everythingoes;

lia. not your model minority. jhs & jjk. on hiatus. m.list. ✧ wips. ✧ recs. ✧ faq. latest: a winter to remember. [jjk]

[junghelioseok]

a winter to remember.

↳ snowmen don't just come to life. right?

◇ jungkook x reader ◇ fluff | snowman!au lmao ◇ 13.7k [1/1]

notes: this is, for all intents and purposes, a rewrite of netflix's hot frosty which i watched last (yes, last) thanksgiving with my hubs. terrible movie, cannot unrecommend enough!!! i then proceeded to grind out 5k of this fic in two days, never finished it bc hello have u met me, and then picked it up again on and off throughout the rest of 2025 and now! at long last! she's here!!! is she the most ridiculous fic i've ever written? yes! is she deeply unedited? also yes!!!

(what a way to temporarily break my hiatus amirite)

happy holidays, y'all. here's to hoping for a better 2026.

warnings: death of a loved one, inexplicable christmas magic, various shenanigans. who knows, really. it's a fic about a snowman, for god's sake.

BREEP! BREEP! BREEP!

The harsh, discordant blare of your alarm jerks you from your slumber, just as it does every morning. You aren’t sure why the sound quality has deteriorated so badly over the past few weeks—one too many falls from your nightstand, or perhaps the unplanned spin in washing machine last month. Whatever the cause may have been, you’re in dire need of an upgrade.

If only money wasn’t so tight, you think, not for the first time, as you force yourself up and out of the warmth of your bed. The cold air is a shock, raising gooseflesh on your arms and legs in an instant. Shivering, you grab your cardigan from its spot on a nearby chair, flinging it on and wrapping it around yourself as tightly as possible. It’s a strategic location—you replace it there every evening. Only once it’s on can you brave the walk down the hall—past the broken thermostat with its sticky note reminder to call the repairman!—to the bathroom where you immediately turn the shower on as hot as it will go.

Things weren’t always like this, of course. Yoongi never would have let the house fall into disrepair. But cancer was a malicious and unforgiving beast, and three years ago your beloved husband had finally succumbed. You’d scattered his ashes from his favorite bench in his favorite park, overlooking the river. You’d cried and you’d mourned, until you felt as empty as his side of the bed.

And then you’d carried on, because what else could you do?

You brush your teeth as the shower finishes warming up. Warm steam fills the bathroom, fogging the mirror, and you swipe a palm across it as you slip off your cardigan. A hot shower always makes you feel more alive, and you breathe a sigh of relief as you step inside and draw the curtain shut behind you. You don’t like thinking about your late husband. You especially don’t like the feelings that thinking about him bring up, so you’re particularly grateful for the shower on this particular morning. The hot water splashing across your face mixes with any tears that manage to escape, swirling them down the drain without a trace.

The sun has just started to rise by the time you leave the house, pulling on your woolly blue mittens as you begin picking your way down the street toward the main town square. You wave at your elderly neighbor, Joyce, and laugh when Daisy, her fluffy little dog, cavorts out the front door and immediately disappears into the thick layer of snow on the ground. Across the street, Marco and his daughter, Luisa, shout their hellos.

There are certainly perks that come with living in a small town. You’d never known your neighbors’ names when you lived in the city, but now, you don’t even think twice about knocking on Joyce’s door to borrow her garden shears every spring. You regularly babysit Luisa when Marco and his wife, Blair, have their weekly date nights. She calls you auntie, and you call her a little jitterbug.

But there are cons, too. You don’t miss the lingering looks of sympathy in Marco’s and Joyce’s eyes as you pass by. You recognize those same expressions from Yoongi’s funeral, when the whole town had come out to mourn and offer you their best attempts at comfort.

Biting your lip, you turn to walk away from your neighbors and onto the main road. Before you can leave, though, Joyce calls your name. Curiously, you turn back to where she’s standing, her white hair tucked beneath a knit hat adorned with an enormous, hot pink pom-pom.

“You’re going to freeze in this weather, dear,” she says, gesturing for you to come closer. “Here.” She produces a deep red scarf seemingly out of thin air, and wraps it around your neck.

You blink dumbly. “Oh? Oh! Joyce, please, there’s no need for this. I have scarves at home; I just completely forgot to grab one today—”

She cuts you off with a raised finger, shaking her head. “Don’t break an old woman’s heart, dear. Just consider it an early Christmas present, all right?”

Sensing that she won’t take no for an answer, you concede and wrap the scarf more tightly around your neck. “Thank you, Joyce. This is very kind.”

“No need to thank me,” she replies, waving you off. “Have a lovely day, dear. Now, where did Daisy get off to?”

Joyce shuffles off in search of her dog, and you veer back onto the sidewalk and continue on toward the main road that runs through town. Seven years ago, you’d leased a ramshackle little brick building just off the square, with hopes of renovating it and turning it into your dream diner. Yoongi had been skeptical, but you’d seen its potential and managed to convince him that it was worth the investment. Today, it stands proud, with big picture windows overlooking the wooden gazebo in the center of the square and a cheery red sign out front that reads: The Milkshake Parlor.

You and Yoongi had compromised on the name. Ever the pragmatist, he’d wanted to call it The Diner. “That’s what it is, isn’t it? No fuss, no frills,” he’d said, waving a paintbrush to emphasize his point. You’d rolled your eyes and grabbed the yellow No. 2 pencil that was perpetually behind his ear, waving it at him in retaliation. “It’s boring, Yoongi. Cherry on Top is a cute name, and it lets people know we make a mean milkshake!” And so, the compromise came into being. The Milkshake Parlor—a name that was cute and pragmatic, as far as you were both concerned.

“Hey, stop it!”

“No, you stop it! You’re going to knock him over!”

The sudden shouting pulls you back to reality, and you realize with a start that you’ve come to a dead stop in the middle of the road. Tearing your gaze from The Milkshake Parlor’s sign, you turn toward the source of the commotion. Two children—a boy and a girl, both about ten or so—seem to be having a disagreement about a snowman they’re building. From what you can tell, the boy thinks that they can stack four snowballs, while the girl is drawing the limit at three and is now trying to forcibly take the fourth ball from him.

Chuckling wryly, you shake your head and head inside The Milkshake Parlor. Already, the smell of freshly baked bread is beginning to waft from the kitchen in the back, and through the window, you can just barely see the top of the chef’s head bobbing around. “Hey, Jin,” you call as the door swings shut behind you.

The chef’s head perks up, and a moment later the door to the kitchen is flung open. “Well, well, well! If it isn’t the lady of the house herself!” Jin exclaims, cutting a striking figure in the doorway with a batter-covered whisk in hand and flour streaked across his black apron. “I feel like I should bow. Or would you rather me bend the knee?”

“I literally come in every day, you weirdo,” you tell him, running a finger along his whisk before it can drip onto the floor. “Have you been rewatching Game of Thrones?

Jin frowns. “No.”

You frown back. “Then, pray tell, why are you being so cheesy?”

He sniffs. “Well, someone has to brie.”

You groan, regretting your question immediately. If you know one thing about Jin, it’s that he will take a pun and run with it, straight into the ground. “Oh, no.”

“What?” he asks innocently. “Cheer up! It’s gouda be a good day!”

“Please stop.”

“If I stop, will you feel cheddar?”

“I hate you.”

Jin slaps a hand to his chest, feigning hurt. “Oh, man, now I’m feeling bleu. C’mon, Jin, shake it off. Pretend that you don’t camembert.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Yikes, these are getting worse by the second. You should quit while you’re ahead.”

He perks up. “Are you telling me I should stop milking it?”

“Awful,” you sigh. “Absolutely terrible.”

“Agree to disa-brie,” he replies breezily. “Anyway, you don’t have time to stand here all day in awe of my charm and wit. I’ve got some breakfast for you in the back. Ham and cheese omelet—no pun intended—with a slice of my homemade sourdough. I just put the coffeepot on too, so that should be ready soon.”

You squeeze his shoulder and resist the urge to tell him that he’s already made a brie-related pun. “You’re the best. Thanks, Jinnie.”

“It’s the least I can do,” he says, brushing you off. “I like cooking, and I know you don’t eat in the mornings. You’d probably starve to death without me.”

“You’re not wrong,” you reply. Then you frown, racking your brain for the right words. “But starving to death? That would definitely be the worst queso scenario.”

It's the right thing to say. Jin beams, his entire face lighting up like the sun that has now fully risen and is streaming golden through the windows that drew you to lease this building all those years ago. “Now that’s the spirit.”

///

The Milkshake Parlor is always busiest in December. Between the holiday shoppers and families coming in to visit, you don’t have a chance to sit down until nearly four in the afternoon. The sun has already begun its descent toward the horizon, and you sigh in relief as you plop down into a booth to sign some paychecks.

Outside, the Christmas lights are beginning to turn on, transforming the town square into a twinkling wonderland. Santa’s sleigh, lit up in green and red and gold, is being pulled by two neat rows of glittering reindeer. Scattered all around are pinstriped candy cane decorations and glowing gifts tied with lit-up bows bigger than your head. In the center of it all, just outside the entrance of the gazebo, is the tree—aglow with colorful baubles and garlands of shimmery golden tinsel and silver snowflakes. All together, with the lights sparkling off the snow, it’s a mesmerizing sight.

“Has it started yet?”

You glance over at Jin, who’s sliding into the seat opposite yours with two steaming mugs of hot chocolate in hand, one of which he pushes toward you. “Doesn’t look like it,” you murmur, nodding your thanks as you accept the mug and take a careful sip. “I saw Mr. Whittaker walk by with a box of prize ribbons a few minutes ago, though.”

Jin hums. “Man, I made the craziest things during the Snowtime Spectacular as a kid. One year, I just made a giant cow. I think I was maybe nine? Another time, I made that little peeing guy in Belgium. The pissing man, or whatever it’s called.”

“What a name,” you say, laughing. “I hear it’s a lot smaller than people expect it to be, for something so famous. Have you been?”

He nods. “Yeah, once when I was fourteen. I was kind of obsessed with it afterward. Thought it was hilarious.” He pauses, then chuckles. “Still do, actually.”

“How did you make it pee?” you ask curiously.

“Gold wire,” he replies as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Stuck it right in the tip of his dick.”

You nearly spit out the sip of hot chocolate you'd just taken. “Jesus Christ.”

Jin grins and settles back into his seat, eyes sparkling. “So, what about you? Enter any snowman building contests when you were a kid?”

“Hmm.” You think about it for a moment. “Not really. It wasn’t much of a thing where I grew up. We got snow and four seasons and all that, but the winters tended to be pretty mild. If we got snow, it didn’t really stick around for very long.”

The sun has disappeared fully now, cloaking the town in the dusky blues and purples of twilight. In the square, amongst the bright lights and festive decorations, townspeople are beginning to gather. Children, mostly, but a few adults seem to be taking part in the Snowtime Spectacular as well. A few people stop in on their way to the square, and you and Jin sell them generous servings of cocoa and hot spiced cider in paper cups to take back into the cold. You glance out the window whenever you get a chance, watching as the competitors begin building their creations.

Just before five o’clock, your other employee arrives for the dinner shift. Hoseok is a childhood friend of Jin’s, and his cheery disposition and infectious smile make him a perfect server. “Hey!” he says as he walks in, pulling off his beanie and shaking out his cherry red hair. “You guys see those snowmen out there? There’s some pretty impressive ones!”

“No, we’ve been working, unlike some people.” Jin pokes his head out from the kitchen, where he’s assembling a lasagna. “But say more. Did the Patel siblings try to make Godzilla again?”

“Actually, they’ve gone for Totoro this time,” replies Hoseok. “It was turning out pretty well when I walked by. Identifiable, at least.”

Any further conversation is interrupted by the entrance of a group of four regulars—two men and two women—who stop in every two weeks to play poker over bacon cheeseburgers and milkshakes. Hoseok waves at them and grabs a bottle of water from the fridge behind the counter in preparation to greet them properly. You and Jin, meanwhile, head back into the kitchen to get their usual order started.

More townsfolk filter in as the night wears on, and as the diner fills up, you take over some tables to lessen Hoseok’s burden. Whenever you aren’t talking to customers, you stop in the back to check on Jin and help him prepare food. Yoongi had always loved cooking, and he and Jin used to work together seamlessly in the kitchen. But you haven’t had the heart to hire someone new just yet, and Jin hasn’t complained. Instead, you took on the additional workload, doing your best to help out wherever you can.

Three minutes past ten, you finally flip the sign on the door to ‘closed’ and turn off the neon sign in the window. Hoseok is clearing the last of the plates and glasses, handing them over to Jin so he can load the dishwasher. You pull the vacuum from the closet, and together, the three of you set to work cleaning up. Hoseok mops up any spills while Jin wipes down the counters, and it isn’t long before you’re finished. Jin flicks off the lights as you exit, and both men turn to watch you as you lock the front door.

“That was fun. We should do it again tomorrow,” Jin jokes. “Same time, same place?”

Hoseok chuckles. “Count me in.”

You can only shake your head, laughing. “You’re both nuts.”

And with that, you say your goodbyes. Jin heads off in the direction of his house, and Hoseok makes his way toward Whittakers' General Goods, the general store, next door. You, meanwhile, find your gaze drawn back to the main town square and the collection of snowmen and snow sculptures that have cropped up between all the lights and decor. Curiosity lures you in, and you soon find yourself walking amongst them, admiring the admittedly incredible craftsmanship of some and chuckling at some of the others. You find Totoro, lovingly crafted, and a series of blobs that you’re fairly certain are attempts at Pokémon—at least, you think you spy one that could be a Bulbasaur. Smiling, you continue winding your way through the maze of snowy creations.

You’re nearly at the edge of the square when a particularly impressive snowman brings you to a stop. Nestled between a classic snowman with a stovepipe hat and a cartoonish dog you can only assume is from Paw Patrol, is a man. A life-sized, hyperrealistic man, crafted entirely of snow—who also happens to be completely naked. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” you mutter to nobody, your breath misting in the cool air. “Who made you? Fucking Michelangelo?”

Your gaze roves over the snowman—the literal snow man—again. Michelangelo hadn’t been messing around; that was for sure. From the strong jaw, to the dip of his clavicle, to the planes of his toned chest, to the firm ridges of his abdomen—and then your cheeks flush warm when your eyes drop lower. At least the creator had stuck a leaf between their creation’s legs to preserve some modesty.

Now feeling very much like a pervert, you take a step back and make to walk away. Something stops you in your tracks, though, and you find yourself turning back around to look into the snowman’s blank, white eyes. “You must be freezing,” you murmur, taking in the smooth, white rounds of his cheeks and the chiseled angle of his jaw. And then, driven on by some force that surely must be madness, you unwrap the scarf from your neck and wind it around his instead.

“All right,” you murmur once the deed is done. “That’s that, and I’m officially a nutjob. A headcase. A big, fucking weirdo who’s talking to a snowman. Coolcoolcool. That’s fine. There’s your good deed for the year, {Name}, you fucking idiot.” You glance up at the snowman once more and take a deep breath. “Okay. I’m gonna leave now. Bye.”

You aren’t sure why you felt the need to bid the snowman goodbye. Shaking your head, you tramp off, forgoing the road entirely. Instead, you make your way across the town square, your footsteps sinking deep into the snow.

Talking to a snowman, you think as you walk away. Good god. I need a fucking drink.

///

A loud bang jerks you awake the next morning. Your eyes fly open, your brain racing to catch up as you glance around for the source of the noise. The bedroom looks undisturbed, and you shiver as you climb out from beneath the covers and seize your cardigan from the chair.

It takes you a moment to realize that the sound is someone knocking on your front door. The thought drags you into motion—flinging on your cardigan and treading downstairs to figure out who dared disturb your precious sleep at the ungodly hour of half past four.

“What on earth could be so impor—” you start, flinging open the door only to stop dead in your tracks. Standing on your doorstep is a man. A naked man. Or at least, mostly naked—if you discount the scarf that flaps around his thighs and conveniently obscures his—

You tear your gaze from its downward trajectory and refocus on the man’s face. “What the fuck?! Where are your clothes?”

The man blinks, as if the thought of wearing clothing had never even occurred to him. “I don’t have any. This is all I have.” And he gestures to the scarf around his neck, which, upon closer inspection, is the exact one that Joyce had gifted you yesterday—and that you had subsequently gifted to a snowman in a moment of pure lunacy.

“I—” You don’t know what to say. “Why are you here? Who even are you? Aren’t you cold?” You pause, then gesture wildly at the deep red scarf that is coming dangerously close to revealing things. “Jesus. Where did you get that, anyway?”

“Hmm.” The man hums thoughtfully, brushing a wavy lock of dark hair from his forehead. “That’s a lot of questions, so I guess I’ll just answer them in order. I’m here because I followed your footsteps in the snow. That took some time, since they got kind of muddled with others. But I figured it out.” He pauses, as if expecting you to congratulate him. Instead, you offer him a dumbfounded look, which he takes in stride with a bemused smile and presses on. “As to who I am, well, my name’s Jungkook. I’m a snowman. So, no, I’m not cold. I don’t think it’s possible for me to even get cold. Thank you for the scarf, though. I meant to thank you earlier, but you left awfully fast and I wasn’t really… well, I couldn’t really walk yet. But now I’m here, and you’re here, and I just…” He smiles at you again, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Thank you. Truly. I’m so happy we met.”

He’s insane. He must be. “You’re out of your goddamn mind,” you tell him, and when you receive only another bemused smile and a little head tilt in return, you sigh. “Seriously, man. Jungle, or whatever your name is. I don’t know if this is some weird prank, or what, but it’s way too early for this shit. Just go home. And put on some clothes, for crying out loud. You’re going to get frostbite.”

The man blinks. “Home? I don’t…” he trails off. “I don’t think I have one. A home, I mean. I guess the town square would be the closest thing, so…” He nods. “Yeah. Okay, I’ll go back there. I'm… I’m really sorry to have bothered you.”

“Wait.” You’re clearly the one who’s insane now. But for some reason, the sight of his forlorn face as he turns to walk away pierces straight through your sternum to your heart. “Hang on a sec. You don’t… you don’t know where to go? You don’t have anywhere to go?”

Jungle(?) shrugs. “Not really. I’m a snowman.”

You opt to ignore this asinine claim and size him up instead. Objectively, he’s handsome. He has a jawline that could cut glass and a body that any Greek god would envy, and his dark hair falls in perfect waves that frame his forehead. His face, though, is at complete odds with the rest of him. Something about his easy smile and wide brown eyes instinctively makes you want to trust him. You can’t see any traces of deception hiding in his expression—only soft vulnerability and confused inquisitiveness. And so, you come to a decision.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” you mutter. Then you step aside, pulling the front door wide open. “Do you want to come in?”

The man on your doorstep blinks once, twice, and a third time. And then his face splits open into a wide grin, one that lights him up like the sun breaking through a wall of clouds. “That would be… wow. Yes, I’d love to come in. Wow. Thank you!”

You aren’t sure what to make of his enthusiasm, but you allow him to step past the threshold nonetheless. You watch as he looks around in amazement, taking in each piece of furniture in your living room and each bit of art hanging on the walls.

“It’s so pretty in here,” he marvels, spinning around in a full circle. “Is this all yours?”

Were you a paranoid person, and were he anyone else, you probably would’ve interpreted this question as a way to gauge whether you lived alone—and thus, whether you were an easy target. But coming from him, you have no doubt that it’s innocent. Just simple, honest curiosity. Still, that doesn’t mean your heart doesn’t splinter a little as you think of your late husband.

“It is now,” you say quietly. And if your companion senses anything amiss or hears the way your voice cracks a little bit, he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he glances toward the kitchen, where the coffee maker is just starting to wake up, gurgling softly before beginning to brew a fresh pot.

“What’s that?”

