Namjoon

They walk together down a quiet street, far from the usual noise. Namjoon wears a low cap and a long coat, trying to go unnoticed. You walk at his pace, feeling the cool breeze and the silent excitement in the air.

Suddenly, he stops in front of a small modern art museum. —"I wanted to bring you here," —he says, looking at you with that special sparkle in his eyes—, "it's one of my favorite places."

Inside, the museum is almost empty. Just you, a few other people, and hundreds of works of art. You walk slowly, admiring the paintings, the sculptures, the soft lights that illuminate the place.

Namjoon stares at an abstract painting for a long time. He doesn't say anything. He just moves a little closer to you, until his fingers brush against yours. He doesn't need words; his presence beside you already says everything.

—"Sometimes I feel that art is like love," —she whispers, her voice echoing slightly in the empty gallery—, "you don't always have to understand everything to know that it's real."

You smile, and he gently squeezes your hand, as if wanting to ensure this moment is etched in his memory.

They leave the museum and walk aimlessly, the city lights reflecting in the puddles on the pavement. Namjoon stops in front of a small, cozy café.

—"Are you cold?" —he asks with a shy smile.

Before you can answer, he's already taking off his scarf to carefully wrap it around your neck, his fingers brushing your skin delicately. He laughs softly, embarrassed by his own spontaneous gesture.

They spend the rest of the night there, on the corner of a forgotten café, sharing a coffee, talking about art, about dreams...

...