The first snow of the season fell overnight, dusting Seoul in a thin, fragile layer that transformed the city's sharp edges into something softer, almost forgiving. Ji-eun woke to the quiet hush outside her window—snowflakes still drifting lazily past the paper screen, catching the pale morning light. For a moment, the weight of the previous days lifted: Soo-min's fever had broken, the new mask seemed to help his breathing, and Min-ho's unexpected visit had left a warmth in the house that lingered like the scent of cedar on wool.
She checked her phone before even rising. A message from Min-ho waited, sent at 5:47 a.m.:
*Snow today. Meet me at 2 p.m.? Wear something warm. I have a surprise.*
No location, no explanation—just that quiet certainty he carried even in text. Ji-eun's lips curved despite herself. She typed back:
*Where?*
His reply was immediate:
*Outside your coffee house. Trust me.*
She spent the morning in a strange, fluttering anticipation. Customers commented on the snow—how pretty it looked on the old tiled roofs of Insadong, how it made the lattes taste warmer. Ji-eun smiled through it all, but her mind kept drifting to whatever Min-ho had planned. A walk? A café? Something simple, surely—he knew she disliked extravagance.
At two o'clock sharp, she stepped outside, scarf wrapped high, coat buttoned against the chill. Min-ho was already there, leaning against a black SUV idling at the curb. He wore a dark wool coat, collar turned up, snowflakes melting in his hair. When he saw her, his entire face softened.
"You're early," she said, breath fogging between them.
"I was impatient," he admitted, opening the passenger door. "Get in before you freeze."
She hesitated only a second. "Where are we going?"
"You'll see."
The drive took them out of the old city center, past Namsan's snow-dusted cable car line, across the Han, and into a quieter district Ji-eun rarely visited. The buildings grew sparser; bare trees lined the roads like patient sentinels. Finally, Min-ho turned into a discreet driveway flanked by stone lanterns half-buried in snow.
A small sign read: *Seoul Museum of Modern Art – Private Collection Wing (Closed to Public Today)*
Ji-eun's eyes widened. "Min-ho…"
"I know someone on the board," he said simply, parking and turning off the engine. "They agreed to open the special exhibition hall just for us. No crowds. No cameras. Just the art…and time."
She stared at him, throat tight. "You didn't have to—"
"I wanted to." He reached into the back seat and pulled out two pairs of wool gloves—one black, one cream. "Your hands always get cold when you sketch outside. These are warmer."
Ji-eun slipped them on, marveling at how perfectly they fit. "You thought of everything."
"Not everything," he said with a small, self-conscious smile. "But I'm trying."
Inside, the museum was hushed, lights dimmed to a soft glow that made the paintings breathe. A curator greeted them quietly, then disappeared, leaving them alone in the vast hall dedicated to Korean contemporary artists—works that spanned decades, from delicate ink washes to bold abstract oils.
Min-ho let her lead. Ji-eun moved slowly, almost reverently, pausing before each piece. She lingered longest at a large canvas by Lee Ufan: simple gray strokes on white, yet somehow conveying endless space and quiet emotion.
"It looks like breathing," she whispered. "Like the moment right before something important happens."
Min-ho stood beside her, close enough that their sleeves brushed. "That's how I feel every time I see you at the river bench. Like the world holds its breath."
Ji-eun glanced at him, cheeks warming. "You're getting poetic."
"Blame the art," he said, but his eyes were serious.
They wandered deeper into the exhibition. At one point, Ji-eun stopped before a small series of sketches—pencil and watercolor studies of ordinary people in everyday moments: an old woman selling chestnuts, a child chasing pigeons, a couple sharing an umbrella in rain.
"These feel… familiar," she said softly. "Like someone watched real life and decided it was beautiful enough to keep."
Min-ho nodded. "The artist said she painted what she wished she could protect. Moments that slip away if you don't hold them."
Ji-eun's fingers tightened around the edge of her glove. "I used to think my sketches were just escape. But maybe they're the same. Trying to hold onto things before they disappear."
He turned to face her fully. "Then let me help you hold them."
From his coat pocket, he withdrew a slim leather portfolio. Inside were brand-new sketchbooks—high-quality paper, different weights and textures—along with a set of professional watercolor pencils, a travel brush set, and a small tin of gouache she'd once mentioned admiring in a catalog she could never afford.
Ji-eun's breath caught. "Min-ho… this is too much."
