Blue’s Clue + Note

The first time you mentally write “I can’t do this anymore” is on a Tuesday at 11:27 a.m.

The second time, at 3:02 p.m.

By the third, you don’t even check the time. You just know you get back to your place, close the door behind you, and it feels like the whole world stays out there on the other side—but not in a good way. More like if someone rang right now, you probably wouldn’t open.

You drop your keys in the bowl by the door. Drop your bag on the floor. You almost drop yourself there too, stuck somewhere between crying and sleeping for fifteen hours straight.

Your phone vibrates in your pocket.

You ignore it.

It vibrates again. And again. You sigh, defeated, and pull it out. Screen lit up: Binnie 💕.

—Yeah? —you answer, trying to sound normal, like your throat isn’t tied in a knot.

—Hey —his voice is warm and a little breathless, like he’s walking fast—. Are you home yet?

You lie on instinct.

—Yeah, yeah, been home for a while.

—Liar —he replies instantly, no malice, just that grounded certainty of his—. If you were, you’d be spamming dumb stuff in chat.

You bite the inside of your cheek. Say nothing.

Changbin needs exactly two seconds to switch his tone.

—Baby?

You kind of hate him for that word. Because it makes everything in you loosen. Your jaw, your shoulders, your whole armor.

—I’m tired —you finally manage. It’s the only thing you can articulate.

—“I didn’t sleep much” tired or “I don’t want to exist” tired? —he asks bluntly.

You laugh, but it sounds wrong.

—The second one.

There’s a brief silence on the other end. Not an awkward one; it sounds like someone making a decision.

—Okay —he says—. Then don’t hang up.

—Changbin, you don’t have to—

—I said don’t hang up.

You hear his pace pick up, street noises, a car passing too close. You let yourself fall onto the couch without even taking your shoes off, phone pressed to your ear, your gaze lost somewhere on the wall.

—Tell me what you see —he demands suddenly.

—What?

—In your living room. Tell me what you see.

You sigh, but you obey.

—The couch. Coffee table. My dirty shoes on the rug. A half-dead plant.

—That plant’s not dead —he answers immediately—. It’s just going through a rough patch. Like you.

You close your eyes.

—Changbin…

—Keep going —he insists, gentle.

—The TV off. A blanket all bunched up. —You pause—. And my laptop on the kitchen table staring at me like I owe it money.

You hear something like a tiny laugh on the other end.

—Ignore it —he says—. You don’t owe it anything today. You only owe me.

—So possessive.

—Yup. Hold on five minutes. I’m close.

—Don’t come over, seriously. I just want to sleep.

—Perfect —he cuts you off—. You sleep with me next to you. Multitasking.

You don’t even have the energy to argue. You rest your head on the back of the couch, phone still pressed to your ear. He doesn’t hang up. Neither do you. You can hear his footsteps, a few muttered “sorry”s when he bumps into someone, the beep of a crosswalk.

Four and a half minutes go by.

Your doorbell rings.

—Open —he says, like he’d timed it.

You drag yourself to the door. You don’t look in the mirror. You don’t want to see your face. You open.

Changbin is there, cap pulled low, mask tugged down to his chin, wearing an oversized black hoodie and holding a white bag in each hand.

—Hi —he says, and the soft smile he gives you makes you want to cry on the spot.

—…Did you rob a store? —you ask, eyeing him up and down.

—Consider this an at-home rescue mission —he lifts the bags—. Premium emotional support.

He puts the bags down on the floor just so he can come closer to you. He doesn’t ask “can I hug you?”. He doesn’t need to. His arms wrap around you with that steady firmness only he has, pulling you tight against his chest.

You don’t remember exactly when your breathing starts to ease, you just know that it does.

He smells like fabric softener, wet pavement, and something sweet you can’t name. You nuzzle in a little more without meaning to, your forehead pressed to his collarbone.

—I’m sweaty, sorry —he mumbles, not letting go.

—I don’t care.

You feel him smile against your temple.

—Good, because I wasn’t planning on letting go anyway.

You don’t make the easy kidnapping joke. You don’t feel like it. You just nod against his chest, fingers clenched in the back of his hoodie.