You pull a blanket from the back of the couch and toss it at him before heading into the kitchen. “It’s coffee. And you should really cover yourself up.” You gesture vaguely at his body, then quickly avert your gaze and busy yourself with fishing two clean mugs out of the cabinet. “Do you want any?”

“I’ll try some,” he says, wrapping the blanket around his waist. “I’ve never had coffee before.”

Weird, but not unheard of, you think to yourself as you pour him a mug. “Milk or sugar? It’s going to be a little bitter otherwise.”

He nods. “Sugar then, please.”

You plop a spoonful of sugar into the mug, giving it a stir before handing it over. He accepts the coffee with a grateful smile, and gives it a curious sniff. Instantly, he recoils, his eyes screwing shut.

“Oh! That’s hot!”

You blink. “Well, yeah, it’s fresh. You can blow on it to cool it down.”

He shakes his head and places the mug back onto the counter. “I’m sorry. I’m not really a fan of hot things.”

“Don’t worry about it,” you tell him, waving off his apology. “Here, let me pour it over ice. You can try it then.”

You watch him out of the corner of your eye as you pad across the kitchen to the refrigerator. He’s watching you raptly, with an expression caught somewhere between awe and gratitude, and you can’t help but shiver at the intensity. You focus instead on the task at hand—scooping ice cubes into a glass and carefully pouring the hot coffee over top.

“Here,” you say when you’re done, handing the cup over.

He sniffs it again, cocks his head, and then takes a long sip. “Oh, wow." Another sip. "Mm. That’s good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He nods. “Really good. Thank you, {Name}.”

It takes you a moment to remember how he knows your name. There’s your good deed for the year, {Name}, you fucking idiot. It seems like an eternity ago that you were talking to a snowman—a snowman that, upon some reflection, does bear a striking resemblance to the flesh-and-blood man standing in your kitchen now. Are you saying you believe that he's a snowman? a little voice in your head asks. You tell it to shut up and go away in no uncertain terms, and mercifully, it does.

Then you remember that you aren’t sure what his name is, even though you know he definitely introduced himself while you were dazed and half-asleep and furious at being woken up so early. It’s definitely not Jungle, you think, but it’s the only thing buzzing around in your head. It must be close, though. John? Jackson? Geronimo?

“I don’t know your name,” you blurt. “I mean, I know you said it. But it was so early, and I was so tired, and now I don’t remember what you said, and… I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

Your companion laughs. “No need to apologize. The name’s Jungkook.”

“Jungkook.” You repeat it a few times, committing it to memory. “Right. Got it. I won’t forget again, I swear.”

Jungkook just laughs again. “Really, it’s not a big deal. You’re right, anyhow. It was early. I don’t know how I didn’t realize that.”

You shake your head. “It’s fine.”

“Still.” He peers at you from behind a dark curtain of bangs. “I’m sorry.”

You fight back the sudden warmth that threatens to rush to your cheeks at his sincerity. “Seriously, don’t worry about it. Everything’s fine.”

///

Everything is, in fact, not fine. As it turns out, it’s incredibly hard to focus on the diner when there’s a man claiming to be a snowman in your home, doing god only knows what. The worry must show on your face too, because Jin pulls you aside at half past ten, his eyebrows raised quizzically. “You’re being weird. Why are you being weird?”

You frown. “Is it that obvious?”

He nods. “Like a bullet to the head.”

“I’m not sure you’re using that expression right,” you tell him. “But… yeah. You’re right. I… had a weird morning.”

“Well, consider me intrigued,” Jin says, plopping into the nearest booth and propping his chin in his palm. “Sit,” he orders, gesturing to the seat opposite. “Expound.”

“I don’t even know where to begin.”

“Try the beginning,” he says helpfully. “You woke up this morning. Then what?”

You hesitate. “Huh. I guess this whole thing actually started last night.”

“Juicy. Say more.”

You look across the table at Jin. He stares back, unblinking, a single brow raised as if to say, well?

Sucking in a deep breath, you hold it for a moment before exhaling it in an audible huff. “I have a houseguest.”

Jin cocks his head. “Really? Is that it?”

“He thinks he’s a snowman.”

Silence. Then: “Come again?”

You throw your hands up, exasperated. “Right? That’s what I said. I mean, not exactly in those words, but it’s a crazy thing to claim, right? Not that I think he’s crazy. But maybe he is, and now there’s a crazy man in my house doing… I don’t know. Destroying the place, or setting it on fire, or… stealing my gold?”

“You don’t have any gold,” Jin points out.

“Well, sure. I’m not Smaug, or a goddamn fucking leprechaun, but the point stands. He could still be trying to steal my laptop or my grandmother’s antique candelabras or something.”

Jin chuckles and mutters candelabras under his breath before sobering up again. “Right. Yeah. That would be bad. Let’s go pay him a visit.”

“Wait, what?” You blink. “Are you serious?”

“As a bullet to the head,” he replies, rising to his feet decisively and flipping the open sign on the door to closed. “Lock up behind us, won’t you?”

///

For the first time in a long while, you are at a complete loss for words. Jin had let himself into your house with his copy of the key before you even had a chance to fish yours from your purse, and you’d wordlessly followed as he strolled into your living room and made himself comfortable in one of the wingback armchairs flanking the front window. Jungkook, who’d been watching some show on television, had blinked in surprise. Jin stared. Jungkook stared back. And now, you’re not sure whether there’s a thing you can do about the silent standoff occurring over your glass-top coffee table.

At least, you think to yourself, I found a hoodie and sweats for him to wear. This would be so much more awkward if he were still naked.

Jungkook breaks the silence first, tugging you from your thoughts. “Um. Hi.”

Jin narrows his eyes. “Let’s skip the small talk. {Name} here says you’re a snowman. What’s the deal with that?”

Jungkook blinks once, and then twice more. “I’m not sure what you mean?”

“You. Snowman.” Jin says the words slowly, as if talking to a small child who hasn’t yet learned how to speak in complete sentences. “A prank, obviously. But why?”

Silence. It stretches on, taut and tense, before you break it by clearing your throat awkwardly. “Jin, be nice,” you chide.

“No, it’s okay.” Jungkook is frowning, but he’s nodding absentmindedly, as if to agree with what Jin has said. “I mean, this isn’t a prank, and I’m not trying to play a joke on anyone. But… I guess I can understand how strange this all must be for you.”

“That’s an understatement if I’ve ever heard one,” Jin mutters under his breath, but you ignore him. Sitting cautiously on the couch beside Jungkook, you turn to address him directly.

“What exactly do you mean when you say you’re a snowman?” you ask. “How… long have you been a snowman?”

Jungkook scrunches his nose, and your brain instantly decides to create a new neural pathway that links Jungkook, alleged snowman, with the image of Thumper, adorable bunny rabbit from Bambi. A very clear picture of him with fuzzy ears and a cotton tail develops in your head, and you have to resist the urge to leave the room for the sake of your sanity. Instead you bite your bottom lip, hard, and focus your gaze on the spot just beyond Jungkook’s left ear where your grandmother’s antique candelabras sit on the mantel.

“It’s… kind of hard to explain. I don’t even really have any memories before yesterday. I just remember… snow. Lots and lots of white snow. And then you were there.”

Jin snorts. You glare at him. Jungkook watches this exchange, his brows furrowed, and then hesitantly continues on.

“It felt like I was waking up from a long sleep. I don’t really know how else to describe it, but all of a sudden I was awake. I could walk, and speak, and I just knew I had to find you again.”

“Let’s say you’re telling the truth,” Jin cuts in. “What’s your end goal? Are you trying to seduce {Name} for her money?”

It’s your turn to snort. “Money? What money? Have you seen the state of things around here?” You gesture at the fireplace, where a sticky note solemnly reminds you to call a chimney sweep. Another one on the wall recommends a floorboard replacement soon. A third, stuck on the doorframe leading to the kitchen, simply says: find a plumber maybe??

Jin follows the trajectory of your hand waving with an unimpressed frown. “Wait, you still haven’t called a plumber?”

Your mind drags up a memory of your late husband, coming in from the garage armed with his trusty red toolbox. He’s wearing paint-stained overalls paired with a crooked grin, and you remember plopping down on the cold tile floor beside him with two glasses of lemonade as he wriggled beneath the kitchen sink to begin performing what you could only assume was witchcraft. Three minutes later, he’d reemerged, triumphant. He’d downed the lemonade in three gulps, and when you kissed him afterward, you'd tasted the sweet tang of citrus intermingled with a flavor that was uniquely him. Your Yoongi. Your Yoongi, dead and burned to ash and—

You gasp, wrenching yourself out of the memory. Your chest feels somehow both too tight and too big, threatening to overwhelm you like a tidal wave. Your heartbeat thunders in your ears, racing at a full gallop. When you glance down at your lap, you find that your hands are clasped there, trembling.

“Shit.” Jin’s voice breaks through the drumming of your heart. “Shit, {Name}, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—I mean, I don’t—” He falters. “I mean, are you okay?”

You shake your head, then catch yourself and nod quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Fuck, sorry. I just—”

“Don’t you dare apologize,” Jin says, standing up and crossing the room in three strides to take your hands in his. “Never apologize to me for feeling the way you do, got it?”

“Got it,” you say weakly. “Thanks, Jinnie.”

He squeezes your hands one more time before returning to his seat. Jungkook, who has been watching this exchange with rapt interest, raises one hand tentatively. “I, uh, didn’t want to interrupt,” he pipes when you and Jin look at him. “And I’m glad you’re okay, {Name}.” His gaze settles on you for a long moment, his eyes dark and searching. You brace yourself for the questions that are sure to come—questions that you aren’t ready to answer now and possibly not ever—but he breezes on as if nothing happened. “Anyway, I think I can probably fix whatever’s wrong in the kitchen, if that’s an issue.”

“Huh?” Jin says.

“Wait, what?” you say at the same time.

Jungkook gestures at the TV, and for the first time, you take in the channel that’s playing. It’s some kind of home improvement show, and you watch as two men who bear striking resemblances to Mario and Luigi explain how to grease an O-ring. “I already poked around the sink a little bit. I hope you don’t mind. I looked in the chimney too, but I haven’t seen an episode on those yet. Maybe there’ll be one later. Then I think I can probably do something about that, too.”

“Do you…” You pause. “Hang on. Are you saying that you can learn how to fix things? Just by watching someone do it?”

A deep furrow etches itself between Jungkook’s brows, then disappears as he nods. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure I can. Do you have tools?”

You think of Yoongi’s red toolbox and force back the memories trying to spill over. “Yeah, I do.”

“Great.” Jungkook beams, and it’s as bright as sunlight on freshly fallen snow. “Can you show me where?”

///

“I can’t believe you brought him here.”

It’s the next day, and you and Jin are seated at a small table in the corner of The Milkshake Parlor's kitchen, staring at Jungkook’s backside as he maneuvers himself carefully into the space between the oven and the wall. You’d fished out some of Yoongi’s old clothes last night, as much as it’d pained you to go down into the basement to parse through all those boxes, and Jungkook is now decked out in ripped jeans and a dark green flannel, the ends of the red scarf you'd given him tossed over his shoulder as he works.

"He offered to help," you say, shrugging. "And I'm not exactly in a position to turn that down. Besides, he's staying with me for the time being, until we figure out—" you lower your voice "—the whole snowman thing."

Jin sighs and props his chin in his palm. "I guess he did do a good job with the leaky faucet yesterday," he concedes.

"He insulated all the windows too," you add. "After you left. I'd been meaning to do it for a while now, and when I mentioned it, he just took it into his own hands."

Jin tilts his head and stares even more intently, if possible, at Jungkook's denim-clad posterior. "He's acting awfully nice."

You frown. "You think it's an act?"

"I have no idea," he admits. "I like to think I'm a pretty good judge of character, and I don't get any bad vibes from him. But this whole thing is insane, and some people are great actors. Can you ever truly know who someone is?"

You glance back at Jungkook—who's now fiddling with the stovetop knobs—and another memory of Yoongi surfaces, this time of him standing over the stove and carefully stirring a pan of your favorite risotto. "I did, once upon a time," you murmur.

Jin understands. Gently, he reaches across the table to take your hand. He squeezes, and you squeeze back, and for now, it's enough.

///

Hazy morning clouds give way to a sun-drenched afternoon. Jungkook finishes his work in the kitchen, leaving behind a cooktop that once again heats evenly, and Jin immediately puts it to the test by whipping up a batch of pancakes.

It's proving to be a slow day in the diner, which you're thankful for. One of your regulars—a grizzled, graying man named Horacio who always keeps peppermints in his coat pocket—sits at the counter with a mug of hot tea. In a corner booth, two teens on winter break giggle over strawberry milkshakes.

Jungkook sits across from you in your favorite booth, his gaze riveted on the creations from this year's Snowtime Spectacular. It had snowed overnight, dusting everything in a fresh coat of powdery white, and some of the sculptures are a little less recognizable than before. Nonetheless, you can still identify a few standouts.

"Do you know who won?"

With a start, you realize Jungkook is staring at you now. It takes your brain another moment to register the question, and you chuckle ruefully as you try to remember the prize results. "The Patel siblings won first place, I think. They made the giant snow Totoro over there." You point. "Second place went to the medieval castle by the old sycamore tree. And third was a tie between the family of polar bears and the classic Frosty the Snowman."

Jungkook nods, eyeing each creation with a critical eye as you point them out. "They're really impressive. It's a shame everyone couldn't get a prize."

"If it helps, everyone got free hot chocolate afterward for their participation," you tell him with a laugh.

He grins, eyes crinkling at the corners. "It does, actually."

Jin chooses that moment to interrupt, plopping three mugs onto the table with a thunk. He follows this with a stack of pancakes piled so high on the plate that it wobbles quite dangerously when he sets it down. "Speaking of hot chocolate," he says, gesturing at the mugs. "You guys must be starving. I know I am, so let's dig in."

You scoot over to give Jin room in the booth while Jungkook thanks him fervently for the food. The next few minutes are quiet, filled only by the sounds of chewing and clinking utensils. Then, out of the corner of your eye, you notice that Jungkook is eyeing his mug of hot chocolate with apprehension. A whorl of steam wafts up from it, and he flinches back just a tiny bit. You nearly would've missed it, had you not been watching so carefully.

Wordlessly, you pick up your own mug and blow on the liquid within. Jungkook, seeing you do this, follows suit. Once you deem the hot chocolate cool enough, you take a small sip, and he does the same. Immediately, his eyes widen—and for a moment, you aren't sure if he's burned his tongue or not. Then a look of delight settles across his features. He takes another, larger sip, and you can't help but smile at his enthusiasm.

Just as you're about to grab your fork and go in for some more pancake, the bell over the door chimes. Jin rises to greet the guest, and you turn in your seat, ready to jump in should he need any help. You recognize the newcomer as Willy Waddlesworth—one of three police officers who work at the station a few streets away. The police chief, Jimin, is a good friend of Hoseok's if you recall correctly.

"Officer," Jin says, offering the portly, red-faced man a hand to shake. "I didn't expect to see you in here today. You having the usual?"

Officer Waddlesworth shakes his head. "Here on business, actually." He looks around the diner slowly, scanning people's faces. He offers you a polite nod of acknowledgment—and then his eyes alight on Jungkook and narrow. "Ma'am, are you aware that this man is a wanted criminal?"

You feel your eyes go wide. "Wait, what?" Across the table, Jungkook is too engrossed in his pancakes to notice the conversation happening about him.

Officer Waddlesworth nods. "I'm afraid so. Mr. and Mrs. Whittaker reported him for…" he pulls a notepad from his jacket pocket and flips it open dramatically, "…disturbing the peace and public indecency. I'm going to have to take him down to the station."

Jin frowns. "That doesn't sound like something the Whittakers would do."

"Are you questioning an officer of the law?" Officer Waddlesworth bristles, and you are suddenly reminded of a very small, angry hedgehog.

"Not at all," you say, rising to your feet to placate him. "But I do think I'd like to hear their side of the story. They usually drop by for lunch around now, why don't we ask them when they come in?"

Officer Waddlesworth doesn't seem pleased by this suggestion in the slightest, but the bell over the door jingles merrily before he can open his mouth. "Perfect timing," Jin murmurs to you out of the corner of his mouth, before turning to greet the new customers wiping their feet free of slush on the cherry-shaped welcome mat. "Mr. Whittaker, good afternoon! I have a sausage hash with your name on it. Mrs. Whittaker, you're looking lovely as usual. Will it be French toast or waffles today?"

Mrs. Whittaker, a kind-faced woman with silvery gray curls, beams at him. "Waffles for me today, darling. Maybe some extra syrup, if you're feeling generous."

"For you? Always." Jin bows deeply, drawing laughs from the Whittakers, and nods at you and Officer Waddlesworth before heading back into the kitchen. You notice he stays within earshot, though—his head visible through the window as he begins preparing the orders.

Officer Waddlesworth clears his throat. "Mr. Whittaker, Mrs. Whittaker—thank you for coming." He gestures at the booth, where Jungkook is sipping on his hot chocolate happily, a teeny dollop of whipped cream on his nose. "If I could have you think back to the incident you reported a couple days ago… is this the man you saw that night?"

Mr. Whittaker squints and adjusts his glasses. "Hmm, yes, that looks like him. Mighty glad he's finally managed to locate his clothes. It's been awful cold out this week."

"Is he a friend of yours, {Name}?" Mrs. Whittaker asks, mischief dancing in her eyes. "Introduce us!"

You blanch. "Ah. Um. Right, this is…"

Jungkook finally notices the attention on him and picks up his napkin to wipe his mouth. He thankfully gets the whipped cream on his nose as well, and you have to resist the urge to sigh in relief. "Hello," he says brightly, rising to his feet and extending a hand to Mrs. Whittaker. "I'm Jungkook."

Mrs. Whittaker lets out a sound that you can only describe as a giggle. "Oh, aren't you sweet. I'm Clara Whittaker, and this here is my husband, Joe."

Mr. Whittaker steps forward to give his hand a firm shake. "Pleased to meet you, son."

Officer Waddlesworth's face turns redder and redder as he watches this exchange play out in front of him. Sensing that he's quickly losing control of the situation—that is, if he ever had it in the first place—he clears his throat in what he deems is an authoritative way. "Ahem. Right. Now, if we could get back to the matter at hand?" He turns to Jungkook, who simply blinks curiously at him. "Sir, do you admit to the charges of—" he consults his notebook again, "—disturbing the peace and public indecency?"

Jungkook blinks. "Public what?"

Frantically, you wave your hands, as if that will dispel this entire situation. "I don't thi—"

Jin chooses that moment to interrupt, calling out through the kitchen window over the sound of sizzling onions. "C'mon, Officer, it was just a bit of hazing. Jungkook's new in town, and the winters here are no joke. I mean, why am I telling you that? You know that better than all of us combined, braving the cold year after year to patrol town and keep us safe." His expression melts into faux admiration, and you very nearly snort out a laugh. Jin notices this, shoots you a surreptitious glare, then pauses to give his onions a stir before continuing on shamelessly. "So, I gave him a little challenge. Wanted to see if he could hack it here in the long term."

Officer Waddlesworth puffs up with pride like a chickadee on a cold day. He takes a while to formulate a response to Jin's monologue, and before he can open his mouth to speak, Mr. Whittaker steps in, clapping the policeman on the back. "Come on, Willy! No harm, no foul, eh?"

"No harm, no foul," Jin echoes from the kitchen. "Exactly."

Officer Waddlesworth sets his mouth into a firm line and deflates slightly. "I'm not so sure that there was no harm done. There may have been children about. Who knows how many may have seen this man's…" He trails off and gestures uncomfortably in Jungkook's general direction. "And besides, it's indecent, what he did! An affront to the senses, and Mrs. Whittaker's delicate sensibilities, and the innocent children of this town, and—" He stops and nods firmly, and you jump a bit when he suddenly stamps his foot against the wooden floor. "Just improper behavior, all around."

