you press your forehead to the cold glass and whisper, “zhang hao.”

from the bed comes a sleepy, sweet groan. “no.”

“hao.”

“it is minus ten. my blood has frozen. i am a corpse. let me rest in peace.”

you turn. he has burritoed himself into the duvet so thoroughly that only the top of his dark hair and one dramatically closed eye are visible. the eye cracks open just enough to glare.

“there’s eight centimetres already,” you say. “maybe ten. it’s perfect packing snow. if we don’t go now the kids will destroy it by noon.”

“let the children have their joy,” he mumbles into the pillow. “i will send them a condolence fruit basket.”

you have prepared for this. you cross the room, open the drawer, and shake the secret weapon: the limited-edition hot chocolate mix you mail-ordered from belgium, the one with the tiny star-shaped marshmallows he pretends he doesn’t love but has hidden three emergency packets of in his violin case.

the duvet shifts. a nose appears. it sniffs the air like a truffle pig.

“...with whipped cream?” he asks, voice still husky from sleep.

“and cinnamon. and i’ll let you pick the snowman’s entire outfit from your closet.”

a long, suffering sigh. the duvet avalanche slides off and zhang hao sits up, hair sticking out in seventeen directions, cheeks creased from the pillow, looking so unfairly beautiful you almost feel bad for blackmailing him.

almost.

“you are evil,” he declares, but he’s already reaching for the thermal shirt you throw at him.

twenty minutes later you are both outside in the courtyard behind the apartment building, the one nobody ever uses because the gate sticks and the ajumma on the third floor yells if you’re too loud after 10 p.m. it is 6:48 a.m. and the world is silver-blue and silent except for your boots crunching and hao’s dramatic shivering.

he is wearing three heat-tech layers, alongside with the world’s fluffiest scarf wrapped four times around his neck. and your mittens because his are “in the wash” (they are not).

you are vibrating. actual vibrations. you drop to your knees and start rolling a snowball immediately.

hao stands there for a full minute, arms crossed, watching you like you’re a nature documentary.

“come on,” you call, already pushing a ball the size of a yoga ball. “base first! we need a thicc bottom!”

he snorts so hard he has to pull the scarf down to breathe. “you said thicc.”

“are you five?”

he finally kneels — gracefully, because he can’t even kneel like a normal person — and starts rolling his own snowball. his is neater, rounder, more perfectly spherical because of course it is. zhang hao does not make ugly snow spheres.

you roll in parallel for a while, breath fogging, cheeks stinging. the snow is perfect: sticky enough to pack, light enough to lift. your base grows huge and slightly lopsided. hao’s is already taller than his waist and looks like it belongs in a department store display.

“okay,” you pant, “lift on three?”

he eyes your crooked boulder. “are you sure that thing isn’t alive?”

“one.”

“it’s looking at me.”

“two.”

“i swear it just blinked.”

“three!”

you both heave. the base thuds into place with a satisfying fwump. hao steps back, hands on hips, surveying it like an architect.

“it’s deranged,” he decides fondly. “i love it.”

the middle section is easier. hao rolls while you shape, occasionally stealing his gloves to warm your fingers because he keeps dramatically blowing on them and making heart eyes at you. every time you pat the snow smooth he leans over and presses a quick kiss to your cheek, leaving tiny warm spots that the cold immediately steals.

halfway through the torso you lose control of the ball. it veers left, picks up speed, and you chase it yelling until you trip and face-plant directly into a drift.

silence.

then hao’s laugh rings out, bright and startled and gorgeous, the one that makes his eyes crinkle into crescents. he doubles over, scarf slipping, tears in his eyes.

“you look like a snow monster!” he wheezes.

you pop up covered in snow, hair full of it, grinning like a maniac. “your turn!”

he squeals as you lunge, but he’s too slow. you tackle him gently into the drift and rub snow in his scarf until he’s laughing so hard he can’t breathe.

“mercy!” he gasps. “i surrender! i’ll build you ten snowmen!”

you let him up. he sits there for a second, snow in his lashes, cheeks cherry-red, staring at you like you’re the best thing that ever happened to him. then he cups your cold face with his gloved hands and kisses you soft and slow, tasting like frost and sleep and home.

“you’re crazy,” he murmurs against your lips.

“you love me.”

“unfortunately.”

you finish the snowman together. the head is hao’s masterpiece: perfectly round, gently smiling because he sculpted the tiniest curve with his thumb. he gives it his own scarf — the pale blue cashmere one you bought him in paris — because “he deserves luxury.” you add two chunks of charcoal you found in the barbecue corner for eyes and a baby carrot you definitely watched him grab from the fridge this morning.

arms are tricky. hao finds two perfect branches and arranges them like the snowman is mid-violin-bow. you step back to admire.

it is... magnificent. slightly drunk-looking, wearing designer cashmere, holding invisible violin arms, carrot nose already listing left because hao insisted on “character.”