After a while—time you can’t really measure—he pulls back just enough to see your face.

—Hey, pretty tired face —he says, his thumb brushing your cheek—. Can I come in or are you gonna leave me in the hallway doing exposure therapy?

You move aside so he can step in. He grabs the bags, leans down to press a quick kiss to your hair as he passes, like he’s staking a claim.

—What did you bring? —you ask, following him into the living room.

—The basics —he answers, unloading everything onto the table—. Food, sugar, carbs, more sugar… and something so you don’t have to think.

He opens one of the bags and pulls out a pack of your favorite snack, a bottle of your go-to drink, and a box of ice cream you recognize instantly.

—You shopped like you’re my mom —you mutter.

—Your mom doesn’t hug you like this —he shoots back, not even bothering to deny it.

Your chest gives that annoying small jolt.

—You’re so dramatic.

—And you’re shaking a little —he points out, no sugar-coating.

You look at your hands. You hadn’t even noticed until he said it. Changbin doesn’t comment further. He just takes your hands in his, squeezes them, brings them to his lips and kisses your knuckles.

—We’re gonna do something —he says, like he’s suggesting a game—. You do nothing productive. I do literally everything else.

—You don’t have to—

—Shhh —he hushes you gently—. You’re not in charge today. Today you have less say than a hater in the comments.

You can’t help the tiny laugh that escapes, and that alone earns you a satisfied smile from him.

—First: hot shower —he lists, raising one finger—. Second: comfy clothes. Third: we eat what I brought. Fourth: we watch something so dumb and ridiculous you either laugh your face off or fall asleep. Fifth: if you feel like talking, we talk. If you don’t, we don’t.

—And you? —you ask—. What’s your role in this master plan?

—Being here —he says, like it’s obvious—. As a pillow, a heater, and a weighted blanket if your brain gets too heavy.

His words hit you with the same softness he says them. You swallow.

—I don’t want to be a burden —you murmur, barely thinking.

Changbin blinks once. Then leans in, presses his forehead to yours.

—Listen to me —he says, using that tone he pulls out in the studio when something has to be perfect—. You are never a burden. You’re… —he searches for it—. A team effort. Sometimes you carry for both of us, sometimes I do. Today it’s my turn. Period.

You close your eyes. Breathing gets a little easier.

—If you want to cry, cry —he adds quietly—. I’m not scared of that. I’m only scared of you going through it alone.

You don’t reply. You don’t need to. He feels how your breathing turns uneven and says nothing, just holds you closer, one hand at the back of your neck, the other drawing slow circles on your spine.

You don’t know how long you stay like that, standing in the middle of the living room with the whole world reduced to his chest and your head. Long enough for the knot inside you to loosen, not completely, but enough to let a bit of air through.

Eventually you’re the one who pulls back, nose red, eyes puffy. He looks at them like they’re the most normal thing in the world.

—You look gorgeous like this too —he jokes softly—. “I cried but I’m still here” aesthetic.

—Shut up —you say, giving his arm a weak little punch.

—Doctor’s orders —he ignores the protest—: shower. I’ll set up base camp.

—Base camp?

—Blankets, pillows, plushies, food within arm’s reach. A nest.

—A nest?

—A giant nest for you and me. Come on, move your ass.

You let him handle everything while you shower. The hot water drags out a few more tears you’re not quite sure are sadness, relief, or just exhaustion. You change into comfy clothes—the kind of old T-shirt you wouldn’t wear in front of most people, but with Changbin you do.

When you come back to the living room, you find exactly what he promised: coffee table pushed aside, couch buried under blankets, cushions everywhere, your plushies lined up like an audience, and on the table a parade of food: tubs of rice, chicken, snacks, ice cream.

—You robbed half the grocery store —you comment.

—Lies, this is a rescue operation —he puffs his chest—. Rescue mission: you.

He jerks his chin toward the couch.

—Come here.

You flop down next to him. Instantly, he wraps a blanket around you, tugs you into his chest and makes space for you under his arm like you’re a piece that slots perfectly into place.