Mrs. Whittaker chimes in, her voice soothing. "Officer, this all happened well after midnight. I doubt any children were even awake to bear witness. And don't you worry about my sensibilities, delicate or otherwise. I've taken my fair share of turns around the sun, you know. This young man's hardly the first one I've seen in the nude."

Through the kitchen window, you see Jin pull a disgusted face and have to resist the urge to laugh again. Jungkook still looks hopelessly confused, his brows furrowed. Officer Waddlesworth, meanwhile, has puffed up again—this time with something more akin to embarrassment than pride.

"I'll be keeping my eye on you, young man," he says at last, wagging a finger at Jungkook. Then he turns back to where you're standing with the Whittakers, begrudgingly tipping his hat in farewell. "Ladies. Gentleman." You watch as he spins on his heel and heads for the door, nodding at Jin on his way out. The door swings shut behind him, the bell jangling gently in the silence that falls.

"Phew!" Mrs. Whittaker breaks the silence first. "That sure was something."

Jungkook glances between her and you. "Am I in trouble?"

"Not at all, dear." Mrs. Whittaker pats his shoulder. "Willy's a bit of a hardhead, but his heart's in the right place. He's lived in this town his whole life. I don't think there's anything he wouldn't do to protect it."

Jin pokes his head out from the kitchen. "He's got good timing too. Food's all done, Mr. and Mrs. Whittaker—did you want to eat here or take it to-go?"

Mr. Whittaker sighs and tugs his scarf a little tighter around his neck. "Unfortunately, we've got to get back to the store. Radiator's acting up again, and I can't get Ralph to come out until after Christmas to fix it. We've been using space heaters to heat the place, and I don't want to leave them unattended for too long."

At this, Jungkook perks up. "Could I come by and take a look? I don't know if I'll be able to fix it, but I can certainly try a few things."

Mrs. Whittaker beams at him. "Darling, be our guest."

///

When you wake up the next morning, you find Jungkook sitting on the couch with a blanket tucked around his lap, engrossed in a man on TV with a thick Boston accent explaining how to install shingles on a roof. You watch him silently from the doorway for a while, noting the way his head tilts and his face scrunches when he doesn't understand something.

It's strange, seeing a man in your living room, sitting on your couch like he lives there. You haven't had many guests since your husband passed—and you certainly haven't had any men over besides Jin, Hoseok, and the occasional neighbor. You haven't even thought about dating again—the very idea made your head hurt and your heart ache.

Still, you can't deny that Jungkook is handsome. He's kind, too—and even though all signs point to him either being an amnesiac or a patient at a mental institution, you can't help but want to trust him. It doesn't help that he's wearing a set of pajamas that you'd gifted Yoongi years ago—a purple and green plaid monstrosity that was soft as plush and absolutely hideous, and that your husband had a strong love-hate relationship with as a result. Babe, I look like a deranged Barney the Dinosaur. Your heart twinges at the memory.

A knock at the door startles you out of your reverie. Mondays are the one day that the diner is closed, and it wouldn't be the first time that Jin or Hoseok have stopped by your house out of boredom. Fully expecting it to be one of the two men, you swing the door open only to be greeted by your next-door neighbor's smiling face instead.

"Joyce?" You blink in surprise, then remember your manners. "Please, come on in! It's freezing out here."

The elderly woman laughs and taps the hot pink pom-pom on her hat. "Luckily, I'm prepared." Nonetheless, she steps past you into the foyer, where she wipes her boots off on the mat and starts unraveling her scarf.

"Can I offer you anything?" you ask, handing her a coat hanger so she can hang up her winter gear. "I've got coffee, tea, and I think there's still some orange juice in the fridge."

"You're very kind," Joyce says, patting your arm. "Some tea would be lovely, thank you."

You nod and head toward the kitchen while she hangs up her coat. A few moments later, you hear her pad into the living room, followed by:

"Oh! This must be Jungkook!"

You poke your head around the doorframe, astonished at how quickly you'd forgotten about your houseguest in the presence of company. Your mouth opens, ready to explain the situation, but Jungkook beats you to it.

"Good morning," the dark-haired man says cheerfully, standing up and offering Joyce a hand. "Who do I have the pleasure of addressing?"

"Joyce," your neighbor replies with a smile. Clara Whittaker told me all about you. Said you were such a dear to take a look at their old radiator yesterday."

Jungkook shakes his head. "It was nothing, really. I tried a few things, but ultimately, I wasn't able to fix it."

Joyce nods. "She mentioned that they're going to order a replacement, and that you're going to help them put it in when it gets here. That's why I stopped by today, actually. I've been having some trouble with my water heater, and I was hoping you'd be willing to take a look. I'll pay you, of course, for your time."

Jungkook blinks, as if the very concept of being paid is new to him. "Pay me?"

Joyce doesn't miss a beat. "Money, in exchange for goods or services provided."

"Right." Jungkook pauses, then inclines his head. "When did you want me to come over?"

///

From there, the word spreads like wildfire. Jungkook finds himself as busy as you are at The Milkshake Parlor, if not busier. When he isn't fixing someone's plumbing or repairing a roof, he's at the diner with you—lending a helping hand wherever it's needed. He shadows Jin in the kitchen, learning how to mise en place, and trots after Hoseok to bring plates to tables.

It's been nearly two weeks since Jungkook first showed up on your doorstep, and Christmas is rapidly approaching. But despite the impending holidays and the townspeople's jolly cheer, your mood steadily dampens. You think of Yoongi, and how much he'd loved Christmas. You think of decorating the tree with him each year, belting out the wrong lyrics to holiday classics and getting tipsy on cocoa and eggnog. And then you think of the last three Christmases you spent alone, or going through the motions with Jin and his family.

Mr. Pendergrass from the plant nursery had delivered your tree yesterday afternoon, just as he has during each of the eight years you've lived in this town. You'd thought about lugging the lights and ornaments up from the basement that evening, but you'd stopped at the top of the stairs and turned right back around again. It hadn't felt right these past three years to decorate without your husband, so why start now? Jungkook hadn't even been around to keep you company—he was off shoveling snow for what seemed to be the entire neighborhood—so you'd simply poured yourself a generous serving of wine and wallowed in the silence of your empty home. You'd gone to bed early, and heard Jungkook come back just as you were turning off the lamp on your nightstand.

Today, the thought of decorating the tree taunts you as you drink your morning coffee and get ready for work. It torments you as you walk to The Milkshake Parlor and start prepping the kitchen for service. The decorations Hoseok had put up a few nights ago don't help either—verdant garlands draped with holly berries, sparkly tinsel, colorful bits and baubles, and hand-cut snowflakes seemingly in every window and on every surface.

The hours drag by at a snail's pace. Finally, there is a break in your work, and you can justify taking a break for lunch. Jin has a BLT ready for you, and you smile wanly at him as you accept it and pop it into a takeout box. "Going for a little walk," you tell him, and he doesn't pry. You prepare yourself a thermos of hot chocolate and, at the last second, pour in a glug of whiskey. Then you shrug on your coat, exiting the diner and taking a left. From the front window of Whittakers' General Goods, Mr. Ginger—their shop cat—blinks slowly at you.

Automatically, you crouch down by the window and blink back. "Hi, Mr. Ginger. How's it going?"

Despite his name, the Whittakers' cat sports a tuxedo pattern instead of an orange one. Back when you and Yoongi had first opened the The Milkshake Parlor next to the general store, Mrs. Whittaker had explained that his startlingly bright amber eyes were the actual reason behind the name. Yoongi had always had a natural affinity with cats, and befriended Mr. Ginger almost immediately—no doubt in large part to the treats that he snuck the cat at every opportunity. By association, and over time, Mr. Ginger had grown to like you, too.

After a brief, one-sided conversation with the feline, you straighten back up and continue on your way. You aren't sure that you had a destination in mind when you started out, but your feet trace out the path to the park and you don't try to stop them.

You find the wrought-iron gate ajar when you arrive, stuck in place by a combination of fresh snow and snowmelt that has thawed and frozen solid again. Beyond that stretches the familiar cobblestone path, which has clearly been shoveled in the last couple of days. Only about an inch of snow covers the stones, the icy surface crisscrossed with footprints and the occasional tuft of dead grass.

It was summertime when you were last here—June, to be exact. The grass had been green and the wildflowers had been in full bloom, dotting the hillside in colorful brushstrokes. From the trees, hidden by the foliage, birds had twittered their songs. And you'd sat on one of several wooden benches at the bottom of the hill, gazing out over the river and thinking about how you'd scattered your husband's ashes from that very spot three years back.

The anniversary of Yoongi's passing was always hard, but in some ways, the holidays were even harder. Something about the merriment and the inescapable festivities and the imminent arrival of the new year exacerbated the hurt, making your pain all the greater. Some days are easier than others, and some days you feel like your entire world is crumbling into dust that would bury you under its weight.

Today is one of those days. Today, you feel like you are suffocating—your lungs tight and your body restless, desperately trying to save itself from the all-encompassing despair that threatens to engulf you whole. Breathing in deeply, you tighten your grip on your sandwich and thermos and clamber down the hill to where the bench waits. A thin layer of snow covers its surface, and you dust it off as best you can before taking a seat. Setting your lunch down, you lean back and take another long breath, exhaling it in a whorl of white mist. You take in the view—the skeletal black trees glistening with an icy coat against the periwinkle sky, the glisten of undisturbed snow leading down to the water, the frozen edges of the river stretching cold tendrils over the lazy, blue-green current. A slight chill takes root in your fingertips, and you ward it off by unscrewing your thermos and taking a sip. Hot chocolate and whiskey burn a welcome trail down your throat. Warmth seeps into your belly, and you immediately take another drink.

You're just about to unpack your sandwich when, from behind, you hear the sound of snow crunching underfoot. Instinctively, you glance around, and stop dead when you see Jungkook standing there. He's wearing a new set of clothes bought from Whittakers'—black jeans tucked into tan Timberlands and a thick-knit gray sweater, topped off with what has become his signature red scarf—and for that, you're grateful. You aren't sure you could've stomached seeing him in Yoongi's old things right now. Your heart lurches at the thought, and you quickly take another sip of the spiked hot chocolate, relishing in the sweet, searing rush.

"Hey." Jungkook waves rather awkwardly and takes another step forward before seeming to rethink it and stopping again. "Sorry. I didn't—I mean, I don't mean to disturb you if you want to be alone, or anything. It's just that I saw you walking on my way back to the diner, and I saw this fall out of your pocket." He holds up a woolly, slightly lopsided blue mitten, now dusted lightly with snow. "I guess I probably could've just brought it home, but I didn't know if you'd want it now. Mr. Whittaker mentioned that it's probably going to snow later and that temperatures were going to drop, and I didn't want you to be cold or anything. But… but I can bring it back to the house, or to the diner if you want. I didn't mean to follow you like some kind of weirdo."

He trails off, his expression sheepish and his cheeks tinged with pink. Your heart does another funny, lurching flip in your chest, and you swallow thickly before mustering up your voice. "It's okay, Jungkook. Thank you." You pause, then pat the empty bit of bench beside you. "Do you want to sit?"

Jungkook blinks in surprise, but approaches regardless. "Sure. Thanks." He hands you the wayward mitten as he takes a seat, and you run the pad of your thumb over the soft knit before tucking it safely into your coat pocket with its twin.

Silence descends over you then—one that neither of you are particularly eager to break. Still, you do so first, your voice a murmur that nearly gets lost in the gentle rush of the river. "My late husband gave me these, you know." You pat the pocket with the blue mittens inside. "We'd been dating for nearly a year, and it was our first Christmas together. He'd just taken up knitting as a form of stress relief, and these were one of the first things he made."

Jungkook's eyes widen. You can tell that his brain is whirring, struggling to come up with the right words, and wave him off before the discomfort can compound.

"It's fine—you don't have to say anything. I've heard it all, really. So many people have apologized, or offered their condolences, or tried to comfort me over these past few years." You shrug. "It doesn't change anything. Never does."

There's a beat of silence. Overhead, a lone bird circles in ever-widening loops. The river burbles gently over the stones, worn smooth by the persistent current and time. Then Jungkook speaks, his voice so soft you nearly miss it.

"I can listen." It's his turn to shrug. "If you want to talk about it, that is. I'll be happy to listen. And if you don't, that's okay too. I… I've never lost anyone precious to me, so I don't think I can relate or understand or anything like that. But I can be here, and I can listen, or do anything else you want me to. And if you'd rather I leave right now, just say the word." He nods toward the top of the hill where the gate sits ajar. "I'll run right back to The Milkshake Parlor."

The thought of Jungkook trying to sprint up the snowy, slippery hill makes you snort in spite of yourself. "I think you'd hurt yourself trying."

Jungkook's lips quirk. "Maybe. But I'm pretty good in snow, you know. It's my element."

"Of course." You nod, the tiniest of smiles tugging at the corners of your mouth. "How could I forget?"

Silence descends again, but this time, it's broken by a low grumble from your stomach. Exasperated, you glance down, first at the offender, and then at the box where your BLT has probably frozen solid. "Well," you say, prying open the lid, "I suppose I should try and eat this. Do you want some?"

Jungkook shakes his head. "Mrs. Whittaker made me eat a plate of chicken parmesan before I left. Apparently, it's famous?"

"Famous because she buys out the entire cheese aisle at the grocery store every time she makes it." You chuckle wryly. "I hope you got some good cardio in today. That thing's a heart attack waiting to happen."

Jungkook hums. "I helped them carry a bunch of boxes up from the basement this morning. Then we restocked the shelves and swept up the shop. Does that count?"

"You definitely got your steps in," you muse as you bite into your sandwich. "But maybe do some jumping jacks later, just in case."

He smiles. "Can do."

You spend the next few minutes eating your sandwich, washing it down with the hot chocolate that you share with Jungkook by pouring a generous portion into the thermos lid and handing it over. He cups it in both hands and sips at it carefully, and together, you stare out over the peaceful river, lazily winding its way toward a distant, distant sea.

///

Before you know it, Christmas Eve arrives. With it comes an annual tradition—Christmas Eve dinner at The Milkshake Parlor for any and all who want to attend. Jin and Yoongi used to pull out all the stops, and for the past three years, you and Jin have kept the tradition going. Together, you would prepare and cook from morning until six o'clock in the evening when the doors opened. For a flat fee of fifteen dollars—or seven, for children under twelve—diners could come and enjoy a feast, complete with drinks and seasonal, festive cocktails.

With Jungkook's help, this year's preparation had been a breeze. Now, you're in the middle of service, and the diner is packed to the brim with laughing families and friends. Hoseok and Jungkook are running food while you and Jin cook, and things are running so smoothly that you can't help but think that the other shoe is going to drop at any moment.

"You're being paranoid," Jin says when you bring this up to him for the umpteenth time. "Seriously, relax a little. The food's turning out great, and everyone's having a good time. I think we've outdone ourselves this year."

You glance out to the main dining room, where you can see your neighbors at a table by the window—Joyce happily swapping stories with Marco, Blair, and their little daughter, Luisa. At the counter, Officer Waddlesworth and Police Chief Jimin Park are nursing hot toddies. A few seats away, the Whittakers are splitting a bottle of red wine.

An hour passes, then two. Hoseok and Jungkook lay out a grazing table of desserts: cookies, cakes, mini fruit tarts, and a bowl of peppermint bark. You and Jin finally join the townspeople in the dining room, your own plates of dinner in hand. Hoseok hands you an overly full glass of wine, which you gratefully accept.

Slowly, evening turns into night. A few families with young children have already departed, and Marco and Blair are in the middle of trying to convince Luisa to put on her puffy pink coat. "I don't want to go outside," the little girl says, stamping her foot stubbornly as Blair starts pushing open the front door. "It's cold and it smells bad."

Blair frowns. "What are you talking about, sweetie?"

At the same time, Joyce glances out the window, her eyes widening in alarm. "Fire! There's a fire at Whittakers'!"

Chaos erupts. Officer Waddlesworth tries to call for order, but his voice is lost in the hubbub as people mill about frantically. Luisa ditches her puffy coat and disappears into the crowd, and Hoseok is nearly bowled over by a trio of tipsy young twenty-somethings. After several more seconds of confusion, Chief Park finally manages to right an overturned chair and steps onto it, projecting his voice above the din. "SILENCE!"

Everyone stops in their tracks. Chief Park looks to Marco, who is a firefighter by trade and already has his phone at his ear and is talking rapidly into it. "Rest of the department's on their way, sir," he says when he notices that Chief Park is looking at him. "I'll head next door now to assess the situation."

A high, keening voice rises up from the crowd then, and you watch as Mrs. Whittaker pushes her way to the forefront. "Mr. Ginger is still in the store! Someone has to save him!"

Marco leaps into action. He heads for the door, but someone beats him there. The bell jangles and a flash of dark hair disappears outside, and with a start, you realize that it's Jungkook. You cry out, but it comes out as a strangled whimper that's drowned out by Chief Park's shout to stop, wait! Then the police chief is jumping down from his chair and rushing for the door, and Marco is right on his heels, and you find yourself barreling toward the door too, intent on making sure that Jungkook doesn't dive headfirst into some stupid, heroic act.

Freezing air rushes to greet you as soon as you step foot outside. Next door, acrid black smoke is pouring out the front window of Whittakers' General Goods while angry orange flames dance within. A fire truck rounds the corner, sirens blaring, and a small group of firefighters jump out in full gear. Marco is quick to join them, but you don't pay them any mind. Instead, you whip around frantically, glancing from the snow-covered square to the narrow alleyway separating your diner from the shop, hoping in vain to see a sign of Jungkook.

The Whittakers have joined you now, their faces twisted into twin expressions of horror as they watch the flames engulfing their livelihood. The firefighters deploy their hoses and water begins raining down. You blink against the spray blowing back in the wind, and feel the droplets starting to freeze on your cheeks. There's still no sign of Jungkook, and you start forward toward the gaping hole where the front door of the general store used to be. Then, strong arms wrap around your waist from behind, and Jin's voice sounds in your ear. "Shh. Jungkook will be fine. He's tough."

At long last, the flames are extinguished. The firefighters head into the building, now damp and blackened with soot, shouting their findings to each other. Chief Park and Officer Waddlesworth are doing their best to set up a barrier, but the fire has drawn an even larger crowd of townspeople beyond the diners at the Christmas Eve dinner, and they're struggling to contain everyone in a safe zone. Seizing your opportunity, you slip away from Jin and the others, making your way to the alley. The windows and doors of the store have all collapsed inward, making entry easy. Furtively, you step inside, scanning the destroyed interior for any sign of Jungkook.

The main floor of the store is filled with aisles of metal shelves, which have blackened and warped in the heat. You wrinkle your nose at the stench—smoke and acrid burnt plastic and an odd smell that you can't quite place until you step on a crinkled, soot-covered bag of Cheetos and release even more of the burnt artificial cheese scent into the air. Coughing, you cover your nose and mouth with your sleeve and continue onward, deeper into the store.

There's no sign of Jungkook amongst the aisles. You check behind the checkout counter and inside the restroom, but he's nowhere to be found. Worry constricts your chest, but you do your best to shake it off as you eye the mangled staircase that once led to the upper floor of the store, which housed the toy section, books, and a small selection of furniture lovingly restored by Mr. Whittaker himself. Your heart aches at the thought of all those things, lost to the fire, but you force it out of your mind and move closer to the stairs. You run a finger along the banister and try to ascend the first step, but it creaks dangerously and you feel the wood splinter and crack underneath your foot.

God, I really hope he isn't up there.

Turning now to the last doorway, you find yourself staring at the top of the stairs leading to the basement, the wooden steps disappearing into the inky depths. These feel much more stable, and you cautiously make your way downward, pulling out your phone and turning on the flashlight as you go. The bright LED light bounces around wildly on the walls and floor, and you realize for the first time how badly your hands are shaking.