"It's not," he said quietly. "You give so much of yourself every day—to your family, to strangers in the coffee shop, even to me. Let me give something back."
Tears pricked her eyes. She blinked them away, running her fingertips over the smooth covers. "I don't know what to say."
"Then don't say anything." He took her hand, gloved fingers intertwining with hers. "Just keep drawing. Keep dreaming. And let me be there when the dreams get heavy."
They moved to a small bench in the center of the room, facing a massive canvas of twilight over the Han—eerily similar to the view from their bench, but painted decades earlier. Ji-eun opened one of the new sketchbooks, pencil hovering.
"Draw with me?" she asked.
Min-ho hesitated. "I'm terrible."
"Doesn't matter."
She guided his hand again, the way she had in the art store, but this time the strokes were slower, more deliberate. Together they sketched the river as it might look from memory—snow on the banks, lights blurred by falling flakes, two small figures on a bench barely visible in the distance.
When they finished, the drawing was clumsy in places, beautiful in others. Ji-eun studied it, then looked at Min-ho.
"This is us," she said simply.
He stared at the page as though it held something sacred. "Yeah. It is."
They sat in silence for a long time, shoulders touching, the museum's hush wrapping around them like snow. Eventually, Ji-eun spoke again, voice barely above a whisper.
"I keep waiting for the moment this ends. For you to realize I'm not worth the complications. For Seo-yeon or your father or the board to win."
Min-ho turned to her, expression fierce and tender at once. "They won't. Because I'm not fighting for them anymore. I'm fighting for this—for quiet afternoons, for bad sketches, for the way your eyes light up when you talk about color. I've spent my life acquiring things that don't matter. You matter."
Ji-eun searched his face, looking for cracks, for doubt. She found none.
Slowly, she leaned in and rested her forehead against his. Their breaths mingled in the cool air. No kiss—not yet—but the closeness felt more intimate than any touch.
"Thank you," she whispered. "For today. For seeing the dreams I gave up on."
He cupped the back of her neck gently, thumb brushing her skin. "They're not gone. They're just waiting."
When they finally left the museum, dusk had fallen. Snow continued to drift down, thicker now, blanketing the city in silence. Min-ho drove her home slowly, neither of them speaking much. The quiet felt full rather than empty.
At her gate, he walked her to the door. Snowflakes caught in her lashes; he brushed them away with a gloved thumb.
"Tomorrow?" he asked, the question softer than usual.
Ji-eun rose on her toes and pressed the lightest of kisses to the corner of his mouth—barely there, but deliberate.
"Tomorrow," she confirmed.
Inside, the hanok smelled of simmering gamjatang and warmth. Soo-min was at the low table doing homework, mask looped around his neck. He looked up and grinned.
"You're glowing, Noona."
She laughed, cheeks still flushed from cold and something deeper. "It's just the snow."
Mrs. Park appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands. "Good day?"
Ji-eun nodded, clutching the portfolio to her chest. "The best."
Later, after dinner, she sat cross-legged on the heated floor with Soo-min, showing him the new supplies. He flipped through the sketchbooks with wide eyes.
"Hyung got you all this?"
"He did."
Soo-min looked at her seriously. "He likes you a lot, Noona. Like… really likes you."
Ji-eun's heart squeezed. "I know."
"Are you scared?"
She thought of Seo-yeon's envelope—still unopened, still hidden in her drawer. Of Chairman Han's expectations. Of the chasm between their worlds.
"Yes," she admitted. "But I'm more scared of never trying."
Soo-min nodded like he understood more than his sixteen years should allow. "Then don't stop."
That night, Ji-eun opened her new sketchbook under the small lamp beside her futon. She drew the museum hall from memory—the soft lights, the paintings, Min-ho's profile as he watched her draw. In the corner, almost hidden, she sketched their hands intertwined on the bench.
When she finished, she wrote beneath it in small, careful Hangul:
*Today, time stopped. And I let it.*
Across the city, Min-ho stood at his penthouse window, snow swirling against the glass. His phone buzzed—another message from his father:
*Meeting with Lee family tomorrow. No excuses.*
He stared at the words, then deleted the notification without replying.
Instead, he opened his own sketchbook—the one Ji-eun had guided his hand across—and looked at their clumsy river drawing. He traced the two tiny figures with his fingertip.
For the first time in years, the future didn't feel like a boardroom agenda or a merger clause.
It felt like snow falling quietly, covering everything in possibility.