—Movie or stupid show —he asks, remote already in hand—. How many brain cells do you want to use today? One to ten.

—Zero.

—Perfect, trashy reality show it is —he nods, pleased.

He puts on something so hilariously bad it pulls a laugh out of you almost immediately. He glances sideways, smiles small, and rests his chin on the top of your head.

—If you laugh three times in a row —he says—, I’ll kiss you.

—And if I don’t?

—I’ll kiss you anyway, just with more theatrics.

You don’t even make it two minutes into the show before you’re laughing. He follows through: one kiss on your cheek, another on your temple, one more at the corner of your lips.

—That was four —you point out.

—I’m overpaying —he replies—. Long-term investment.

Time blurs a bit after that: eating in bits and pieces, laughing at things that really aren’t that funny, falling quiet when your mind wanders off and him, without a word, just tightening his arm around you a little, reminding you you’re still here. That he’s still here.

At some point his fingers start tracing slow lines along your forearm.

—What were you thinking about so much today? —he asks quietly—. Only if you want to say it.

You stare at the screen for a few more seconds, watching strangers make drama that isn’t yours.

—That everyone’s moving forward and I’m not —you admit, voice dull—. That I’m always tired. That I don’t know if what I’m doing is worth anything. That… —you swallow the rest.

Changbin nods like it’s a list he already knows.

—Okay —he says—. Well, today I was thinking about how quiet you were, and that’s not normal for you. I was also thinking about how you made me laugh when I was thinking all that same crap. And I figured it was my turn to pay you back.

—It’s not that simple —you mumble.

—I know. —He makes a small face—. I wish I could just ctrl+Z your sadness. But I can’t. So I do the human version: stay, listen, hug, feed.

—You sound like a tutorial —you say.

—“How to take care of your favorite person: step 1, don’t leave them alone when they say they’re done existing” —he lowers his voice like a narrator—. Step 2: build them a nest. Step 3: remind them they’re breathing, even when it annoys them.

You laugh softly and he relaxes a little more.

—I love you even when you hate everything —he adds, almost like the thought slips out.

You tense for a second. Not because of the words themselves, but because of how he says them. Like a simple fact that needs no fanfare.

—You don’t have to—

—It’s not “have to” —he cuts in, turning his head to look at you—. It’s just true. I love you when you’re funny, productive, and shiny. And I love you when you’re sad, quiet, and curled up in a ball. I don’t want only the pretty half.

You don’t know what to say. So you don’t. You just turn a bit more into him, hide your face in his chest and let your hand search for his under the blankets. You find it. He laces your fingers together like he’d been waiting.

—Let’s promise something —he suggests—. Whenever either of us gets the “I can’t do this anymore” thought, we send it to the other. No explanation needed if we don’t feel like it. Just… code red.

—Code red? —you echo.

—Yeah. So the other one knows to bring ice cream, blankets, and emergency hugs.

—You turn everything into a plan —you mutter, but you squeeze his hand.

—I have to —he says—. If I don’t, I get nervous. And if I get nervous, I talk even more. Nobody wants that.

—I do —you reply, without thinking too hard.

You feel him smile against your hair.

—Then I’m staying —he whispers—. Even if you don’t talk, even if you fall asleep, even if you just breathe. I’ll stay today, tomorrow, the day after… even if it’s in the hallway if I have to.

You lift your head.

—You gonna stand guard in my hallway?

—If I have to, yeah —he shrugs—. I’ll bring a speaker with my voice recorded saying “I’m proud of you” on loop.

—That’s torture —you say, but your heart tightens in a different way.

—Torture you deserve —he jokes.

The show goes on, but you’re barely watching it now. You’re watching how his lashes lower when he laughs, how his hands are always moving—petting you, fidgeting with the blanket, constantly checking that you’re still there.

At some point, exhaustion wins. You don’t notice exactly when your eyes close; you just feel your mind start to float and somehow Changbin notices before you fully do.

—Go to sleep —he murmurs, turning the volume down even more—. I’ll keep watch.

—Don’t go —you mumble, half-asleep.