After what feels like an eternity, you reach the bottom of the stairs. The smell isn't as bad—smoke tinged with an earthy, loamy scent—and you glance around at the wooden shelves that occupy the majority of the space. The ones nearest you house canned goods and other unperishables, which appear largely unharmed. Just beyond, you see several boxes of toothpaste and other toiletries.

Slowly, you weave your way through the maze of shelves, lighting the way with your phone. The back wall of the basement comes into view, and you sweep your light across its surface, scanning for something—anything that could tell you where Jungkook might be.

"{N-Name}?"

His voice is so soft, you very likely would've missed it had you not been straining your ears. Heart pounding wildly, you whirl around, and at last the flashlight falls upon Jungkook's prone form in the corner. His flannel shirt and red scarf are crumpled on the ground, leaving him in only a black t-shirt, and when you drop to your knees by his side, you find that his entire body is damp with perspiration.

"Jungkook? Jungkook, are you okay?" You dab at his sweaty forehead with your sleeve, scanning him for any injuries and finding none. "Can you stand?"

He coughs weakly but doesn't move. "Probably not, to be honest. I don't feel so good."

You glance around, and your eyes alight on a package of bottled water on a nearby shelf. Ripping one free, you put it to Jungkook's lips. "Here. Drink some."

He obeys as best he can, liquid dribbling from the corner of his mouth as he swallows. Then he coughs again and smiles weakly up at you. "A snowman probably shouldn't run headfirst into a fire, huh?"

"It was pretty idiotic," you agree, trying to make light of it. Wetting your sleeve, you wipe at his forehead again. The air down here is cooler than it had been upstairs, but the residual heat from the fire still makes it uncomfortably warm. You can feel drops of sweat beginning to prick at your temples.

"At least I found Mr. Ginger." Jungkook's voice is softer now, taking on a distant, faraway quality. "Look."

You look. Tucked beneath the flannel shirt and the scarf, you catch a glimpse of fur—alternating patches of black and white and orange. Pulling at the fabric, you find Mr. Ginger curled there, but he isn't alone. An orange cat is huddled there as well, and together, the two cats are doing all they can to shelter a motley collection of tiny kittens.

"He had to protect his family." Jungkook gestures weakly—more of a wiggle of his fingers, really—and you nod furiously, blinking back a sudden onslaught of tears.

"Come on," you tell him, tugging at his hand. "Let's finish the job. We can save this family together—get them somewhere safer than here."

Jungkook's smile fades, and a trickle of sweat runs down his neck. "I don't think I can."

"Of course you can." You tug harder, your fingers slipping against his sweat-slicked ones. "Come on, Jungkook. I'm not leaving you here. I can't leave you here. You're—" Your voice cracks. "You're the best thing that's happened to me in a long time. And I… I care. I care about you, so, so much. I can't lose you now."

But it's no use. Jungkook's hand falls slack in yours. His eyes flutter shut and his head lolls, and your vision blurs with tears. Then there are arms around you, and you struggle helplessly as they raise you up and drag you away. Vaguely, you're aware of Marco's voice in your ear, but you barely comprehend the words. "It's dangerous in here, {Name}. You really shouldn't be here."

But Jungkook—Mr. Ginger—the kittens! You can't leave them! You try to form the words, but nothing comprehensible comes out. Marco half-ushers, half-carries you out of the basement and back onto the street, depositing you in the back of an ambulance that had arrived at some point and wrapping you in a blanket. Someone presses a cup into your trembling hands, the smell of warm spiced apples wafting up to your nose.

You aren't sure how much time passes between that moment and the next. It could've been hours, or mere seconds, but slowly, you become aware of the sound of people gasping, then crying out in relief. The fog in your brain begins to dissipate, and you glance around for the reason behind the noise.

You see Marco first, exiting the wreckage of the general store with a meowing, writhing bundle. And then, from behind him, comes Jungkook.

He's carrying another writhing bundle, but that barely registers in your mind. All you see is him—his dark hair and sodden t-shirt, damp with sweat. His eyes, warm and brown, and the way his lips curve upward as he whispers something to the bundle in his arms, which you belatedly realize consists of his flannel and red scarf.

Then he looks up and meets your gaze, and you jump to your feet, the cup of hot cider tipping and sloshing onto the ground. Your feet are a little unsteady, but you still manage to reduce the distance between you in a few shaky steps. He closes it the rest of the way, and you soon find yourself gazing up at him, taking in the way the Christmas lights sparkle and dance in his eyes.

"Hi," he says.

"Hi," you whisper back. "Is… is this real? Am I dreaming?"

"No, you're wide awake," he replies. "At least, I'm pretty sure you are."

You reach out hesitantly, as if to touch his face, but pull back at the last second. "I thought… I thought you'd—"

"I know. I thought so too."

"But you aren't—?"

"Doesn't seem like it."

Jungkook grasps your hand and presses it to his chest. You feel the warmth there—normal, human warmth—and the soft, strong beat of his heart. Had he had a heartbeat before? You aren't sure, but he certainly does now.

A tiny meow interrupts the moment. A little orange head emerges from the bundle in Jungkook's arms, followed by the familiar feline face of Mr. Ginger. The cat looks disheveled, but seems to be otherwise all right. Relieved, you put a hand out for him to sniff, and he inspects it thoroughly before gently bumping your palm with his head. The orange kitten follows suit, sniffing clumsily at your thumb, and you let out a watery laugh.

"Hey, little guy. What's your name?"

"I've been calling him Cornelius," Jungkook says with a grin.

Mrr? says Cornelius, and you both laugh.

Footsteps sound from behind you, followed by a clearing throat. You turn to find Officer Waddlesworth standing there, his notebook and pen at the ready. "I knew you were trouble, young man," he says to Jungkook, wagging the pen at him. "I ought to have you arrested for trespassing—and for interfering with official fire department business. Do you know how much trouble you've caused?"

Marco, who'd been introducing the Whittakers to the rest of Mr. Ginger's family, sidles over then. "Come on, Willy, all's well that ends well. No one got hurt."

"And we have excellent insurance," Mrs. Whittaker adds. "Things will be fine. It'll just take some time to repair the building, and I'm sure dear Jungkook here will be a great asset on that front. And we'll never be using space heaters again, thank you very much."

Officer Waddlesworth looks like he wants to press the issue, but Chief Park chooses that moment to intervene. "Relax, Officer. It's Christmas Eve, after all."

"Actually, I think it's Christmas now," Marco points out, just as the church bell begins to chime. One, two, three…

"Well, then, I stand corrected," Chief Park says with a grin. "Merry Christmas, everyone."

Choruses of Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays ring out from the surrounding townspeople. Heads poke out of the neighboring buildings, having been woken up by all the commotion, and shout their own holiday greetings down. All around the town square, the lights twinkle cheerily, reflecting off the glistening white snow. All the creations from the Snowtime Spectacular stand proud, glittering in the luminescence of the lights and the silvery moon overhead. Distantly, the church bell continues to ring. Seven, eight, nine…

But you only have eyes for Jungkook, who is smiling at you like you're the only thing in the world. "Merry Christmas, Jungkook," you murmur, leaning forward to press your forehead against his.

Jungkook's smile widens as he reaches up to brush his fingertips across your cheek. "Merry Christmas, {Name}."

The church bell rings out its last—ten, eleven, twelve—and everyone bursts into cheers. And in the midst of it all, you and Jungkook share your first kiss, his lips warm against yours as fresh, fat snowflakes begin to fall.

[jung-koook]

he asked if we were ready, but I wasn't ready for him to take off his jacket 😩

[jung-koook]

yoongi's reaction to armys banners 😆

[itsvminkook]

KIM SEOKJIN BTS IS BACK - GQ Magazine, 2026

[jung-koook]

jungkook’s short film for elle korea

[hobipowers]

It was during a time when Mickey was feeling sick and I was studying about animals a lot. And I'm someone who really likes dogs and I never dreamed that I would come to love cats.

[heybaetae]

uncanny

[jung-koook]

“the name is tangie, it stands for sugar. this is my black cat tang! he's 3 years old.”

[minyoonjin]

Yoongi and his cat Tang 🥹

[junghelioseok]

a winter to remember.

↳ snowmen don't just come to life. right?

◇ jungkook x reader ◇ fluff | snowman!au lmao ◇ 13.7k [1/1]

notes: this is, for all intents and purposes, a rewrite of netflix's hot frosty which i watched last (yes, last) thanksgiving with my hubs. terrible movie, cannot unrecommend enough!!! i then proceeded to grind out 5k of this fic in two days, never finished it bc hello have u met me, and then picked it up again on and off throughout the rest of 2025 and now! at long last! she's here!!! is she the most ridiculous fic i've ever written? yes! is she deeply unedited? also yes!!!

(what a way to temporarily break my hiatus amirite)

happy holidays, y'all. here's to hoping for a better 2026.

warnings: death of a loved one, inexplicable christmas magic, various shenanigans. who knows, really. it's a fic about a snowman, for god's sake.

BREEP! BREEP! BREEP!

The harsh, discordant blare of your alarm jerks you from your slumber, just as it does every morning. You aren’t sure why the sound quality has deteriorated so badly over the past few weeks—one too many falls from your nightstand, or perhaps the unplanned spin in washing machine last month. Whatever the cause may have been, you’re in dire need of an upgrade.

If only money wasn’t so tight, you think, not for the first time, as you force yourself up and out of the warmth of your bed. The cold air is a shock, raising gooseflesh on your arms and legs in an instant. Shivering, you grab your cardigan from its spot on a nearby chair, flinging it on and wrapping it around yourself as tightly as possible. It’s a strategic location—you replace it there every evening. Only once it’s on can you brave the walk down the hall—past the broken thermostat with its sticky note reminder to call the repairman!—to the bathroom where you immediately turn the shower on as hot as it will go.

Things weren’t always like this, of course. Yoongi never would have let the house fall into disrepair. But cancer was a malicious and unforgiving beast, and three years ago your beloved husband had finally succumbed. You’d scattered his ashes from his favorite bench in his favorite park, overlooking the river. You’d cried and you’d mourned, until you felt as empty as his side of the bed.

And then you’d carried on, because what else could you do?

You brush your teeth as the shower finishes warming up. Warm steam fills the bathroom, fogging the mirror, and you swipe a palm across it as you slip off your cardigan. A hot shower always makes you feel more alive, and you breathe a sigh of relief as you step inside and draw the curtain shut behind you. You don’t like thinking about your late husband. You especially don’t like the feelings that thinking about him bring up, so you’re particularly grateful for the shower on this particular morning. The hot water splashing across your face mixes with any tears that manage to escape, swirling them down the drain without a trace.

The sun has just started to rise by the time you leave the house, pulling on your woolly blue mittens as you begin picking your way down the street toward the main town square. You wave at your elderly neighbor, Joyce, and laugh when Daisy, her fluffy little dog, cavorts out the front door and immediately disappears into the thick layer of snow on the ground. Across the street, Marco and his daughter, Luisa, shout their hellos.

There are certainly perks that come with living in a small town. You’d never known your neighbors’ names when you lived in the city, but now, you don’t even think twice about knocking on Joyce’s door to borrow her garden shears every spring. You regularly babysit Luisa when Marco and his wife, Blair, have their weekly date nights. She calls you auntie, and you call her a little jitterbug.

But there are cons, too. You don’t miss the lingering looks of sympathy in Marco’s and Joyce’s eyes as you pass by. You recognize those same expressions from Yoongi’s funeral, when the whole town had come out to mourn and offer you their best attempts at comfort.

Biting your lip, you turn to walk away from your neighbors and onto the main road. Before you can leave, though, Joyce calls your name. Curiously, you turn back to where she’s standing, her white hair tucked beneath a knit hat adorned with an enormous, hot pink pom-pom.

“You’re going to freeze in this weather, dear,” she says, gesturing for you to come closer. “Here.” She produces a deep red scarf seemingly out of thin air, and wraps it around your neck.

You blink dumbly. “Oh? Oh! Joyce, please, there’s no need for this. I have scarves at home; I just completely forgot to grab one today—”

She cuts you off with a raised finger, shaking her head. “Don’t break an old woman’s heart, dear. Just consider it an early Christmas present, all right?”

Sensing that she won’t take no for an answer, you concede and wrap the scarf more tightly around your neck. “Thank you, Joyce. This is very kind.”

“No need to thank me,” she replies, waving you off. “Have a lovely day, dear. Now, where did Daisy get off to?”

Joyce shuffles off in search of her dog, and you veer back onto the sidewalk and continue on toward the main road that runs through town. Seven years ago, you’d leased a ramshackle little brick building just off the square, with hopes of renovating it and turning it into your dream diner. Yoongi had been skeptical, but you’d seen its potential and managed to convince him that it was worth the investment. Today, it stands proud, with big picture windows overlooking the wooden gazebo in the center of the square and a cheery red sign out front that reads: The Milkshake Parlor.

You and Yoongi had compromised on the name. Ever the pragmatist, he’d wanted to call it The Diner. “That’s what it is, isn’t it? No fuss, no frills,” he’d said, waving a paintbrush to emphasize his point. You’d rolled your eyes and grabbed the yellow No. 2 pencil that was perpetually behind his ear, waving it at him in retaliation. “It’s boring, Yoongi. Cherry on Top is a cute name, and it lets people know we make a mean milkshake!” And so, the compromise came into being. The Milkshake Parlor—a name that was cute and pragmatic, as far as you were both concerned.

“Hey, stop it!”

“No, you stop it! You’re going to knock him over!”

The sudden shouting pulls you back to reality, and you realize with a start that you’ve come to a dead stop in the middle of the road. Tearing your gaze from The Milkshake Parlor’s sign, you turn toward the source of the commotion. Two children—a boy and a girl, both about ten or so—seem to be having a disagreement about a snowman they’re building. From what you can tell, the boy thinks that they can stack four snowballs, while the girl is drawing the limit at three and is now trying to forcibly take the fourth ball from him.

Chuckling wryly, you shake your head and head inside The Milkshake Parlor. Already, the smell of freshly baked bread is beginning to waft from the kitchen in the back, and through the window, you can just barely see the top of the chef’s head bobbing around. “Hey, Jin,” you call as the door swings shut behind you.

The chef’s head perks up, and a moment later the door to the kitchen is flung open. “Well, well, well! If it isn’t the lady of the house herself!” Jin exclaims, cutting a striking figure in the doorway with a batter-covered whisk in hand and flour streaked across his black apron. “I feel like I should bow. Or would you rather me bend the knee?”

“I literally come in every day, you weirdo,” you tell him, running a finger along his whisk before it can drip onto the floor. “Have you been rewatching Game of Thrones?

Jin frowns. “No.”

You frown back. “Then, pray tell, why are you being so cheesy?”

He sniffs. “Well, someone has to brie.”

You groan, regretting your question immediately. If you know one thing about Jin, it’s that he will take a pun and run with it, straight into the ground. “Oh, no.”

“What?” he asks innocently. “Cheer up! It’s gouda be a good day!”

“Please stop.”

“If I stop, will you feel cheddar?”

“I hate you.”

Jin slaps a hand to his chest, feigning hurt. “Oh, man, now I’m feeling bleu. C’mon, Jin, shake it off. Pretend that you don’t camembert.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Yikes, these are getting worse by the second. You should quit while you’re ahead.”

He perks up. “Are you telling me I should stop milking it?”

“Awful,” you sigh. “Absolutely terrible.”

“Agree to disa-brie,” he replies breezily. “Anyway, you don’t have time to stand here all day in awe of my charm and wit. I’ve got some breakfast for you in the back. Ham and cheese omelet—no pun intended—with a slice of my homemade sourdough. I just put the coffeepot on too, so that should be ready soon.”

You squeeze his shoulder and resist the urge to tell him that he’s already made a brie-related pun. “You’re the best. Thanks, Jinnie.”

“It’s the least I can do,” he says, brushing you off. “I like cooking, and I know you don’t eat in the mornings. You’d probably starve to death without me.”

“You’re not wrong,” you reply. Then you frown, racking your brain for the right words. “But starving to death? That would definitely be the worst queso scenario.”

It's the right thing to say. Jin beams, his entire face lighting up like the sun that has now fully risen and is streaming golden through the windows that drew you to lease this building all those years ago. “Now that’s the spirit.”

///

The Milkshake Parlor is always busiest in December. Between the holiday shoppers and families coming in to visit, you don’t have a chance to sit down until nearly four in the afternoon. The sun has already begun its descent toward the horizon, and you sigh in relief as you plop down into a booth to sign some paychecks.

Outside, the Christmas lights are beginning to turn on, transforming the town square into a twinkling wonderland. Santa’s sleigh, lit up in green and red and gold, is being pulled by two neat rows of glittering reindeer. Scattered all around are pinstriped candy cane decorations and glowing gifts tied with lit-up bows bigger than your head. In the center of it all, just outside the entrance of the gazebo, is the tree—aglow with colorful baubles and garlands of shimmery golden tinsel and silver snowflakes. All together, with the lights sparkling off the snow, it’s a mesmerizing sight.

“Has it started yet?”

You glance over at Jin, who’s sliding into the seat opposite yours with two steaming mugs of hot chocolate in hand, one of which he pushes toward you. “Doesn’t look like it,” you murmur, nodding your thanks as you accept the mug and take a careful sip. “I saw Mr. Whittaker walk by with a box of prize ribbons a few minutes ago, though.”

Jin hums. “Man, I made the craziest things during the Snowtime Spectacular as a kid. One year, I just made a giant cow. I think I was maybe nine? Another time, I made that little peeing guy in Belgium. The pissing man, or whatever it’s called.”

“What a name,” you say, laughing. “I hear it’s a lot smaller than people expect it to be, for something so famous. Have you been?”

He nods. “Yeah, once when I was fourteen. I was kind of obsessed with it afterward. Thought it was hilarious.” He pauses, then chuckles. “Still do, actually.”

“How did you make it pee?” you ask curiously.

“Gold wire,” he replies as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Stuck it right in the tip of his dick.”

You nearly spit out the sip of hot chocolate you'd just taken. “Jesus Christ.”

Jin grins and settles back into his seat, eyes sparkling. “So, what about you? Enter any snowman building contests when you were a kid?”

“Hmm.” You think about it for a moment. “Not really. It wasn’t much of a thing where I grew up. We got snow and four seasons and all that, but the winters tended to be pretty mild. If we got snow, it didn’t really stick around for very long.”

The sun has disappeared fully now, cloaking the town in the dusky blues and purples of twilight. In the square, amongst the bright lights and festive decorations, townspeople are beginning to gather. Children, mostly, but a few adults seem to be taking part in the Snowtime Spectacular as well. A few people stop in on their way to the square, and you and Jin sell them generous servings of cocoa and hot spiced cider in paper cups to take back into the cold. You glance out the window whenever you get a chance, watching as the competitors begin building their creations.

Just before five o’clock, your other employee arrives for the dinner shift. Hoseok is a childhood friend of Jin’s, and his cheery disposition and infectious smile make him a perfect server. “Hey!” he says as he walks in, pulling off his beanie and shaking out his cherry red hair. “You guys see those snowmen out there? There’s some pretty impressive ones!”

“No, we’ve been working, unlike some people.” Jin pokes his head out from the kitchen, where he’s assembling a lasagna. “But say more. Did the Patel siblings try to make Godzilla again?”

“Actually, they’ve gone for Totoro this time,” replies Hoseok. “It was turning out pretty well when I walked by. Identifiable, at least.”

Any further conversation is interrupted by the entrance of a group of four regulars—two men and two women—who stop in every two weeks to play poker over bacon cheeseburgers and milkshakes. Hoseok waves at them and grabs a bottle of water from the fridge behind the counter in preparation to greet them properly. You and Jin, meanwhile, head back into the kitchen to get their usual order started.

