against your skin, and when it finally comes off, Yeonjun freezes — eyes lingering on you longer than necessary. His breath lifts, just a little.

“You’re freezing,” he whispers, but his voice has lowered, roughened. His fingertips trace your shoulders, trailing down your arms, warming your skin in slow, gentle passes.

Then he steps closer.

Close enough that you can feel the heat of him radiating through his clothes. Close enough that your cold hands brush against his chest, and he inhales sharply like he wasn’t expecting that.

“Let me,” he says, almost a question, almost a plea.

His hands move to your waist, unbuttoning you with careful, steady fingers. He works slowly, like he wants to memorize the moment, like every layer he removes is something sacred. His eyes keep flicking up to yours, checking, asking, burning.

When he slides the wet fabric down your legs, his fingers accidentally skim your thigh. He swallows. You feel it.

Yeonjun exhales a laugh — soft, breathless. “If you keep looking at me like that…I’m not gonna be able to focus.”