—I don’t know if my contract was clear enough —he laughs softly—, but I’m not going anywhere. Never in the middle of a code red.

You feel a light kiss on your forehead. Then his arms loosening just enough for you to get comfortable, his breathing settling into a steady rhythm by your ear.

As you finally let yourself drop fully into sleep, your mind still a little noisy but, for the first time all day, a bit less cruel, one last clear thought slips through:

You’re not alone in this.

Your personal code red is right there, wrapped up in your blanket, breathing in sync with you. And even if tomorrow the weight comes back, even if the laptop keeps staring from the table, today—at least today—you have a nest. And a Changbin who isn’t going anywhere.

you wake up slowly, drifting up from sleep, the warmth of the blankets heavy over you and minho, who is wrapped around you like another layer, one that refuses to let go.

the first thing you notice is the cold. not inside the bed, no. the air outside the blankets feels like winter’s breath against your cheeks. you wrinkle your nose, shifting just a little, and minho grumbles behind you, tightening his arm over your waist without even opening his eyes.

“minho, it’s freezing”, you whisper.

he buries his face between your shoulder blades, “then don’t move”

“i want to see why it’s so cold”

“don’t care”, he mumbles, his voice rough with sleep, “stay”

you huff a tiny laugh, peeling the blanket up to peek at the room. the air is pale, the light diffused and soft, the kind of brightness that only happens when everything outside is covered in white.

snow. lots of it.

your heart jumps a little, excitement waking you up faster than any alarm ever could.

you try to sit up, pushing gently at minho’s arm, “minho, i think it’s snowing”

he only tightens his hold again, “you can see it later”

“i want to see it now”

“no”

you twist enough to look at him. his eyes are barely cracked open, his hair a complete mess, his face soft with sleep, and a bit of stubbornness.

“minho”, you say, “i’ll be gone for like two seconds”

“don’t go”, he mutters, pulling you closer until your back is perfectly flush against his chest again, “it’s cold”

“but i want to see the snow!”

“you’re warm”, he argues, nuzzling your neck, “stay here. stay with me”

you smile - you can’t help it - but you slip out of his arms anyway, ignoring his dramatic groan when the cold air hits him. he flops onto his back, grumbling and squinting at the ceiling as if it personally offended him.

you pad over to the window, rubbing your arms, and when you see the view from you bedroom, your breath catches. the city is completely buried in white. rooftops, streets, balconies, everything glowing softly under thick, delicate snow. it’s still falling, huge flakes drifting slowly like feathers.

“minho”, you say, your smile growing, “come here, look”

“no”

“it’s beautiful”

“i’m warm here”

you laugh, “you don’t know what you’re missing”

you stand there for a moment, watching the snow fall from the sky like it’s something magical and beautiful. something inside your chest feels a little lighter, a little brighter. you hurry back to the bed, climbing in and pressing your cold hands against minho’s warm face before he jolts.

“y/n! stop it! why are you like this?”, he groans, curling away from the cold.

you laugh seeing his reaction, “come on, i’m not that cold!”

“your hands are colder than ice”, he complains, but he still wraps his arms around you, dragging you against him again.

you press your cold nose to his throat and he flinches again. 

“stop! you’re evil”

“come see the snow with me”

“no”

“minho-”

“we’re not going anywhere”, he says, his voice still thick and sleepy, “the snow means we can’t leave the house”

“we weren’t going to leave the house anyway”

“exactly, so we’re sleeping more”

“we have the whole day”, you argue gently, “we can do something fun”

“sleeping is fun”

“let’s do something else”

“what could possibly be more fun than sleeping?”

you grin, “we could bake christmas cookies”

silence.

a long silence.

minho slowly opens one eye to look at you, “you want to bake”

“yes”

“you”

“yes, me”

he sighs, “you know i love you, right?”

“mmhm”

“that’s the reason why i protect you from the kitchen and all the dangers inside”

you roll your eyes, “we’ll be fine”

“y/n, you burn toast”

“it happened once!”