More townsfolk filter in as the night wears on, and as the diner fills up, you take over some tables to lessen Hoseok’s burden. Whenever you aren’t talking to customers, you stop in the back to check on Jin and help him prepare food. Yoongi had always loved cooking, and he and Jin used to work together seamlessly in the kitchen. But you haven’t had the heart to hire someone new just yet, and Jin hasn’t complained. Instead, you took on the additional workload, doing your best to help out wherever you can.

Three minutes past ten, you finally flip the sign on the door to ‘closed’ and turn off the neon sign in the window. Hoseok is clearing the last of the plates and glasses, handing them over to Jin so he can load the dishwasher. You pull the vacuum from the closet, and together, the three of you set to work cleaning up. Hoseok mops up any spills while Jin wipes down the counters, and it isn’t long before you’re finished. Jin flicks off the lights as you exit, and both men turn to watch you as you lock the front door.

“That was fun. We should do it again tomorrow,” Jin jokes. “Same time, same place?”

Hoseok chuckles. “Count me in.”

You can only shake your head, laughing. “You’re both nuts.”

And with that, you say your goodbyes. Jin heads off in the direction of his house, and Hoseok makes his way toward Whittakers' General Goods, the general store, next door. You, meanwhile, find your gaze drawn back to the main town square and the collection of snowmen and snow sculptures that have cropped up between all the lights and decor. Curiosity lures you in, and you soon find yourself walking amongst them, admiring the admittedly incredible craftsmanship of some and chuckling at some of the others. You find Totoro, lovingly crafted, and a series of blobs that you’re fairly certain are attempts at Pokémon—at least, you think you spy one that could be a Bulbasaur. Smiling, you continue winding your way through the maze of snowy creations.

You’re nearly at the edge of the square when a particularly impressive snowman brings you to a stop. Nestled between a classic snowman with a stovepipe hat and a cartoonish dog you can only assume is from Paw Patrol, is a man. A life-sized, hyperrealistic man, crafted entirely of snow—who also happens to be completely naked. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” you mutter to nobody, your breath misting in the cool air. “Who made you? Fucking Michelangelo?”

Your gaze roves over the snowman—the literal snow man—again. Michelangelo hadn’t been messing around; that was for sure. From the strong jaw, to the dip of his clavicle, to the planes of his toned chest, to the firm ridges of his abdomen—and then your cheeks flush warm when your eyes drop lower. At least the creator had stuck a leaf between their creation’s legs to preserve some modesty.

Now feeling very much like a pervert, you take a step back and make to walk away. Something stops you in your tracks, though, and you find yourself turning back around to look into the snowman’s blank, white eyes. “You must be freezing,” you murmur, taking in the smooth, white rounds of his cheeks and the chiseled angle of his jaw. And then, driven on by some force that surely must be madness, you unwrap the scarf from your neck and wind it around his instead.

“All right,” you murmur once the deed is done. “That’s that, and I’m officially a nutjob. A headcase. A big, fucking weirdo who’s talking to a snowman. Coolcoolcool. That’s fine. There’s your good deed for the year, {Name}, you fucking idiot.” You glance up at the snowman once more and take a deep breath. “Okay. I’m gonna leave now. Bye.”

You aren’t sure why you felt the need to bid the snowman goodbye. Shaking your head, you tramp off, forgoing the road entirely. Instead, you make your way across the town square, your footsteps sinking deep into the snow.

Talking to a snowman, you think as you walk away. Good god. I need a fucking drink.

///

A loud bang jerks you awake the next morning. Your eyes fly open, your brain racing to catch up as you glance around for the source of the noise. The bedroom looks undisturbed, and you shiver as you climb out from beneath the covers and seize your cardigan from the chair.

It takes you a moment to realize that the sound is someone knocking on your front door. The thought drags you into motion—flinging on your cardigan and treading downstairs to figure out who dared disturb your precious sleep at the ungodly hour of half past four.

“What on earth could be so impor—” you start, flinging open the door only to stop dead in your tracks. Standing on your doorstep is a man. A naked man. Or at least, mostly naked—if you discount the scarf that flaps around his thighs and conveniently obscures his—

You tear your gaze from its downward trajectory and refocus on the man’s face. “What the fuck?! Where are your clothes?”

The man blinks, as if the thought of wearing clothing had never even occurred to him. “I don’t have any. This is all I have.” And he gestures to the scarf around his neck, which, upon closer inspection, is the exact one that Joyce had gifted you yesterday—and that you had subsequently gifted to a snowman in a moment of pure lunacy.

“I—” You don’t know what to say. “Why are you here? Who even are you? Aren’t you cold?” You pause, then gesture wildly at the deep red scarf that is coming dangerously close to revealing things. “Jesus. Where did you get that, anyway?”

“Hmm.” The man hums thoughtfully, brushing a wavy lock of dark hair from his forehead. “That’s a lot of questions, so I guess I’ll just answer them in order. I’m here because I followed your footsteps in the snow. That took some time, since they got kind of muddled with others. But I figured it out.” He pauses, as if expecting you to congratulate him. Instead, you offer him a dumbfounded look, which he takes in stride with a bemused smile and presses on. “As to who I am, well, my name’s Jungkook. I’m a snowman. So, no, I’m not cold. I don’t think it’s possible for me to even get cold. Thank you for the scarf, though. I meant to thank you earlier, but you left awfully fast and I wasn’t really… well, I couldn’t really walk yet. But now I’m here, and you’re here, and I just…” He smiles at you again, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Thank you. Truly. I’m so happy we met.”

He’s insane. He must be. “You’re out of your goddamn mind,” you tell him, and when you receive only another bemused smile and a little head tilt in return, you sigh. “Seriously, man. Jungle, or whatever your name is. I don’t know if this is some weird prank, or what, but it’s way too early for this shit. Just go home. And put on some clothes, for crying out loud. You’re going to get frostbite.”

The man blinks. “Home? I don’t…” he trails off. “I don’t think I have one. A home, I mean. I guess the town square would be the closest thing, so…” He nods. “Yeah. Okay, I’ll go back there. I'm… I’m really sorry to have bothered you.”

“Wait.” You’re clearly the one who’s insane now. But for some reason, the sight of his forlorn face as he turns to walk away pierces straight through your sternum to your heart. “Hang on a sec. You don’t… you don’t know where to go? You don’t have anywhere to go?”

Jungle(?) shrugs. “Not really. I’m a snowman.”

You opt to ignore this asinine claim and size him up instead. Objectively, he’s handsome. He has a jawline that could cut glass and a body that any Greek god would envy, and his dark hair falls in perfect waves that frame his forehead. His face, though, is at complete odds with the rest of him. Something about his easy smile and wide brown eyes instinctively makes you want to trust him. You can’t see any traces of deception hiding in his expression—only soft vulnerability and confused inquisitiveness. And so, you come to a decision.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” you mutter. Then you step aside, pulling the front door wide open. “Do you want to come in?”

The man on your doorstep blinks once, twice, and a third time. And then his face splits open into a wide grin, one that lights him up like the sun breaking through a wall of clouds. “That would be… wow. Yes, I’d love to come in. Wow. Thank you!”

You aren’t sure what to make of his enthusiasm, but you allow him to step past the threshold nonetheless. You watch as he looks around in amazement, taking in each piece of furniture in your living room and each bit of art hanging on the walls.

“It’s so pretty in here,” he marvels, spinning around in a full circle. “Is this all yours?”

Were you a paranoid person, and were he anyone else, you probably would’ve interpreted this question as a way to gauge whether you lived alone—and thus, whether you were an easy target. But coming from him, you have no doubt that it’s innocent. Just simple, honest curiosity. Still, that doesn’t mean your heart doesn’t splinter a little as you think of your late husband.

“It is now,” you say quietly. And if your companion senses anything amiss or hears the way your voice cracks a little bit, he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he glances toward the kitchen, where the coffee maker is just starting to wake up, gurgling softly before beginning to brew a fresh pot.

“What’s that?”

You pull a blanket from the back of the couch and toss it at him before heading into the kitchen. “It’s coffee. And you should really cover yourself up.” You gesture vaguely at his body, then quickly avert your gaze and busy yourself with fishing two clean mugs out of the cabinet. “Do you want any?”

“I’ll try some,” he says, wrapping the blanket around his waist. “I’ve never had coffee before.”

Weird, but not unheard of, you think to yourself as you pour him a mug. “Milk or sugar? It’s going to be a little bitter otherwise.”

He nods. “Sugar then, please.”

You plop a spoonful of sugar into the mug, giving it a stir before handing it over. He accepts the coffee with a grateful smile, and gives it a curious sniff. Instantly, he recoils, his eyes screwing shut.

“Oh! That’s hot!”

You blink. “Well, yeah, it’s fresh. You can blow on it to cool it down.”

He shakes his head and places the mug back onto the counter. “I’m sorry. I’m not really a fan of hot things.”

“Don’t worry about it,” you tell him, waving off his apology. “Here, let me pour it over ice. You can try it then.”

You watch him out of the corner of your eye as you pad across the kitchen to the refrigerator. He’s watching you raptly, with an expression caught somewhere between awe and gratitude, and you can’t help but shiver at the intensity. You focus instead on the task at hand—scooping ice cubes into a glass and carefully pouring the hot coffee over top.

“Here,” you say when you’re done, handing the cup over.

He sniffs it again, cocks his head, and then takes a long sip. “Oh, wow." Another sip. "Mm. That’s good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He nods. “Really good. Thank you, {Name}.”

It takes you a moment to remember how he knows your name. There’s your good deed for the year, {Name}, you fucking idiot. It seems like an eternity ago that you were talking to a snowman—a snowman that, upon some reflection, does bear a striking resemblance to the flesh-and-blood man standing in your kitchen now. Are you saying you believe that he's a snowman? a little voice in your head asks. You tell it to shut up and go away in no uncertain terms, and mercifully, it does.

Then you remember that you aren’t sure what his name is, even though you know he definitely introduced himself while you were dazed and half-asleep and furious at being woken up so early. It’s definitely not Jungle, you think, but it’s the only thing buzzing around in your head. It must be close, though. John? Jackson? Geronimo?

“I don’t know your name,” you blurt. “I mean, I know you said it. But it was so early, and I was so tired, and now I don’t remember what you said, and… I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

Your companion laughs. “No need to apologize. The name’s Jungkook.”

“Jungkook.” You repeat it a few times, committing it to memory. “Right. Got it. I won’t forget again, I swear.”

Jungkook just laughs again. “Really, it’s not a big deal. You’re right, anyhow. It was early. I don’t know how I didn’t realize that.”

You shake your head. “It’s fine.”

“Still.” He peers at you from behind a dark curtain of bangs. “I’m sorry.”

You fight back the sudden warmth that threatens to rush to your cheeks at his sincerity. “Seriously, don’t worry about it. Everything’s fine.”

///

Everything is, in fact, not fine. As it turns out, it’s incredibly hard to focus on the diner when there’s a man claiming to be a snowman in your home, doing god only knows what. The worry must show on your face too, because Jin pulls you aside at half past ten, his eyebrows raised quizzically. “You’re being weird. Why are you being weird?”

You frown. “Is it that obvious?”

He nods. “Like a bullet to the head.”

“I’m not sure you’re using that expression right,” you tell him. “But… yeah. You’re right. I… had a weird morning.”

“Well, consider me intrigued,” Jin says, plopping into the nearest booth and propping his chin in his palm. “Sit,” he orders, gesturing to the seat opposite. “Expound.”

“I don’t even know where to begin.”

“Try the beginning,” he says helpfully. “You woke up this morning. Then what?”

You hesitate. “Huh. I guess this whole thing actually started last night.”

“Juicy. Say more.”

You look across the table at Jin. He stares back, unblinking, a single brow raised as if to say, well?

Sucking in a deep breath, you hold it for a moment before exhaling it in an audible huff. “I have a houseguest.”

Jin cocks his head. “Really? Is that it?”

“He thinks he’s a snowman.”

Silence. Then: “Come again?”

You throw your hands up, exasperated. “Right? That’s what I said. I mean, not exactly in those words, but it’s a crazy thing to claim, right? Not that I think he’s crazy. But maybe he is, and now there’s a crazy man in my house doing… I don’t know. Destroying the place, or setting it on fire, or… stealing my gold?”

“You don’t have any gold,” Jin points out.

“Well, sure. I’m not Smaug, or a goddamn fucking leprechaun, but the point stands. He could still be trying to steal my laptop or my grandmother’s antique candelabras or something.”

Jin chuckles and mutters candelabras under his breath before sobering up again. “Right. Yeah. That would be bad. Let’s go pay him a visit.”

“Wait, what?” You blink. “Are you serious?”

“As a bullet to the head,” he replies, rising to his feet decisively and flipping the open sign on the door to closed. “Lock up behind us, won’t you?”

///

For the first time in a long while, you are at a complete loss for words. Jin had let himself into your house with his copy of the key before you even had a chance to fish yours from your purse, and you’d wordlessly followed as he strolled into your living room and made himself comfortable in one of the wingback armchairs flanking the front window. Jungkook, who’d been watching some show on television, had blinked in surprise. Jin stared. Jungkook stared back. And now, you’re not sure whether there’s a thing you can do about the silent standoff occurring over your glass-top coffee table.

At least, you think to yourself, I found a hoodie and sweats for him to wear. This would be so much more awkward if he were still naked.

Jungkook breaks the silence first, tugging you from your thoughts. “Um. Hi.”

Jin narrows his eyes. “Let’s skip the small talk. {Name} here says you’re a snowman. What’s the deal with that?”

Jungkook blinks once, and then twice more. “I’m not sure what you mean?”

“You. Snowman.” Jin says the words slowly, as if talking to a small child who hasn’t yet learned how to speak in complete sentences. “A prank, obviously. But why?”

Silence. It stretches on, taut and tense, before you break it by clearing your throat awkwardly. “Jin, be nice,” you chide.

“No, it’s okay.” Jungkook is frowning, but he’s nodding absentmindedly, as if to agree with what Jin has said. “I mean, this isn’t a prank, and I’m not trying to play a joke on anyone. But… I guess I can understand how strange this all must be for you.”

“That’s an understatement if I’ve ever heard one,” Jin mutters under his breath, but you ignore him. Sitting cautiously on the couch beside Jungkook, you turn to address him directly.

“What exactly do you mean when you say you’re a snowman?” you ask. “How… long have you been a snowman?”

Jungkook scrunches his nose, and your brain instantly decides to create a new neural pathway that links Jungkook, alleged snowman, with the image of Thumper, adorable bunny rabbit from Bambi. A very clear picture of him with fuzzy ears and a cotton tail develops in your head, and you have to resist the urge to leave the room for the sake of your sanity. Instead you bite your bottom lip, hard, and focus your gaze on the spot just beyond Jungkook’s left ear where your grandmother’s antique candelabras sit on the mantel.

“It’s… kind of hard to explain. I don’t even really have any memories before yesterday. I just remember… snow. Lots and lots of white snow. And then you were there.”

Jin snorts. You glare at him. Jungkook watches this exchange, his brows furrowed, and then hesitantly continues on.

“It felt like I was waking up from a long sleep. I don’t really know how else to describe it, but all of a sudden I was awake. I could walk, and speak, and I just knew I had to find you again.”

“Let’s say you’re telling the truth,” Jin cuts in. “What’s your end goal? Are you trying to seduce {Name} for her money?”

It’s your turn to snort. “Money? What money? Have you seen the state of things around here?” You gesture at the fireplace, where a sticky note solemnly reminds you to call a chimney sweep. Another one on the wall recommends a floorboard replacement soon. A third, stuck on the doorframe leading to the kitchen, simply says: find a plumber maybe??

Jin follows the trajectory of your hand waving with an unimpressed frown. “Wait, you still haven’t called a plumber?”

Your mind drags up a memory of your late husband, coming in from the garage armed with his trusty red toolbox. He’s wearing paint-stained overalls paired with a crooked grin, and you remember plopping down on the cold tile floor beside him with two glasses of lemonade as he wriggled beneath the kitchen sink to begin performing what you could only assume was witchcraft. Three minutes later, he’d reemerged, triumphant. He’d downed the lemonade in three gulps, and when you kissed him afterward, you'd tasted the sweet tang of citrus intermingled with a flavor that was uniquely him. Your Yoongi. Your Yoongi, dead and burned to ash and—

You gasp, wrenching yourself out of the memory. Your chest feels somehow both too tight and too big, threatening to overwhelm you like a tidal wave. Your heartbeat thunders in your ears, racing at a full gallop. When you glance down at your lap, you find that your hands are clasped there, trembling.

“Shit.” Jin’s voice breaks through the drumming of your heart. “Shit, {Name}, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—I mean, I don’t—” He falters. “I mean, are you okay?”

You shake your head, then catch yourself and nod quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Fuck, sorry. I just—”

“Don’t you dare apologize,” Jin says, standing up and crossing the room in three strides to take your hands in his. “Never apologize to me for feeling the way you do, got it?”

“Got it,” you say weakly. “Thanks, Jinnie.”

He squeezes your hands one more time before returning to his seat. Jungkook, who has been watching this exchange with rapt interest, raises one hand tentatively. “I, uh, didn’t want to interrupt,” he pipes when you and Jin look at him. “And I’m glad you’re okay, {Name}.” His gaze settles on you for a long moment, his eyes dark and searching. You brace yourself for the questions that are sure to come—questions that you aren’t ready to answer now and possibly not ever—but he breezes on as if nothing happened. “Anyway, I think I can probably fix whatever’s wrong in the kitchen, if that’s an issue.”

“Huh?” Jin says.

“Wait, what?” you say at the same time.

Jungkook gestures at the TV, and for the first time, you take in the channel that’s playing. It’s some kind of home improvement show, and you watch as two men who bear striking resemblances to Mario and Luigi explain how to grease an O-ring. “I already poked around the sink a little bit. I hope you don’t mind. I looked in the chimney too, but I haven’t seen an episode on those yet. Maybe there’ll be one later. Then I think I can probably do something about that, too.”

“Do you…” You pause. “Hang on. Are you saying that you can learn how to fix things? Just by watching someone do it?”

A deep furrow etches itself between Jungkook’s brows, then disappears as he nods. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure I can. Do you have tools?”

You think of Yoongi’s red toolbox and force back the memories trying to spill over. “Yeah, I do.”

“Great.” Jungkook beams, and it’s as bright as sunlight on freshly fallen snow. “Can you show me where?”

///

“I can’t believe you brought him here.”

It’s the next day, and you and Jin are seated at a small table in the corner of The Milkshake Parlor's kitchen, staring at Jungkook’s backside as he maneuvers himself carefully into the space between the oven and the wall. You’d fished out some of Yoongi’s old clothes last night, as much as it’d pained you to go down into the basement to parse through all those boxes, and Jungkook is now decked out in ripped jeans and a dark green flannel, the ends of the red scarf you'd given him tossed over his shoulder as he works.

"He offered to help," you say, shrugging. "And I'm not exactly in a position to turn that down. Besides, he's staying with me for the time being, until we figure out—" you lower your voice "—the whole snowman thing."

Jin sighs and props his chin in his palm. "I guess he did do a good job with the leaky faucet yesterday," he concedes.

"He insulated all the windows too," you add. "After you left. I'd been meaning to do it for a while now, and when I mentioned it, he just took it into his own hands."

Jin tilts his head and stares even more intently, if possible, at Jungkook's denim-clad posterior. "He's acting awfully nice."

You frown. "You think it's an act?"

"I have no idea," he admits. "I like to think I'm a pretty good judge of character, and I don't get any bad vibes from him. But this whole thing is insane, and some people are great actors. Can you ever truly know who someone is?"

You glance back at Jungkook—who's now fiddling with the stovetop knobs—and another memory of Yoongi surfaces, this time of him standing over the stove and carefully stirring a pan of your favorite risotto. "I did, once upon a time," you murmur.