“he looks like he’s about to play vivaldi and then cry about it,” hao says proudly.

“yeah, just like you,” you say.

hao gasps in mock offense, then steals your phone to take seventeen selfies with the snowman and exactly one where he’s kissing your iced cheek while you flip off the camera.

you’re both shivering now, fingers numb even inside gloves, noses dripping, but neither of you move to go inside.

hao suddenly kneels again, packs a tiny snowball, and writes something in the snow at the base of the snowman’s feet. you lean over his shoulder.

“you + me = forever”

your heart does backflips.

he looks up at you, snowflakes melting on his lashes, shy smile barely there. “too cheesy?”

you tackle him into the snow again.

this time he doesn’t even pretend to fight. he just pulls you down on top of him and kisses you until you can’t feel the cold anymore, until the only thing in the universe is his mouth and his hands and the soft happy noise he makes when you bite his bottom lip.

eventually you have to go inside or risk actual frostbite. hao carries you piggyback the whole way because your boots are “traitors” and he claims chivalry. you leave snowy footprints and laughter all the way up the stairs.

inside, the apartment is warm and smells like cinnamon from the promised hot chocolate. hao makes you sit on the kitchen counter while he unwraps all the layers from both of you, scolding softly every time he finds a new patch of frozen skin.

he runs a bath that smells like pine and orange because “we smell like outside.” you both fit in the tub even though it’s technically too small, knees knocking, steam curling around you. he washes snow from your hair with the same careful hands he uses on his violin strings.

later, wrapped in his hoodie and fuzzy socks, you sit on the windowsill with mugs of the fancy hot chocolate and watch kids discover your snowman. one little girl in a pink coat hugs it and refuses to leave. hao smiles so wide his cheeks hurt.

“we made someone’s day,” he says quietly.

you lean your head on his shoulder. “we made mine first.”

he turns to kiss your temple, slow and reverent. “next time,” he murmurs, “we’re making a whole orchestra. snow violin. snow cello. maybe a snow conductor to drive the band's bus.”

“deal,” you whisper. “but only if you wear the all those layers again. you looked like a very sexy fluffy ball.”

he chokes on a marshmallow.

outside, the snow keeps falling, soft and endless, covering your footprints, covering the little forever message at the snowman’s feet, keeping it safe until it melts in spring.

inside, you stay on the windowsill until the mugs are empty and your legs are asleep and hao carries you to bed, still whispering promises about next year’s snow family and the year after that and every year after that until you’re old and grey and still dragging him outside at 6 a.m. to build lopsided masterpieces that spell out the same thing every time:

you + me = forever.

the snowman stands guard all day, scarf fluttering, violin arms raised like he’s mid-concerto, smiling his tiny crooked smile at every passerby.

he lasts four whole days before the sun takes him.

the scarf survives. hao wears it every winter after that, even when it gets too small, even when the cashmere pills.

he says it smells like the morning you wrote forever in the snow and meant it.

you never argue.

© jongst4r, 2026

Gunwook doesn’t flinch when you break a grown man’s balance with a single pivot of your foot and drop him to the mat so fast the air leaves his lungs in one startled oof.

Everyone else watching flinches. Even the new coach.

You’re panting slightly when the sparring match is called. There’s a red mark forming on your knuckles, and a sheen of sweat along your hairline, and Gunwook—who has been sitting on the bench, legs spread wide like he’s relaxing in a café instead of the middle of a gym full of tense, silent people—gets up slowly and makes his way over.

You brace yourself. You already know what’s coming.

He takes your hand like it’s made of porcelain.

"Again?" he says, tone warm but so disapproving you nearly short-circuit. "Didn’t I just kiss this one yesterday?"

And then he does. Kisses the bruised knuckles, one by one.

You feel eyes everywhere. Burning. Judgmental. Terrified. And you? You’re about two seconds from melting into a puddle on the mat like a snowman in July.

“Gunwook,” you hiss, trying to keep it together, “not in front of the whole gym—”

He raises an eyebrow. “What, you can throw a guy twice your size but can’t handle a little PDA?”

You cover your face with your arm to hide the involuntary blush. It does nothing. He knows. He always knows.

Later, you try to play it cool when you corner him near the exit. Try to reassert dominance by poking a finger into his chest, mock-threatening. “You’re making me look soft.”

He grins, unbothered. “You are soft. Just with me.”

You roll your eyes and go to jab at him again, maybe threaten to flip him just to save face, but before your hand even reaches him, he lifts you under the arms like you’re some misbehaving house cat and physically removes you from the confrontation.

“Gunwook!” you squeak, flailing a little.

“You need a snack and a shower,” he says seriously. “Fighting's over. Let’s go.”

You’re still red in the face when he sets you down by the lockers like it’s perfectly normal to manhandle a trained martial artist in front of everyone.

And the worst part? The absolute worst part?

You let him. Because you’re supposed to be the scary one—but when it comes to him, you’re just soft. And honestly?