“twice”

“it almost burned the second time, that doesn’t count”

he stares at you.

you smile sweetly, “please?”

he closes his eyes again like he’s praying for strength, “you just want to be there while i am the one doing all the baking”

“... maybe”

“no”

“oh please, i promise i won’t burn anything and i will help you”

you lean in and kiss his cheek.

he freezes.

you kiss his jaw.

he inhales sharply.

you kiss the corner of his mouth.

his fingers curl in the blanket.

“you’re bribing me”, he mutters.

you press your lips to his softly, barely there, “is it working?”

minho opens his eyes again, already losing the fight.

“yes”, he whispers, so low you almost don’t hear it.

you burst into a grin, “so we’re baking?”

he groans, dragging a hand over his face, “fine, but if you set anything on fire, i’m telling han it was your fault”

you laugh and kiss him again, and he kisses you back this time, slowly, surrendering completely, before pulling away with a sigh.

“let’s go fail at baking”, he mutters, smiling, as he lets you pull him out of bed.

you kiss his shoulder on the way out and he pretends he’s annoyed, but he absolutely isn’t. the hallway is chilly, the floor even colder under your feet, and you instinctively tuck yourself closer to his side as you walk.

“cold?”, he asks without looking, his voice low and teasing.

“no”, you say sarcastically, hugging your arms to your chest.

he snorts, “should’ve stayed in bed”

“we’re making cookies”

“mmhm, right”, he grumbles, but his hand finds yours anyway, guiding you gently towards the kitchen.

the dorm is quiet, han’s spending some time with his family for the holidays. it’s like the whole place belongs just to you and minho, warm and private despite the winter chill.

the kitchen is small but homey, filled with their usual clutter: snacks that han keeps to eat before going to the studio, minho’s cat-shaped dish towels, a magnet of a dancing snowman on the fridge that you bought, the cup that is reserved just for you now. the window above the sink shows the same snowfall you saw earlier, flakes drifting lazily past the glass.

minho rubs his hands together, “alright, if we’re going to do this, we’re doing it properly”

you grin, “yes, captain minho”

he gives you a flat look, “don’t push it”

he moves smoothly, pulling open cabinets, retrieving plates, trays, the big mixing bowl he always uses. you hover around him, handing him things you think he might need, even if he doesn’t ask.

“what kind of cookies are we making?”, he asks, opening the pantry.

“chocolate”, you say immediately.

he pauses, “chocolate”

“yes”

“you mean chocolate chips”

“no, chocolate cookies”

he looks at you over his shoulder, his eyes narrowing just slightly in amusement, “so… a normal cookie, but with chocolate dough and chocolate chunks”

“exactly”

he huffs a laugh through his nose but grabs the cocoa powder anyway, setting it on the counter. soon the kitchen counter is full: flour, sugar, butter, eggs, cocoa powder, chocolate chunks, a little bowl of sprinkles you insisted on adding while he rolled his eyes at you.

minho surveys the ingredients like a general inspecting his troops.

“okay”, he sighs, “let’s go over the plan”

“plan?”

“yes, you think baking happens by accident?”

you smile, leaning on the counter, “teach me, master chef”

he ignores the title but you see the small twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“i’m going to handle the important stuff”, he says, “mixing, measuring the ingredients, beating the butter… the things you would mess up”

you gasp, “you think i’d mess up beating butter?”

“i think”, he says patiently, “that you once burned microwavable ramen”

you open your mouth, close it, then glare at him, “that pot was old”

“it was brand new”

“whatever”, you mumble.

minho pats your head, “exactly”

you swat his hand away but he’s already turning back to the ingredients.

“you”, he continues, “will do the important easy things”

“like?”

“adding the chocolate chips. stirring slowly when i tell you. keeping the bowl still. taste testing”

“taste testing”, you repeat, nodding your head, “that’s a very difficult job”

“the most important one”, he says seriously, though his eyes are warm.

“and after that?”, you ask.

“we’ll shape them”, he says, pulling out a tray and setting parchment over it, “you can help with that”

“and the sprinkles?”

he sighs, “yes, even though christmas cookies don’t need sprinkles”

“these do”

“mmhm, these ones do”, he concedes softly.

you stand beside him now, your shoulders brushing, his warmth steady next to you. he glances at you once, then nudges the mixing bowl towards you.