Jin understands. Gently, he reaches across the table to take your hand. He squeezes, and you squeeze back, and for now, it's enough.

///

Hazy morning clouds give way to a sun-drenched afternoon. Jungkook finishes his work in the kitchen, leaving behind a cooktop that once again heats evenly, and Jin immediately puts it to the test by whipping up a batch of pancakes.

It's proving to be a slow day in the diner, which you're thankful for. One of your regulars—a grizzled, graying man named Horacio who always keeps peppermints in his coat pocket—sits at the counter with a mug of hot tea. In a corner booth, two teens on winter break giggle over strawberry milkshakes.

Jungkook sits across from you in your favorite booth, his gaze riveted on the creations from this year's Snowtime Spectacular. It had snowed overnight, dusting everything in a fresh coat of powdery white, and some of the sculptures are a little less recognizable than before. Nonetheless, you can still identify a few standouts.

"Do you know who won?"

With a start, you realize Jungkook is staring at you now. It takes your brain another moment to register the question, and you chuckle ruefully as you try to remember the prize results. "The Patel siblings won first place, I think. They made the giant snow Totoro over there." You point. "Second place went to the medieval castle by the old sycamore tree. And third was a tie between the family of polar bears and the classic Frosty the Snowman."

Jungkook nods, eyeing each creation with a critical eye as you point them out. "They're really impressive. It's a shame everyone couldn't get a prize."

"If it helps, everyone got free hot chocolate afterward for their participation," you tell him with a laugh.

He grins, eyes crinkling at the corners. "It does, actually."

Jin chooses that moment to interrupt, plopping three mugs onto the table with a thunk. He follows this with a stack of pancakes piled so high on the plate that it wobbles quite dangerously when he sets it down. "Speaking of hot chocolate," he says, gesturing at the mugs. "You guys must be starving. I know I am, so let's dig in."

You scoot over to give Jin room in the booth while Jungkook thanks him fervently for the food. The next few minutes are quiet, filled only by the sounds of chewing and clinking utensils. Then, out of the corner of your eye, you notice that Jungkook is eyeing his mug of hot chocolate with apprehension. A whorl of steam wafts up from it, and he flinches back just a tiny bit. You nearly would've missed it, had you not been watching so carefully.

Wordlessly, you pick up your own mug and blow on the liquid within. Jungkook, seeing you do this, follows suit. Once you deem the hot chocolate cool enough, you take a small sip, and he does the same. Immediately, his eyes widen—and for a moment, you aren't sure if he's burned his tongue or not. Then a look of delight settles across his features. He takes another, larger sip, and you can't help but smile at his enthusiasm.

Just as you're about to grab your fork and go in for some more pancake, the bell over the door chimes. Jin rises to greet the guest, and you turn in your seat, ready to jump in should he need any help. You recognize the newcomer as Willy Waddlesworth—one of three police officers who work at the station a few streets away. The police chief, Jimin, is a good friend of Hoseok's if you recall correctly.

"Officer," Jin says, offering the portly, red-faced man a hand to shake. "I didn't expect to see you in here today. You having the usual?"

Officer Waddlesworth shakes his head. "Here on business, actually." He looks around the diner slowly, scanning people's faces. He offers you a polite nod of acknowledgment—and then his eyes alight on Jungkook and narrow. "Ma'am, are you aware that this man is a wanted criminal?"

You feel your eyes go wide. "Wait, what?" Across the table, Jungkook is too engrossed in his pancakes to notice the conversation happening about him.

Officer Waddlesworth nods. "I'm afraid so. Mr. and Mrs. Whittaker reported him for…" he pulls a notepad from his jacket pocket and flips it open dramatically, "…disturbing the peace and public indecency. I'm going to have to take him down to the station."

Jin frowns. "That doesn't sound like something the Whittakers would do."

"Are you questioning an officer of the law?" Officer Waddlesworth bristles, and you are suddenly reminded of a very small, angry hedgehog.

"Not at all," you say, rising to your feet to placate him. "But I do think I'd like to hear their side of the story. They usually drop by for lunch around now, why don't we ask them when they come in?"

Officer Waddlesworth doesn't seem pleased by this suggestion in the slightest, but the bell over the door jingles merrily before he can open his mouth. "Perfect timing," Jin murmurs to you out of the corner of his mouth, before turning to greet the new customers wiping their feet free of slush on the cherry-shaped welcome mat. "Mr. Whittaker, good afternoon! I have a sausage hash with your name on it. Mrs. Whittaker, you're looking lovely as usual. Will it be French toast or waffles today?"

Mrs. Whittaker, a kind-faced woman with silvery gray curls, beams at him. "Waffles for me today, darling. Maybe some extra syrup, if you're feeling generous."

"For you? Always." Jin bows deeply, drawing laughs from the Whittakers, and nods at you and Officer Waddlesworth before heading back into the kitchen. You notice he stays within earshot, though—his head visible through the window as he begins preparing the orders.

Officer Waddlesworth clears his throat. "Mr. Whittaker, Mrs. Whittaker—thank you for coming." He gestures at the booth, where Jungkook is sipping on his hot chocolate happily, a teeny dollop of whipped cream on his nose. "If I could have you think back to the incident you reported a couple days ago… is this the man you saw that night?"

Mr. Whittaker squints and adjusts his glasses. "Hmm, yes, that looks like him. Mighty glad he's finally managed to locate his clothes. It's been awful cold out this week."

"Is he a friend of yours, {Name}?" Mrs. Whittaker asks, mischief dancing in her eyes. "Introduce us!"

You blanch. "Ah. Um. Right, this is…"

Jungkook finally notices the attention on him and picks up his napkin to wipe his mouth. He thankfully gets the whipped cream on his nose as well, and you have to resist the urge to sigh in relief. "Hello," he says brightly, rising to his feet and extending a hand to Mrs. Whittaker. "I'm Jungkook."

Mrs. Whittaker lets out a sound that you can only describe as a giggle. "Oh, aren't you sweet. I'm Clara Whittaker, and this here is my husband, Joe."

Mr. Whittaker steps forward to give his hand a firm shake. "Pleased to meet you, son."

Officer Waddlesworth's face turns redder and redder as he watches this exchange play out in front of him. Sensing that he's quickly losing control of the situation—that is, if he ever had it in the first place—he clears his throat in what he deems is an authoritative way. "Ahem. Right. Now, if we could get back to the matter at hand?" He turns to Jungkook, who simply blinks curiously at him. "Sir, do you admit to the charges of—" he consults his notebook again, "—disturbing the peace and public indecency?"

Jungkook blinks. "Public what?"

Frantically, you wave your hands, as if that will dispel this entire situation. "I don't thi—"

Jin chooses that moment to interrupt, calling out through the kitchen window over the sound of sizzling onions. "C'mon, Officer, it was just a bit of hazing. Jungkook's new in town, and the winters here are no joke. I mean, why am I telling you that? You know that better than all of us combined, braving the cold year after year to patrol town and keep us safe." His expression melts into faux admiration, and you very nearly snort out a laugh. Jin notices this, shoots you a surreptitious glare, then pauses to give his onions a stir before continuing on shamelessly. "So, I gave him a little challenge. Wanted to see if he could hack it here in the long term."

Officer Waddlesworth puffs up with pride like a chickadee on a cold day. He takes a while to formulate a response to Jin's monologue, and before he can open his mouth to speak, Mr. Whittaker steps in, clapping the policeman on the back. "Come on, Willy! No harm, no foul, eh?"

"No harm, no foul," Jin echoes from the kitchen. "Exactly."

Officer Waddlesworth sets his mouth into a firm line and deflates slightly. "I'm not so sure that there was no harm done. There may have been children about. Who knows how many may have seen this man's…" He trails off and gestures uncomfortably in Jungkook's general direction. "And besides, it's indecent, what he did! An affront to the senses, and Mrs. Whittaker's delicate sensibilities, and the innocent children of this town, and—" He stops and nods firmly, and you jump a bit when he suddenly stamps his foot against the wooden floor. "Just improper behavior, all around."

Mrs. Whittaker chimes in, her voice soothing. "Officer, this all happened well after midnight. I doubt any children were even awake to bear witness. And don't you worry about my sensibilities, delicate or otherwise. I've taken my fair share of turns around the sun, you know. This young man's hardly the first one I've seen in the nude."

Through the kitchen window, you see Jin pull a disgusted face and have to resist the urge to laugh again. Jungkook still looks hopelessly confused, his brows furrowed. Officer Waddlesworth, meanwhile, has puffed up again—this time with something more akin to embarrassment than pride.

"I'll be keeping my eye on you, young man," he says at last, wagging a finger at Jungkook. Then he turns back to where you're standing with the Whittakers, begrudgingly tipping his hat in farewell. "Ladies. Gentleman." You watch as he spins on his heel and heads for the door, nodding at Jin on his way out. The door swings shut behind him, the bell jangling gently in the silence that falls.

"Phew!" Mrs. Whittaker breaks the silence first. "That sure was something."

Jungkook glances between her and you. "Am I in trouble?"

"Not at all, dear." Mrs. Whittaker pats his shoulder. "Willy's a bit of a hardhead, but his heart's in the right place. He's lived in this town his whole life. I don't think there's anything he wouldn't do to protect it."

Jin pokes his head out from the kitchen. "He's got good timing too. Food's all done, Mr. and Mrs. Whittaker—did you want to eat here or take it to-go?"

Mr. Whittaker sighs and tugs his scarf a little tighter around his neck. "Unfortunately, we've got to get back to the store. Radiator's acting up again, and I can't get Ralph to come out until after Christmas to fix it. We've been using space heaters to heat the place, and I don't want to leave them unattended for too long."

At this, Jungkook perks up. "Could I come by and take a look? I don't know if I'll be able to fix it, but I can certainly try a few things."

Mrs. Whittaker beams at him. "Darling, be our guest."

///

When you wake up the next morning, you find Jungkook sitting on the couch with a blanket tucked around his lap, engrossed in a man on TV with a thick Boston accent explaining how to install shingles on a roof. You watch him silently from the doorway for a while, noting the way his head tilts and his face scrunches when he doesn't understand something.

It's strange, seeing a man in your living room, sitting on your couch like he lives there. You haven't had many guests since your husband passed—and you certainly haven't had any men over besides Jin, Hoseok, and the occasional neighbor. You haven't even thought about dating again—the very idea made your head hurt and your heart ache.

Still, you can't deny that Jungkook is handsome. He's kind, too—and even though all signs point to him either being an amnesiac or a patient at a mental institution, you can't help but want to trust him. It doesn't help that he's wearing a set of pajamas that you'd gifted Yoongi years ago—a purple and green plaid monstrosity that was soft as plush and absolutely hideous, and that your husband had a strong love-hate relationship with as a result. Babe, I look like a deranged Barney the Dinosaur. Your heart twinges at the memory.

A knock at the door startles you out of your reverie. Mondays are the one day that the diner is closed, and it wouldn't be the first time that Jin or Hoseok have stopped by your house out of boredom. Fully expecting it to be one of the two men, you swing the door open only to be greeted by your next-door neighbor's smiling face instead.

"Joyce?" You blink in surprise, then remember your manners. "Please, come on in! It's freezing out here."

The elderly woman laughs and taps the hot pink pom-pom on her hat. "Luckily, I'm prepared." Nonetheless, she steps past you into the foyer, where she wipes her boots off on the mat and starts unraveling her scarf.

"Can I offer you anything?" you ask, handing her a coat hanger so she can hang up her winter gear. "I've got coffee, tea, and I think there's still some orange juice in the fridge."

"You're very kind," Joyce says, patting your arm. "Some tea would be lovely, thank you."

You nod and head toward the kitchen while she hangs up her coat. A few moments later, you hear her pad into the living room, followed by:

"Oh! This must be Jungkook!"

You poke your head around the doorframe, astonished at how quickly you'd forgotten about your houseguest in the presence of company. Your mouth opens, ready to explain the situation, but Jungkook beats you to it.

"Good morning," the dark-haired man says cheerfully, standing up and offering Joyce a hand. "Who do I have the pleasure of addressing?"

"Joyce," your neighbor replies with a smile. Clara Whittaker told me all about you. Said you were such a dear to take a look at their old radiator yesterday."

Jungkook shakes his head. "It was nothing, really. I tried a few things, but ultimately, I wasn't able to fix it."

Joyce nods. "She mentioned that they're going to order a replacement, and that you're going to help them put it in when it gets here. That's why I stopped by today, actually. I've been having some trouble with my water heater, and I was hoping you'd be willing to take a look. I'll pay you, of course, for your time."

Jungkook blinks, as if the very concept of being paid is new to him. "Pay me?"

Joyce doesn't miss a beat. "Money, in exchange for goods or services provided."

"Right." Jungkook pauses, then inclines his head. "When did you want me to come over?"

///

From there, the word spreads like wildfire. Jungkook finds himself as busy as you are at The Milkshake Parlor, if not busier. When he isn't fixing someone's plumbing or repairing a roof, he's at the diner with you—lending a helping hand wherever it's needed. He shadows Jin in the kitchen, learning how to mise en place, and trots after Hoseok to bring plates to tables.

It's been nearly two weeks since Jungkook first showed up on your doorstep, and Christmas is rapidly approaching. But despite the impending holidays and the townspeople's jolly cheer, your mood steadily dampens. You think of Yoongi, and how much he'd loved Christmas. You think of decorating the tree with him each year, belting out the wrong lyrics to holiday classics and getting tipsy on cocoa and eggnog. And then you think of the last three Christmases you spent alone, or going through the motions with Jin and his family.

Mr. Pendergrass from the plant nursery had delivered your tree yesterday afternoon, just as he has during each of the eight years you've lived in this town. You'd thought about lugging the lights and ornaments up from the basement that evening, but you'd stopped at the top of the stairs and turned right back around again. It hadn't felt right these past three years to decorate without your husband, so why start now? Jungkook hadn't even been around to keep you company—he was off shoveling snow for what seemed to be the entire neighborhood—so you'd simply poured yourself a generous serving of wine and wallowed in the silence of your empty home. You'd gone to bed early, and heard Jungkook come back just as you were turning off the lamp on your nightstand.

Today, the thought of decorating the tree taunts you as you drink your morning coffee and get ready for work. It torments you as you walk to The Milkshake Parlor and start prepping the kitchen for service. The decorations Hoseok had put up a few nights ago don't help either—verdant garlands draped with holly berries, sparkly tinsel, colorful bits and baubles, and hand-cut snowflakes seemingly in every window and on every surface.

The hours drag by at a snail's pace. Finally, there is a break in your work, and you can justify taking a break for lunch. Jin has a BLT ready for you, and you smile wanly at him as you accept it and pop it into a takeout box. "Going for a little walk," you tell him, and he doesn't pry. You prepare yourself a thermos of hot chocolate and, at the last second, pour in a glug of whiskey. Then you shrug on your coat, exiting the diner and taking a left. From the front window of Whittakers' General Goods, Mr. Ginger—their shop cat—blinks slowly at you.

Automatically, you crouch down by the window and blink back. "Hi, Mr. Ginger. How's it going?"

Despite his name, the Whittakers' cat sports a tuxedo pattern instead of an orange one. Back when you and Yoongi had first opened the The Milkshake Parlor next to the general store, Mrs. Whittaker had explained that his startlingly bright amber eyes were the actual reason behind the name. Yoongi had always had a natural affinity with cats, and befriended Mr. Ginger almost immediately—no doubt in large part to the treats that he snuck the cat at every opportunity. By association, and over time, Mr. Ginger had grown to like you, too.

After a brief, one-sided conversation with the feline, you straighten back up and continue on your way. You aren't sure that you had a destination in mind when you started out, but your feet trace out the path to the park and you don't try to stop them.

You find the wrought-iron gate ajar when you arrive, stuck in place by a combination of fresh snow and snowmelt that has thawed and frozen solid again. Beyond that stretches the familiar cobblestone path, which has clearly been shoveled in the last couple of days. Only about an inch of snow covers the stones, the icy surface crisscrossed with footprints and the occasional tuft of dead grass.

It was summertime when you were last here—June, to be exact. The grass had been green and the wildflowers had been in full bloom, dotting the hillside in colorful brushstrokes. From the trees, hidden by the foliage, birds had twittered their songs. And you'd sat on one of several wooden benches at the bottom of the hill, gazing out over the river and thinking about how you'd scattered your husband's ashes from that very spot three years back.

The anniversary of Yoongi's passing was always hard, but in some ways, the holidays were even harder. Something about the merriment and the inescapable festivities and the imminent arrival of the new year exacerbated the hurt, making your pain all the greater. Some days are easier than others, and some days you feel like your entire world is crumbling into dust that would bury you under its weight.

Today is one of those days. Today, you feel like you are suffocating—your lungs tight and your body restless, desperately trying to save itself from the all-encompassing despair that threatens to engulf you whole. Breathing in deeply, you tighten your grip on your sandwich and thermos and clamber down the hill to where the bench waits. A thin layer of snow covers its surface, and you dust it off as best you can before taking a seat. Setting your lunch down, you lean back and take another long breath, exhaling it in a whorl of white mist. You take in the view—the skeletal black trees glistening with an icy coat against the periwinkle sky, the glisten of undisturbed snow leading down to the water, the frozen edges of the river stretching cold tendrils over the lazy, blue-green current. A slight chill takes root in your fingertips, and you ward it off by unscrewing your thermos and taking a sip. Hot chocolate and whiskey burn a welcome trail down your throat. Warmth seeps into your belly, and you immediately take another drink.

You're just about to unpack your sandwich when, from behind, you hear the sound of snow crunching underfoot. Instinctively, you glance around, and stop dead when you see Jungkook standing there. He's wearing a new set of clothes bought from Whittakers'—black jeans tucked into tan Timberlands and a thick-knit gray sweater, topped off with what has become his signature red scarf—and for that, you're grateful. You aren't sure you could've stomached seeing him in Yoongi's old things right now. Your heart lurches at the thought, and you quickly take another sip of the spiked hot chocolate, relishing in the sweet, searing rush.

"Hey." Jungkook waves rather awkwardly and takes another step forward before seeming to rethink it and stopping again. "Sorry. I didn't—I mean, I don't mean to disturb you if you want to be alone, or anything. It's just that I saw you walking on my way back to the diner, and I saw this fall out of your pocket." He holds up a woolly, slightly lopsided blue mitten, now dusted lightly with snow. "I guess I probably could've just brought it home, but I didn't know if you'd want it now. Mr. Whittaker mentioned that it's probably going to snow later and that temperatures were going to drop, and I didn't want you to be cold or anything. But… but I can bring it back to the house, or to the diner if you want. I didn't mean to follow you like some kind of weirdo."

He trails off, his expression sheepish and his cheeks tinged with pink. Your heart does another funny, lurching flip in your chest, and you swallow thickly before mustering up your voice. "It's okay, Jungkook. Thank you." You pause, then pat the empty bit of bench beside you. "Do you want to sit?"

Jungkook blinks in surprise, but approaches regardless. "Sure. Thanks." He hands you the wayward mitten as he takes a seat, and you run the pad of your thumb over the soft knit before tucking it safely into your coat pocket with its twin.

Silence descends over you then—one that neither of you are particularly eager to break. Still, you do so first, your voice a murmur that nearly gets lost in the gentle rush of the river. "My late husband gave me these, you know." You pat the pocket with the blue mittens inside. "We'd been dating for nearly a year, and it was our first Christmas together. He'd just taken up knitting as a form of stress relief, and these were one of the first things he made."

Jungkook's eyes widen. You can tell that his brain is whirring, struggling to come up with the right words, and wave him off before the discomfort can compound.

"It's fine—you don't have to say anything. I've heard it all, really. So many people have apologized, or offered their condolences, or tried to comfort me over these past few years." You shrug. "It doesn't change anything. Never does."

