#edens

for jungwon + love month

Late winter has a way of pretending it’s done when it’s not.

The sun hangs a little longer in the sky now, bright but distant, and the sidewalks are lined with old snow, packed down, gray at the edges, stubborn in the shade. It crunches softly under your shoes as you step outside, breath fogging the air before you even realize you’re holding it.

“You ready?”

Jungwon stands a little too close, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, scarf pulled up just enough to hide the tip of his nose. A beanie flattens his hair, which you’re pretty sure he only wears when it’s really cold. When he smiles at you, it’s small and warm, like he’s saving it.

“You don’t have to walk me,” you say for maybe the third time, half-laughing as you rub your hands together. “It’s freezing.”

“I know,” he says easily. “That’s why I’m walking with you.”

There’s no argument in his voice, no dramatic insistence, just a simple statement, like this was always how it was going to be. Like the cold is a problem, and he’s already decided to solve it.

You sigh, fond and a little helpless, and start down the street beside him.

The neighbourhood is quiet, the kind of calm that only exists in winter. No birds, no buzzing insects. Just the distant sound of a car somewhere far away and the soft, rhythmic crunch of your steps in the snow. The streetlights aren’t on yet, but the sky is already fading into that pale blue that means night is coming soon.

Jungwon matches your pace without thinking about it. When you slow down to step over a patch of ice, he slows too. When you drift closer to the edge of the sidewalk, he shifts subtly so he’s on the street side, like it’s instinct.

You notice these things. You always do.

Your hands start to hurt about ten minutes in.

At first, it’s just a dull ache, something easy to ignore. You curl your fingers into your sleeves, trying to trap whatever warmth you can, but the cold creeps in anyway. It seeps through fabric and skin until your fingertips feel stiff, clumsy.

You don’t say anything. You don’t want to make a fuss.

Jungwon notices anyway.

He always does.

“Your hands,” he says quietly, glancing down at them. “They’re cold, aren’t they?”

You shrug, trying to play it off. “They’re fine.”

He hums, unconvinced, and stops walking.

Before you can ask what he’s doing, he’s already tugging his gloves off—black, worn soft at the seams, and reaching for you. His movements are careful, unhurried, like he doesn’t want to startle you.

“Hey—” you start, instinctively pulling your hands back. “Wonie, you’ll get cold.”

He looks up at you, eyes crinkling slightly, and smiles.

“I run warm,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Then, softer, gentler: “You don’t.”

There’s something about the way he says it that makes your chest ache, not pity, not teasing, just quiet certainty like he’s memorized this about you. Like he’s accepted it as fact.

He slips the gloves onto your hands before you can protest again, fingers brushing your wrists, warm even through the cold air. The gloves are still holding his heat, and it feels like sinking into it, like relief blooming all at once.

You wiggle your fingers experimentally.

“…They’re warm,” you admit.

“I know.” He grins, pleased, and tucks his bare hands back into his coat pockets. “See? Problem solved.”

You laugh softly, the sound puffing out in a little cloud. “You’re unbelievable.”

He shrugs, shoulders lifting beneath his coat. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

You start walking again, hands swinging slightly at your sides, wrapped in his warmth. The gloves are a little big on you, the fingertips bending where yours don’t quite reach, and it makes you smile every time you notice.

The walk feels slower after that.

Not because you’re tired, but because neither of you seems in any hurry. Jungwon points out little things as you go—the way the snow has piled up against a fence, the faint outline of footprints from earlier in the day, the convenience store on the corner that’s already started selling spring drinks even though winter clearly isn’t done yet.

You respond with quiet hums and nods, occasionally bumping his shoulder on purpose to see the way he glances at you, shy and amused. Every so often, your eyes meet, and you both look away a little too quickly, smiles lingering like secrets.

The cold doesn’t feel as sharp anymore.

When you reach your building, the lobby lights glow warmly through the glass, a soft yellow against the blue-gray evening. You slow to a stop, reluctant in that small, wordless way that comes with endings.

Jungwon hesitates too.

“Text me when you get upstairs,” he says. “So I know you’re in.”

“I will,” you promise.

He nods, then pauses, clearly debating something. Finally, he steps a little closer and reaches out, tugging the gloves off your hands.

“Hey—” you start again, but he’s already rubbing your fingers between his palms, brisk and careful, like he’s sealing the warmth in.

“There,” he murmurs. “Just in case.”

His hands are warm. Of course they are.

For a moment, everything else fades: the cold, the snow, the lingering winter. There’s just this: his hands around yours, steady and sure, and the quiet feeling that you’re safe, that someone is paying attention in all the ways that matter.

When he finally lets go, you feel lighter somehow.

“Get inside,” he says, smiling. “It’s still cold out here.”

You nod, heart full, and turn toward the door. Just before you go in, you glance back.

Jungwon is still there, hands in his pockets, watching to make sure you’re okay.

The snow hasn’t melted yet.

But you’re warm all the same.