“okay, you ready?”, he asks.

you smile up at him, “ready”

minho starts by measuring the flour while you stand beside him with your hands behind your back, swaying lightly, pretending you’re not itching to help.

“don’t touch anything yet”, he tells you without even looking.

“i wasn’t going to”, you lie.

“you were absolutely going to”

you grin because he’s right, and he knows he’s right, and the faint smirk he gives proves it. he pours the ingredients into a large bowl, sifting them slowly, and little clouds of cocoa puff into the air. the soft dust settles on the counter. some on his sleeve. some on your hand.

you drag your finger down your cocoa-covered skin, and then hold it up to him.

“minho! look what you did”

“what i did?”, he scoffs, “it’s your fault, you’re standing like… one centimetre away from me”

“then maybe move”

“then maybe don’t cling”

“i’m not clinging”, you protest, even though the heat of his side is basically your new life source.

he raises an eyebrow, “you’re practically attached to my hip”

you stick your tongue out at him and without missing a beat, he dips a finger into the cocoa bowl and taps the tip of your nose.

you gasp, “lee minho”

he hums without looking at you, “yes?”

“i’m going to kill you”

“oh no”

you reach for the cocoa bowl.

“don’t you-”

but it’s too late, you swipe your finger through a messier section and smear a bold streak across his cheek.

“you didn’t”, he deadpans.

“i did”

he stares at you. you stare at him. for a moment, neither of you breathes.

then he lunges.

you squeal, stumbling back into the counter as he cups your face with both hands, rubbing his cheek against yours in revenge. the chocolate smears everywhere - your jaw, his temple, your cheekbones, his nose.

“minho!”, you laugh, trying to get away from him, but his arms just wrap around your waist and pull you flush against him.

“this is what you get”, he says smugly, “for starting a war you cannot win”

“what? you started it!”

you giggle breathlessly, your hands trapped between your bodies as he nuzzles your face dramatically like his cats do when they want to mark their territory.

“okay, okay- stop- minho! we’re supposed to be making cookies”

“no, i’m making cookies, you’re making a mess”, he says, leaning back to inspect his handiwork, “but you look cute, so i’ll allow it”

you poke his chest, “no, you look cute”

he scoffs lightly, but he doesn’t move away. instead, he turns you around, guiding your hands to the bowls, his arms loosely surrounding yours from behind.

“here”, he says, his voice low near your ear, “add the sugar. slowly”

the warmth of him envelops you instantly and his chin nudges your shoulder softly as he watches your hands pour. your breath catches a little and you feel him smile against you.

“good”, he says softly.

you lean back into him just a bit more, and he doesn’t say anything, just tightens his hold for half a second. then he moves around you to grab the butter, and you’re instantly colder.

“no”, you pout, reaching out instinctively.

“no?”, he echoes.

“come back”

he gives you a long, amused stare before setting the butter down and stepping close to you again, “happy?”

“yes”

“clingy”, he mutters, but you see the softness in his eyes as he hands you the whisk.

“weren’t you the one supposed to do the difficult stuff?”

“okay, you can whisk”, he sighs dramatically while rolling his eyes, “as long as you don’t fling it on the ceiling”

you begin stirring - carefully, gently - but the mixture is thick and the whisk fights you. minho steps behind you again, placing his hands over yours, guiding your movements.

“like this”, he says.

the bowl rocks slightly and your heart does too, but it’s not because of the whisk.

“see? we don’t make a disaster if we do it together”

you turn your head just enough to meet his eyes. he’s close. very close. his breath warm on your cheek, his fingers overlapping yours.

“you’re distracting me”, you whisper.

“good”, he says.

the stirring continues, your rhythm steady. at one point, a streak of batter splashes near his mouth. you notice it, he doesn’t.

“minho”, you say.

“hm?”

“you have something. right here”

“where?”, he says without looking at you.

you go to swipe your thumb at the spot, but instead, you turn your head more so you can kiss the corner of his mouth, where the batter is.

his eyebrows rise, “oh?”