There's a beat of silence. Overhead, a lone bird circles in ever-widening loops. The river burbles gently over the stones, worn smooth by the persistent current and time. Then Jungkook speaks, his voice so soft you nearly miss it.

"I can listen." It's his turn to shrug. "If you want to talk about it, that is. I'll be happy to listen. And if you don't, that's okay too. I… I've never lost anyone precious to me, so I don't think I can relate or understand or anything like that. But I can be here, and I can listen, or do anything else you want me to. And if you'd rather I leave right now, just say the word." He nods toward the top of the hill where the gate sits ajar. "I'll run right back to The Milkshake Parlor."

The thought of Jungkook trying to sprint up the snowy, slippery hill makes you snort in spite of yourself. "I think you'd hurt yourself trying."

Jungkook's lips quirk. "Maybe. But I'm pretty good in snow, you know. It's my element."

"Of course." You nod, the tiniest of smiles tugging at the corners of your mouth. "How could I forget?"

Silence descends again, but this time, it's broken by a low grumble from your stomach. Exasperated, you glance down, first at the offender, and then at the box where your BLT has probably frozen solid. "Well," you say, prying open the lid, "I suppose I should try and eat this. Do you want some?"

Jungkook shakes his head. "Mrs. Whittaker made me eat a plate of chicken parmesan before I left. Apparently, it's famous?"

"Famous because she buys out the entire cheese aisle at the grocery store every time she makes it." You chuckle wryly. "I hope you got some good cardio in today. That thing's a heart attack waiting to happen."

Jungkook hums. "I helped them carry a bunch of boxes up from the basement this morning. Then we restocked the shelves and swept up the shop. Does that count?"

"You definitely got your steps in," you muse as you bite into your sandwich. "But maybe do some jumping jacks later, just in case."

He smiles. "Can do."

You spend the next few minutes eating your sandwich, washing it down with the hot chocolate that you share with Jungkook by pouring a generous portion into the thermos lid and handing it over. He cups it in both hands and sips at it carefully, and together, you stare out over the peaceful river, lazily winding its way toward a distant, distant sea.

///

Before you know it, Christmas Eve arrives. With it comes an annual tradition—Christmas Eve dinner at The Milkshake Parlor for any and all who want to attend. Jin and Yoongi used to pull out all the stops, and for the past three years, you and Jin have kept the tradition going. Together, you would prepare and cook from morning until six o'clock in the evening when the doors opened. For a flat fee of fifteen dollars—or seven, for children under twelve—diners could come and enjoy a feast, complete with drinks and seasonal, festive cocktails.

With Jungkook's help, this year's preparation had been a breeze. Now, you're in the middle of service, and the diner is packed to the brim with laughing families and friends. Hoseok and Jungkook are running food while you and Jin cook, and things are running so smoothly that you can't help but think that the other shoe is going to drop at any moment.

"You're being paranoid," Jin says when you bring this up to him for the umpteenth time. "Seriously, relax a little. The food's turning out great, and everyone's having a good time. I think we've outdone ourselves this year."

You glance out to the main dining room, where you can see your neighbors at a table by the window—Joyce happily swapping stories with Marco, Blair, and their little daughter, Luisa. At the counter, Officer Waddlesworth and Police Chief Jimin Park are nursing hot toddies. A few seats away, the Whittakers are splitting a bottle of red wine.

An hour passes, then two. Hoseok and Jungkook lay out a grazing table of desserts: cookies, cakes, mini fruit tarts, and a bowl of peppermint bark. You and Jin finally join the townspeople in the dining room, your own plates of dinner in hand. Hoseok hands you an overly full glass of wine, which you gratefully accept.

Slowly, evening turns into night. A few families with young children have already departed, and Marco and Blair are in the middle of trying to convince Luisa to put on her puffy pink coat. "I don't want to go outside," the little girl says, stamping her foot stubbornly as Blair starts pushing open the front door. "It's cold and it smells bad."

Blair frowns. "What are you talking about, sweetie?"

At the same time, Joyce glances out the window, her eyes widening in alarm. "Fire! There's a fire at Whittakers'!"

Chaos erupts. Officer Waddlesworth tries to call for order, but his voice is lost in the hubbub as people mill about frantically. Luisa ditches her puffy coat and disappears into the crowd, and Hoseok is nearly bowled over by a trio of tipsy young twenty-somethings. After several more seconds of confusion, Chief Park finally manages to right an overturned chair and steps onto it, projecting his voice above the din. "SILENCE!"

Everyone stops in their tracks. Chief Park looks to Marco, who is a firefighter by trade and already has his phone at his ear and is talking rapidly into it. "Rest of the department's on their way, sir," he says when he notices that Chief Park is looking at him. "I'll head next door now to assess the situation."

A high, keening voice rises up from the crowd then, and you watch as Mrs. Whittaker pushes her way to the forefront. "Mr. Ginger is still in the store! Someone has to save him!"

Marco leaps into action. He heads for the door, but someone beats him there. The bell jangles and a flash of dark hair disappears outside, and with a start, you realize that it's Jungkook. You cry out, but it comes out as a strangled whimper that's drowned out by Chief Park's shout to stop, wait! Then the police chief is jumping down from his chair and rushing for the door, and Marco is right on his heels, and you find yourself barreling toward the door too, intent on making sure that Jungkook doesn't dive headfirst into some stupid, heroic act.

Freezing air rushes to greet you as soon as you step foot outside. Next door, acrid black smoke is pouring out the front window of Whittakers' General Goods while angry orange flames dance within. A fire truck rounds the corner, sirens blaring, and a small group of firefighters jump out in full gear. Marco is quick to join them, but you don't pay them any mind. Instead, you whip around frantically, glancing from the snow-covered square to the narrow alleyway separating your diner from the shop, hoping in vain to see a sign of Jungkook.

The Whittakers have joined you now, their faces twisted into twin expressions of horror as they watch the flames engulfing their livelihood. The firefighters deploy their hoses and water begins raining down. You blink against the spray blowing back in the wind, and feel the droplets starting to freeze on your cheeks. There's still no sign of Jungkook, and you start forward toward the gaping hole where the front door of the general store used to be. Then, strong arms wrap around your waist from behind, and Jin's voice sounds in your ear. "Shh. Jungkook will be fine. He's tough."

At long last, the flames are extinguished. The firefighters head into the building, now damp and blackened with soot, shouting their findings to each other. Chief Park and Officer Waddlesworth are doing their best to set up a barrier, but the fire has drawn an even larger crowd of townspeople beyond the diners at the Christmas Eve dinner, and they're struggling to contain everyone in a safe zone. Seizing your opportunity, you slip away from Jin and the others, making your way to the alley. The windows and doors of the store have all collapsed inward, making entry easy. Furtively, you step inside, scanning the destroyed interior for any sign of Jungkook.

The main floor of the store is filled with aisles of metal shelves, which have blackened and warped in the heat. You wrinkle your nose at the stench—smoke and acrid burnt plastic and an odd smell that you can't quite place until you step on a crinkled, soot-covered bag of Cheetos and release even more of the burnt artificial cheese scent into the air. Coughing, you cover your nose and mouth with your sleeve and continue onward, deeper into the store.

There's no sign of Jungkook amongst the aisles. You check behind the checkout counter and inside the restroom, but he's nowhere to be found. Worry constricts your chest, but you do your best to shake it off as you eye the mangled staircase that once led to the upper floor of the store, which housed the toy section, books, and a small selection of furniture lovingly restored by Mr. Whittaker himself. Your heart aches at the thought of all those things, lost to the fire, but you force it out of your mind and move closer to the stairs. You run a finger along the banister and try to ascend the first step, but it creaks dangerously and you feel the wood splinter and crack underneath your foot.

God, I really hope he isn't up there.

Turning now to the last doorway, you find yourself staring at the top of the stairs leading to the basement, the wooden steps disappearing into the inky depths. These feel much more stable, and you cautiously make your way downward, pulling out your phone and turning on the flashlight as you go. The bright LED light bounces around wildly on the walls and floor, and you realize for the first time how badly your hands are shaking.

After what feels like an eternity, you reach the bottom of the stairs. The smell isn't as bad—smoke tinged with an earthy, loamy scent—and you glance around at the wooden shelves that occupy the majority of the space. The ones nearest you house canned goods and other unperishables, which appear largely unharmed. Just beyond, you see several boxes of toothpaste and other toiletries.

Slowly, you weave your way through the maze of shelves, lighting the way with your phone. The back wall of the basement comes into view, and you sweep your light across its surface, scanning for something—anything that could tell you where Jungkook might be.

"{N-Name}?"

His voice is so soft, you very likely would've missed it had you not been straining your ears. Heart pounding wildly, you whirl around, and at last the flashlight falls upon Jungkook's prone form in the corner. His flannel shirt and red scarf are crumpled on the ground, leaving him in only a black t-shirt, and when you drop to your knees by his side, you find that his entire body is damp with perspiration.

"Jungkook? Jungkook, are you okay?" You dab at his sweaty forehead with your sleeve, scanning him for any injuries and finding none. "Can you stand?"

He coughs weakly but doesn't move. "Probably not, to be honest. I don't feel so good."

You glance around, and your eyes alight on a package of bottled water on a nearby shelf. Ripping one free, you put it to Jungkook's lips. "Here. Drink some."

He obeys as best he can, liquid dribbling from the corner of his mouth as he swallows. Then he coughs again and smiles weakly up at you. "A snowman probably shouldn't run headfirst into a fire, huh?"

"It was pretty idiotic," you agree, trying to make light of it. Wetting your sleeve, you wipe at his forehead again. The air down here is cooler than it had been upstairs, but the residual heat from the fire still makes it uncomfortably warm. You can feel drops of sweat beginning to prick at your temples.

"At least I found Mr. Ginger." Jungkook's voice is softer now, taking on a distant, faraway quality. "Look."

You look. Tucked beneath the flannel shirt and the scarf, you catch a glimpse of fur—alternating patches of black and white and orange. Pulling at the fabric, you find Mr. Ginger curled there, but he isn't alone. An orange cat is huddled there as well, and together, the two cats are doing all they can to shelter a motley collection of tiny kittens.

"He had to protect his family." Jungkook gestures weakly—more of a wiggle of his fingers, really—and you nod furiously, blinking back a sudden onslaught of tears.

"Come on," you tell him, tugging at his hand. "Let's finish the job. We can save this family together—get them somewhere safer than here."

Jungkook's smile fades, and a trickle of sweat runs down his neck. "I don't think I can."

"Of course you can." You tug harder, your fingers slipping against his sweat-slicked ones. "Come on, Jungkook. I'm not leaving you here. I can't leave you here. You're—" Your voice cracks. "You're the best thing that's happened to me in a long time. And I… I care. I care about you, so, so much. I can't lose you now."

But it's no use. Jungkook's hand falls slack in yours. His eyes flutter shut and his head lolls, and your vision blurs with tears. Then there are arms around you, and you struggle helplessly as they raise you up and drag you away. Vaguely, you're aware of Marco's voice in your ear, but you barely comprehend the words. "It's dangerous in here, {Name}. You really shouldn't be here."

But Jungkook—Mr. Ginger—the kittens! You can't leave them! You try to form the words, but nothing comprehensible comes out. Marco half-ushers, half-carries you out of the basement and back onto the street, depositing you in the back of an ambulance that had arrived at some point and wrapping you in a blanket. Someone presses a cup into your trembling hands, the smell of warm spiced apples wafting up to your nose.

You aren't sure how much time passes between that moment and the next. It could've been hours, or mere seconds, but slowly, you become aware of the sound of people gasping, then crying out in relief. The fog in your brain begins to dissipate, and you glance around for the reason behind the noise.

You see Marco first, exiting the wreckage of the general store with a meowing, writhing bundle. And then, from behind him, comes Jungkook.

He's carrying another writhing bundle, but that barely registers in your mind. All you see is him—his dark hair and sodden t-shirt, damp with sweat. His eyes, warm and brown, and the way his lips curve upward as he whispers something to the bundle in his arms, which you belatedly realize consists of his flannel and red scarf.

Then he looks up and meets your gaze, and you jump to your feet, the cup of hot cider tipping and sloshing onto the ground. Your feet are a little unsteady, but you still manage to reduce the distance between you in a few shaky steps. He closes it the rest of the way, and you soon find yourself gazing up at him, taking in the way the Christmas lights sparkle and dance in his eyes.

"Hi," he says.

"Hi," you whisper back. "Is… is this real? Am I dreaming?"

"No, you're wide awake," he replies. "At least, I'm pretty sure you are."

You reach out hesitantly, as if to touch his face, but pull back at the last second. "I thought… I thought you'd—"

"I know. I thought so too."

"But you aren't—?"

"Doesn't seem like it."

Jungkook grasps your hand and presses it to his chest. You feel the warmth there—normal, human warmth—and the soft, strong beat of his heart. Had he had a heartbeat before? You aren't sure, but he certainly does now.

A tiny meow interrupts the moment. A little orange head emerges from the bundle in Jungkook's arms, followed by the familiar feline face of Mr. Ginger. The cat looks disheveled, but seems to be otherwise all right. Relieved, you put a hand out for him to sniff, and he inspects it thoroughly before gently bumping your palm with his head. The orange kitten follows suit, sniffing clumsily at your thumb, and you let out a watery laugh.

"Hey, little guy. What's your name?"

"I've been calling him Cornelius," Jungkook says with a grin.

Mrr? says Cornelius, and you both laugh.

Footsteps sound from behind you, followed by a clearing throat. You turn to find Officer Waddlesworth standing there, his notebook and pen at the ready. "I knew you were trouble, young man," he says to Jungkook, wagging the pen at him. "I ought to have you arrested for trespassing—and for interfering with official fire department business. Do you know how much trouble you've caused?"

Marco, who'd been introducing the Whittakers to the rest of Mr. Ginger's family, sidles over then. "Come on, Willy, all's well that ends well. No one got hurt."

"And we have excellent insurance," Mrs. Whittaker adds. "Things will be fine. It'll just take some time to repair the building, and I'm sure dear Jungkook here will be a great asset on that front. And we'll never be using space heaters again, thank you very much."

Officer Waddlesworth looks like he wants to press the issue, but Chief Park chooses that moment to intervene. "Relax, Officer. It's Christmas Eve, after all."

"Actually, I think it's Christmas now," Marco points out, just as the church bell begins to chime. One, two, three…

"Well, then, I stand corrected," Chief Park says with a grin. "Merry Christmas, everyone."

Choruses of Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays ring out from the surrounding townspeople. Heads poke out of the neighboring buildings, having been woken up by all the commotion, and shout their own holiday greetings down. All around the town square, the lights twinkle cheerily, reflecting off the glistening white snow. All the creations from the Snowtime Spectacular stand proud, glittering in the luminescence of the lights and the silvery moon overhead. Distantly, the church bell continues to ring. Seven, eight, nine…

But you only have eyes for Jungkook, who is smiling at you like you're the only thing in the world. "Merry Christmas, Jungkook," you murmur, leaning forward to press your forehead against his.

Jungkook's smile widens as he reaches up to brush his fingertips across your cheek. "Merry Christmas, {Name}."

The church bell rings out its last—ten, eleven, twelve—and everyone bursts into cheers. And in the midst of it all, you and Jungkook share your first kiss, his lips warm against yours as fresh, fat snowflakes begin to fall.

[jkvjimin]

he is my paradise

[rapsuckas]

[defendingwarrior-deactivated202]

happy holidays ❄️

[hyyhhope]

pied piper ⟡ for @jjungkkook

cr. namuspromised

[junghelioseok]

a winter to remember.

↳ snowmen don't just come to life. right?

◇ jungkook x reader ◇ fluff | snowman!au lmao ◇ 13.7k [1/1]

notes: this is, for all intents and purposes, a rewrite of netflix's hot frosty which i watched last (yes, last) thanksgiving with my hubs. terrible movie, cannot unrecommend enough!!! i then proceeded to grind out 5k of this fic in two days, never finished it bc hello have u met me, and then picked it up again on and off throughout the rest of 2025 and now! at long last! she's here!!! is she the most ridiculous fic i've ever written? yes! is she deeply unedited? also yes!!!

(what a way to temporarily break my hiatus amirite)

happy holidays, y'all. here's to hoping for a better 2026.

warnings: death of a loved one, inexplicable christmas magic, various shenanigans. who knows, really. it's a fic about a snowman, for god's sake.

BREEP! BREEP! BREEP!

The harsh, discordant blare of your alarm jerks you from your slumber, just as it does every morning. You aren’t sure why the sound quality has deteriorated so badly over the past few weeks—one too many falls from your nightstand, or perhaps the unplanned spin in washing machine last month. Whatever the cause may have been, you’re in dire need of an upgrade.

If only money wasn’t so tight, you think, not for the first time, as you force yourself up and out of the warmth of your bed. The cold air is a shock, raising gooseflesh on your arms and legs in an instant. Shivering, you grab your cardigan from its spot on a nearby chair, flinging it on and wrapping it around yourself as tightly as possible. It’s a strategic location—you replace it there every evening. Only once it’s on can you brave the walk down the hall—past the broken thermostat with its sticky note reminder to call the repairman!—to the bathroom where you immediately turn the shower on as hot as it will go.

Things weren’t always like this, of course. Yoongi never would have let the house fall into disrepair. But cancer was a malicious and unforgiving beast, and three years ago your beloved husband had finally succumbed. You’d scattered his ashes from his favorite bench in his favorite park, overlooking the river. You’d cried and you’d mourned, until you felt as empty as his side of the bed.

And then you’d carried on, because what else could you do?

You brush your teeth as the shower finishes warming up. Warm steam fills the bathroom, fogging the mirror, and you swipe a palm across it as you slip off your cardigan. A hot shower always makes you feel more alive, and you breathe a sigh of relief as you step inside and draw the curtain shut behind you. You don’t like thinking about your late husband. You especially don’t like the feelings that thinking about him bring up, so you’re particularly grateful for the shower on this particular morning. The hot water splashing across your face mixes with any tears that manage to escape, swirling them down the drain without a trace.

The sun has just started to rise by the time you leave the house, pulling on your woolly blue mittens as you begin picking your way down the street toward the main town square. You wave at your elderly neighbor, Joyce, and laugh when Daisy, her fluffy little dog, cavorts out the front door and immediately disappears into the thick layer of snow on the ground. Across the street, Marco and his daughter, Luisa, shout their hellos.

There are certainly perks that come with living in a small town. You’d never known your neighbors’ names when you lived in the city, but now, you don’t even think twice about knocking on Joyce’s door to borrow her garden shears every spring. You regularly babysit Luisa when Marco and his wife, Blair, have their weekly date nights. She calls you auntie, and you call her a little jitterbug.

But there are cons, too. You don’t miss the lingering looks of sympathy in Marco’s and Joyce’s eyes as you pass by. You recognize those same expressions from Yoongi’s funeral, when the whole town had come out to mourn and offer you their best attempts at comfort.

Biting your lip, you turn to walk away from your neighbors and onto the main road. Before you can leave, though, Joyce calls your name. Curiously, you turn back to where she’s standing, her white hair tucked beneath a knit hat adorned with an enormous, hot pink pom-pom.

“You’re going to freeze in this weather, dear,” she says, gesturing for you to come closer. “Here.” She produces a deep red scarf seemingly out of thin air, and wraps it around your neck.

You blink dumbly. “Oh? Oh! Joyce, please, there’s no need for this. I have scarves at home; I just completely forgot to grab one today—”

She cuts you off with a raised finger, shaking her head. “Don’t break an old woman’s heart, dear. Just consider it an early Christmas present, all right?”

Sensing that she won’t take no for an answer, you concede and wrap the scarf more tightly around your neck. “Thank you, Joyce. This is very kind.”

“No need to thank me,” she replies, waving you off. “Have a lovely day, dear. Now, where did Daisy get off to?”