“taste testing”, you say innocently.

“i see”, his voice drops, “then i should taste test too”

before you can react, he leans in and presses his lips against yours, warm, quick, impossibly sweet. your stomach flips and you feel your cheeks becoming red.

he turns away smugly, “it tastes good”

you shove him lightly and move away from him while he just laughs at you. he finishes mixing the dough, the bowl heavy with chocolate and glossy chunks that you add. minho wipes his hands on a towel, then looks at the dough critically.

“okay”, he says, “now we shape the cookies”

you bounce lightly on your toes, “yes!”

he exhales dramatically, “i’m already regretting this”

“but we’re doing it because you love me”

“unfortunately”, he mutters, but his smile says otherwise.

you roll up your sleeves, staring at the mound of dough like it’s the most complicated thing you’ll ever do.

“okay”, you say, “the shapes”

“right”

but then, you pause, blinking when you realise something is missing. 

“oh no… minho”

“what?”

“we don’t have any cutters”

you look genuinely heartbroken, your shoulders dropping, your bottom lip jutting out. minho watches the whole performance with a slow, growing smile.

“we can shape them with our hands-”, he starts saying.

“but it won’t look the same”, you interrupt him, sighing, already mourning the snowflakes and trees you will not have, “god, i should’ve thought about this before. we could’ve bought some. or ordered them. or-”

“hey”

you look up.

minho’s already walking across the kitchen, opening a cabinet you rarely look inside. he moves a few containers aside, reaches into the very back, pulls out a small bag and then, a metallic clink fills the room.

you blink, “what is that?”

he sets the bag on the counter, opens it, and slides out a handful of cutters - a tree, a star, a gingerbread man, a snowflake, a heart.

your eyes widen.

“minho-”

he shrugs, casual, too casual, “i knew you’d want to bake christmas cookies one day”

your chest tightens.

“so i got them some months ago”, he continues.

your mouth falls open a little, “months?”

“yeah, i-”, he scratches the back of his neck, pretending he isn’t blushing, “i saw them at a store and… i just… thought of you. i figured you’d… want to use them eventually”

the warmth that fills your chest is strong, immediate, powerful, and almost overwhelming.

“minho”

“don’t look at me like that”, he says softly.

you ignore him completely. you step forward, grab his t-shirt, and pull him into a kiss before he can say another word. he gasps softly into your mouth, then melts, his hands coming to your waist, his fingers curling around you, pulling you closer like he’s been waiting for this exact moment since you woke up.

you whisper between kisses, “thank you”

“for what?”, he murmurs against your lips, sounding breathless and amused, “for being psychic?”

“for thinking of me”

he kisses you again, longer, slower, “i always do”

you almost melt right there on the kitchen tile. he cups your cheek, his thumb brushing the chocolate you smeared earlier, and gives you one more soft kiss before pulling back.

“come on”, he says gently, kissing your forehead now, “before you cry on the dough”

“i’m not crying”

“sure”

“i’m not!”

he grins, completely unconvinced. you huff but can’t stop smiling as you both move to the counter, placing the cutters over the rolled dough.

“i’ll use the tree first”, he says.

“i’ll use the gingerbread man”, you say.

“sad little lopsided one”, he teases.

“minho!”

he laughs, bright and full, and presses a quick kiss to your temple before guiding your hands.

together, you press the cutters into the dough, soft chocolate edges shaping into tiny festive outlines. stars. trees. gingerbread figures. even the heart-shaped one that makes minho raise an eyebrow until you poke his side with it. soon the entire tray is full of little christmas shapes, each one better - and cuter - than the last.

“they’re perfect”, you say proudly.

“they’re acceptable”, he says, but his smile betrays him.

you nudge him, and he nudges you back, gentle and playful. then he opens the oven, slides the tray inside and closes the oven door carefully, so the cookies start baking.

minho moves behind you and wraps his arms around your waist from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder, holding you close to his chest. ​​the oven hums softly and minho presses one last kiss to your shoulder before tugging your hand towards the living room.

“come on”, he says, his voice low and warm, “before you try to open the oven every five minutes”

you gasp, “i would never”

“you definitely would”

“okay, maybe”

he shakes his head, laughing, and pulls you with him until you’re both stepping into the living room. the snow is still falling outside - heavy, silent, soft, magical - blanketing the city in white. from the dorm, the world looks peaceful and untouched.

you settle onto the sofa first, sinking into the cushions, and he sits beside you, only to immediately tug you into his lap, guiding you until your back rests against his chest. his arms slide around your waist automatically, like muscle memory, like instinct. like home.

you let out a soft sigh as his chin settles on your shoulder.

“you okay?”, he asks.

“mm, but you could hold me closer”

he huffs a quiet laugh, “demanding today, aren’t we?”

“you love me”

“i do”, he says, without hesitation.

he tightens his arms around you, lining his heartbeat with yours. you stretch your legs out over the sofa, your body melting into his, shaped perfectly to him like you were always meant to rest here. you watch the snow outside, falling in thick, dreamy flakes, rushing and drifting all at once.

“it’s so pretty”, you whisper.

he hums, “it is”

you smile because you know, by the tone of his voice alone, that he isn’t talking about the snow. you lean back more, letting your head rest against his shoulder, and he nuzzles his nose against your neck lightly. you shiver, and he notices instantly.

“you cold?”, he asks.

“no, it’s just… you”

“ah, me”, he says, and you feel the warmth of his smile against your skin, “that’s a dangerous side effect”

you laugh softly, and he kisses the place just under your ear, slow, lingering, until your breath catches in your throat.

“stop it”, you whisper.

“why?”

“because you’re gonna make me-”

“fall more in love with me?”, he teases, his voice low.

you twist in his arms just enough to glare at him, “i didn’t say that”

“you didn’t have to”, he says, smirking.

you swat his chest lightly, half-annoyed, half in love with the way he always sees right through you. he catches your hand mid-air, weaving his fingers with yours, holding you still. and then, as if the teasing breaks open something softer, something that’s been glowing quietly since this morning, the mood shifts. not heavy. not sad.

just… full. full of warmth. full of love.

minho exhales softly behind you, burying his face in your shoulder for a moment.

“you know”, he says, “i’m really happy today”

you smile, your thumb brushing the back of his hand, “because of the cookies?”

“no”, he breathes, “because of you”

your chest tightens at his words.

he continues, his voice barely above a whisper, “sometimes i wake up and i can’t believe we get to do… stuff like this. you know, little domestic things, like today. just baking. staying in bed together. laughing. watching the snow”

“minho…”

“i just…”, he pauses, searching for the right words, “i’m really thankful for you”

your breath stutters, “you are?”

he nods, his forehead brushing your cheek, “you make everything better. even the bad days. even the cold mornings. everything just… feels lighter with you”

you swallow, your eyes stinging in the softest, sweetest way.

“minho”, you whisper, “you’re gonna make me cry”

“don’t”, he mumbles, hugging you tighter, “if you cry, you don’t get cookies”

you laugh wetly, leaning more into him, your fingers sliding across the warm skin of his forearm.

“i love you”, he whispers.

you close your eyes and breathe him in.

“i love you too”, you whisper back, your voice breaking in the most beautiful way.

there’s a moment - quiet, suspended, like the world holds its breath - before he moves his head and gently turns your chin towards him. you shift in his lap just enough to meet his eyes, soft and warm and glowing like candlelight.

he looks at you like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted.

and then you kiss him.

soft. slow. lingering. magical. like the snow falling outside. 

his hand cups your jaw, his thumb brushing your cheek, and he kisses you again. and again. like each kiss is trying to say something he’s been meaning to say forever but didn’t have the words for until now.

when you pull back slightly, your nose brushes his.

“merry christmas, minho”, you whisper.

“merry christmas”, he says, leaning in to kiss you again, a little deeper this time, a little sweeter, tasting of warmth and home and everything you’ve ever loved.

the cookies bake.

the world quiets.

the snow falls.

and you stay like that, wrapped in each other, with his lips against yours, until the timer goes off, breaking the silence but not your love.

never your love.

event masterlist | the library

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