Joyce shuffles off in search of her dog, and you veer back onto the sidewalk and continue on toward the main road that runs through town. Seven years ago, you’d leased a ramshackle little brick building just off the square, with hopes of renovating it and turning it into your dream diner. Yoongi had been skeptical, but you’d seen its potential and managed to convince him that it was worth the investment. Today, it stands proud, with big picture windows overlooking the wooden gazebo in the center of the square and a cheery red sign out front that reads: The Milkshake Parlor.

You and Yoongi had compromised on the name. Ever the pragmatist, he’d wanted to call it The Diner. “That’s what it is, isn’t it? No fuss, no frills,” he’d said, waving a paintbrush to emphasize his point. You’d rolled your eyes and grabbed the yellow No. 2 pencil that was perpetually behind his ear, waving it at him in retaliation. “It’s boring, Yoongi. Cherry on Top is a cute name, and it lets people know we make a mean milkshake!” And so, the compromise came into being. The Milkshake Parlor—a name that was cute and pragmatic, as far as you were both concerned.

“Hey, stop it!”

“No, you stop it! You’re going to knock him over!”

The sudden shouting pulls you back to reality, and you realize with a start that you’ve come to a dead stop in the middle of the road. Tearing your gaze from The Milkshake Parlor’s sign, you turn toward the source of the commotion. Two children—a boy and a girl, both about ten or so—seem to be having a disagreement about a snowman they’re building. From what you can tell, the boy thinks that they can stack four snowballs, while the girl is drawing the limit at three and is now trying to forcibly take the fourth ball from him.

Chuckling wryly, you shake your head and head inside The Milkshake Parlor. Already, the smell of freshly baked bread is beginning to waft from the kitchen in the back, and through the window, you can just barely see the top of the chef’s head bobbing around. “Hey, Jin,” you call as the door swings shut behind you.

The chef’s head perks up, and a moment later the door to the kitchen is flung open. “Well, well, well! If it isn’t the lady of the house herself!” Jin exclaims, cutting a striking figure in the doorway with a batter-covered whisk in hand and flour streaked across his black apron. “I feel like I should bow. Or would you rather me bend the knee?”

“I literally come in every day, you weirdo,” you tell him, running a finger along his whisk before it can drip onto the floor. “Have you been rewatching Game of Thrones?

Jin frowns. “No.”

You frown back. “Then, pray tell, why are you being so cheesy?”

He sniffs. “Well, someone has to brie.”

You groan, regretting your question immediately. If you know one thing about Jin, it’s that he will take a pun and run with it, straight into the ground. “Oh, no.”

“What?” he asks innocently. “Cheer up! It’s gouda be a good day!”

“Please stop.”

“If I stop, will you feel cheddar?”

“I hate you.”

Jin slaps a hand to his chest, feigning hurt. “Oh, man, now I’m feeling bleu. C’mon, Jin, shake it off. Pretend that you don’t camembert.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Yikes, these are getting worse by the second. You should quit while you’re ahead.”

He perks up. “Are you telling me I should stop milking it?”

“Awful,” you sigh. “Absolutely terrible.”

“Agree to disa-brie,” he replies breezily. “Anyway, you don’t have time to stand here all day in awe of my charm and wit. I’ve got some breakfast for you in the back. Ham and cheese omelet—no pun intended—with a slice of my homemade sourdough. I just put the coffeepot on too, so that should be ready soon.”

You squeeze his shoulder and resist the urge to tell him that he’s already made a brie-related pun. “You’re the best. Thanks, Jinnie.”

“It’s the least I can do,” he says, brushing you off. “I like cooking, and I know you don’t eat in the mornings. You’d probably starve to death without me.”

“You’re not wrong,” you reply. Then you frown, racking your brain for the right words. “But starving to death? That would definitely be the worst queso scenario.”

It's the right thing to say. Jin beams, his entire face lighting up like the sun that has now fully risen and is streaming golden through the windows that drew you to lease this building all those years ago. “Now that’s the spirit.”

///

The Milkshake Parlor is always busiest in December. Between the holiday shoppers and families coming in to visit, you don’t have a chance to sit down until nearly four in the afternoon. The sun has already begun its descent toward the horizon, and you sigh in relief as you plop down into a booth to sign some paychecks.

Outside, the Christmas lights are beginning to turn on, transforming the town square into a twinkling wonderland. Santa’s sleigh, lit up in green and red and gold, is being pulled by two neat rows of glittering reindeer. Scattered all around are pinstriped candy cane decorations and glowing gifts tied with lit-up bows bigger than your head. In the center of it all, just outside the entrance of the gazebo, is the tree—aglow with colorful baubles and garlands of shimmery golden tinsel and silver snowflakes. All together, with the lights sparkling off the snow, it’s a mesmerizing sight.

“Has it started yet?”

You glance over at Jin, who’s sliding into the seat opposite yours with two steaming mugs of hot chocolate in hand, one of which he pushes toward you. “Doesn’t look like it,” you murmur, nodding your thanks as you accept the mug and take a careful sip. “I saw Mr. Whittaker walk by with a box of prize ribbons a few minutes ago, though.”

Jin hums. “Man, I made the craziest things during the Snowtime Spectacular as a kid. One year, I just made a giant cow. I think I was maybe nine? Another time, I made that little peeing guy in Belgium. The pissing man, or whatever it’s called.”

“What a name,” you say, laughing. “I hear it’s a lot smaller than people expect it to be, for something so famous. Have you been?”

He nods. “Yeah, once when I was fourteen. I was kind of obsessed with it afterward. Thought it was hilarious.” He pauses, then chuckles. “Still do, actually.”

“How did you make it pee?” you ask curiously.

“Gold wire,” he replies as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Stuck it right in the tip of his dick.”

You nearly spit out the sip of hot chocolate you'd just taken. “Jesus Christ.”

Jin grins and settles back into his seat, eyes sparkling. “So, what about you? Enter any snowman building contests when you were a kid?”

“Hmm.” You think about it for a moment. “Not really. It wasn’t much of a thing where I grew up. We got snow and four seasons and all that, but the winters tended to be pretty mild. If we got snow, it didn’t really stick around for very long.”

The sun has disappeared fully now, cloaking the town in the dusky blues and purples of twilight. In the square, amongst the bright lights and festive decorations, townspeople are beginning to gather. Children, mostly, but a few adults seem to be taking part in the Snowtime Spectacular as well. A few people stop in on their way to the square, and you and Jin sell them generous servings of cocoa and hot spiced cider in paper cups to take back into the cold. You glance out the window whenever you get a chance, watching as the competitors begin building their creations.

Just before five o’clock, your other employee arrives for the dinner shift. Hoseok is a childhood friend of Jin’s, and his cheery disposition and infectious smile make him a perfect server. “Hey!” he says as he walks in, pulling off his beanie and shaking out his cherry red hair. “You guys see those snowmen out there? There’s some pretty impressive ones!”

“No, we’ve been working, unlike some people.” Jin pokes his head out from the kitchen, where he’s assembling a lasagna. “But say more. Did the Patel siblings try to make Godzilla again?”

“Actually, they’ve gone for Totoro this time,” replies Hoseok. “It was turning out pretty well when I walked by. Identifiable, at least.”

Any further conversation is interrupted by the entrance of a group of four regulars—two men and two women—who stop in every two weeks to play poker over bacon cheeseburgers and milkshakes. Hoseok waves at them and grabs a bottle of water from the fridge behind the counter in preparation to greet them properly. You and Jin, meanwhile, head back into the kitchen to get their usual order started.

More townsfolk filter in as the night wears on, and as the diner fills up, you take over some tables to lessen Hoseok’s burden. Whenever you aren’t talking to customers, you stop in the back to check on Jin and help him prepare food. Yoongi had always loved cooking, and he and Jin used to work together seamlessly in the kitchen. But you haven’t had the heart to hire someone new just yet, and Jin hasn’t complained. Instead, you took on the additional workload, doing your best to help out wherever you can.

Three minutes past ten, you finally flip the sign on the door to ‘closed’ and turn off the neon sign in the window. Hoseok is clearing the last of the plates and glasses, handing them over to Jin so he can load the dishwasher. You pull the vacuum from the closet, and together, the three of you set to work cleaning up. Hoseok mops up any spills while Jin wipes down the counters, and it isn’t long before you’re finished. Jin flicks off the lights as you exit, and both men turn to watch you as you lock the front door.

“That was fun. We should do it again tomorrow,” Jin jokes. “Same time, same place?”

Hoseok chuckles. “Count me in.”

You can only shake your head, laughing. “You’re both nuts.”

And with that, you say your goodbyes. Jin heads off in the direction of his house, and Hoseok makes his way toward Whittakers' General Goods, the general store, next door. You, meanwhile, find your gaze drawn back to the main town square and the collection of snowmen and snow sculptures that have cropped up between all the lights and decor. Curiosity lures you in, and you soon find yourself walking amongst them, admiring the admittedly incredible craftsmanship of some and chuckling at some of the others. You find Totoro, lovingly crafted, and a series of blobs that you’re fairly certain are attempts at Pokémon—at least, you think you spy one that could be a Bulbasaur. Smiling, you continue winding your way through the maze of snowy creations.

You’re nearly at the edge of the square when a particularly impressive snowman brings you to a stop. Nestled between a classic snowman with a stovepipe hat and a cartoonish dog you can only assume is from Paw Patrol, is a man. A life-sized, hyperrealistic man, crafted entirely of snow—who also happens to be completely naked. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” you mutter to nobody, your breath misting in the cool air. “Who made you? Fucking Michelangelo?”

Your gaze roves over the snowman—the literal snow man—again. Michelangelo hadn’t been messing around; that was for sure. From the strong jaw, to the dip of his clavicle, to the planes of his toned chest, to the firm ridges of his abdomen—and then your cheeks flush warm when your eyes drop lower. At least the creator had stuck a leaf between their creation’s legs to preserve some modesty.

Now feeling very much like a pervert, you take a step back and make to walk away. Something stops you in your tracks, though, and you find yourself turning back around to look into the snowman’s blank, white eyes. “You must be freezing,” you murmur, taking in the smooth, white rounds of his cheeks and the chiseled angle of his jaw. And then, driven on by some force that surely must be madness, you unwrap the scarf from your neck and wind it around his instead.

“All right,” you murmur once the deed is done. “That’s that, and I’m officially a nutjob. A headcase. A big, fucking weirdo who’s talking to a snowman. Coolcoolcool. That’s fine. There’s your good deed for the year, {Name}, you fucking idiot.” You glance up at the snowman once more and take a deep breath. “Okay. I’m gonna leave now. Bye.”

You aren’t sure why you felt the need to bid the snowman goodbye. Shaking your head, you tramp off, forgoing the road entirely. Instead, you make your way across the town square, your footsteps sinking deep into the snow.

Talking to a snowman, you think as you walk away. Good god. I need a fucking drink.

///

A loud bang jerks you awake the next morning. Your eyes fly open, your brain racing to catch up as you glance around for the source of the noise. The bedroom looks undisturbed, and you shiver as you climb out from beneath the covers and seize your cardigan from the chair.

It takes you a moment to realize that the sound is someone knocking on your front door. The thought drags you into motion—flinging on your cardigan and treading downstairs to figure out who dared disturb your precious sleep at the ungodly hour of half past four.

“What on earth could be so impor—” you start, flinging open the door only to stop dead in your tracks. Standing on your doorstep is a man. A naked man. Or at least, mostly naked—if you discount the scarf that flaps around his thighs and conveniently obscures his—

You tear your gaze from its downward trajectory and refocus on the man’s face. “What the fuck?! Where are your clothes?”

The man blinks, as if the thought of wearing clothing had never even occurred to him. “I don’t have any. This is all I have.” And he gestures to the scarf around his neck, which, upon closer inspection, is the exact one that Joyce had gifted you yesterday—and that you had subsequently gifted to a snowman in a moment of pure lunacy.

“I—” You don’t know what to say. “Why are you here? Who even are you? Aren’t you cold?” You pause, then gesture wildly at the deep red scarf that is coming dangerously close to revealing things. “Jesus. Where did you get that, anyway?”

“Hmm.” The man hums thoughtfully, brushing a wavy lock of dark hair from his forehead. “That’s a lot of questions, so I guess I’ll just answer them in order. I’m here because I followed your footsteps in the snow. That took some time, since they got kind of muddled with others. But I figured it out.” He pauses, as if expecting you to congratulate him. Instead, you offer him a dumbfounded look, which he takes in stride with a bemused smile and presses on. “As to who I am, well, my name’s Jungkook. I’m a snowman. So, no, I’m not cold. I don’t think it’s possible for me to even get cold. Thank you for the scarf, though. I meant to thank you earlier, but you left awfully fast and I wasn’t really… well, I couldn’t really walk yet. But now I’m here, and you’re here, and I just…” He smiles at you again, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Thank you. Truly. I’m so happy we met.”

He’s insane. He must be. “You’re out of your goddamn mind,” you tell him, and when you receive only another bemused smile and a little head tilt in return, you sigh. “Seriously, man. Jungle, or whatever your name is. I don’t know if this is some weird prank, or what, but it’s way too early for this shit. Just go home. And put on some clothes, for crying out loud. You’re going to get frostbite.”

The man blinks. “Home? I don’t…” he trails off. “I don’t think I have one. A home, I mean. I guess the town square would be the closest thing, so…” He nods. “Yeah. Okay, I’ll go back there. I'm… I’m really sorry to have bothered you.”

“Wait.” You’re clearly the one who’s insane now. But for some reason, the sight of his forlorn face as he turns to walk away pierces straight through your sternum to your heart. “Hang on a sec. You don’t… you don’t know where to go? You don’t have anywhere to go?”

Jungle(?) shrugs. “Not really. I’m a snowman.”

You opt to ignore this asinine claim and size him up instead. Objectively, he’s handsome. He has a jawline that could cut glass and a body that any Greek god would envy, and his dark hair falls in perfect waves that frame his forehead. His face, though, is at complete odds with the rest of him. Something about his easy smile and wide brown eyes instinctively makes you want to trust him. You can’t see any traces of deception hiding in his expression—only soft vulnerability and confused inquisitiveness. And so, you come to a decision.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” you mutter. Then you step aside, pulling the front door wide open. “Do you want to come in?”

The man on your doorstep blinks once, twice, and a third time. And then his face splits open into a wide grin, one that lights him up like the sun breaking through a wall of clouds. “That would be… wow. Yes, I’d love to come in. Wow. Thank you!”

You aren’t sure what to make of his enthusiasm, but you allow him to step past the threshold nonetheless. You watch as he looks around in amazement, taking in each piece of furniture in your living room and each bit of art hanging on the walls.

“It’s so pretty in here,” he marvels, spinning around in a full circle. “Is this all yours?”

Were you a paranoid person, and were he anyone else, you probably would’ve interpreted this question as a way to gauge whether you lived alone—and thus, whether you were an easy target. But coming from him, you have no doubt that it’s innocent. Just simple, honest curiosity. Still, that doesn’t mean your heart doesn’t splinter a little as you think of your late husband.

“It is now,” you say quietly. And if your companion senses anything amiss or hears the way your voice cracks a little bit, he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he glances toward the kitchen, where the coffee maker is just starting to wake up, gurgling softly before beginning to brew a fresh pot.

“What’s that?”

You pull a blanket from the back of the couch and toss it at him before heading into the kitchen. “It’s coffee. And you should really cover yourself up.” You gesture vaguely at his body, then quickly avert your gaze and busy yourself with fishing two clean mugs out of the cabinet. “Do you want any?”

“I’ll try some,” he says, wrapping the blanket around his waist. “I’ve never had coffee before.”

Weird, but not unheard of, you think to yourself as you pour him a mug. “Milk or sugar? It’s going to be a little bitter otherwise.”

He nods. “Sugar then, please.”

You plop a spoonful of sugar into the mug, giving it a stir before handing it over. He accepts the coffee with a grateful smile, and gives it a curious sniff. Instantly, he recoils, his eyes screwing shut.

“Oh! That’s hot!”

You blink. “Well, yeah, it’s fresh. You can blow on it to cool it down.”

He shakes his head and places the mug back onto the counter. “I’m sorry. I’m not really a fan of hot things.”

“Don’t worry about it,” you tell him, waving off his apology. “Here, let me pour it over ice. You can try it then.”

You watch him out of the corner of your eye as you pad across the kitchen to the refrigerator. He’s watching you raptly, with an expression caught somewhere between awe and gratitude, and you can’t help but shiver at the intensity. You focus instead on the task at hand—scooping ice cubes into a glass and carefully pouring the hot coffee over top.

“Here,” you say when you’re done, handing the cup over.

He sniffs it again, cocks his head, and then takes a long sip. “Oh, wow." Another sip. "Mm. That’s good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He nods. “Really good. Thank you, {Name}.”

It takes you a moment to remember how he knows your name. There’s your good deed for the year, {Name}, you fucking idiot. It seems like an eternity ago that you were talking to a snowman—a snowman that, upon some reflection, does bear a striking resemblance to the flesh-and-blood man standing in your kitchen now. Are you saying you believe that he's a snowman? a little voice in your head asks. You tell it to shut up and go away in no uncertain terms, and mercifully, it does.

Then you remember that you aren’t sure what his name is, even though you know he definitely introduced himself while you were dazed and half-asleep and furious at being woken up so early. It’s definitely not Jungle, you think, but it’s the only thing buzzing around in your head. It must be close, though. John? Jackson? Geronimo?

“I don’t know your name,” you blurt. “I mean, I know you said it. But it was so early, and I was so tired, and now I don’t remember what you said, and… I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

Your companion laughs. “No need to apologize. The name’s Jungkook.”

“Jungkook.” You repeat it a few times, committing it to memory. “Right. Got it. I won’t forget again, I swear.”

Jungkook just laughs again. “Really, it’s not a big deal. You’re right, anyhow. It was early. I don’t know how I didn’t realize that.”

You shake your head. “It’s fine.”

“Still.” He peers at you from behind a dark curtain of bangs. “I’m sorry.”

You fight back the sudden warmth that threatens to rush to your cheeks at his sincerity. “Seriously, don’t worry about it. Everything’s fine.”

///

Everything is, in fact, not fine. As it turns out, it’s incredibly hard to focus on the diner when there’s a man claiming to be a snowman in your home, doing god only knows what. The worry must show on your face too, because Jin pulls you aside at half past ten, his eyebrows raised quizzically. “You’re being weird. Why are you being weird?”

You frown. “Is it that obvious?”

He nods. “Like a bullet to the head.”

“I’m not sure you’re using that expression right,” you tell him. “But… yeah. You’re right. I… had a weird morning.”

“Well, consider me intrigued,” Jin says, plopping into the nearest booth and propping his chin in his palm. “Sit,” he orders, gesturing to the seat opposite. “Expound.”

“I don’t even know where to begin.”

“Try the beginning,” he says helpfully. “You woke up this morning. Then what?”

You hesitate. “Huh. I guess this whole thing actually started last night.”

“Juicy. Say more.”

You look across the table at Jin. He stares back, unblinking, a single brow raised as if to say, well?

Sucking in a deep breath, you hold it for a moment before exhaling it in an audible huff. “I have a houseguest.”

Jin cocks his head. “Really? Is that it?”

“He thinks he’s a snowman.”

Silence. Then: “Come again?”

You throw your hands up, exasperated. “Right? That’s what I said. I mean, not exactly in those words, but it’s a crazy thing to claim, right? Not that I think he’s crazy. But maybe he is, and now there’s a crazy man in my house doing… I don’t know. Destroying the place, or setting it on fire, or… stealing my gold?”

“You don’t have any gold,” Jin points out.

“Well, sure. I’m not Smaug, or a goddamn fucking leprechaun, but the point stands. He could still be trying to steal my laptop or my grandmother’s antique candelabras or something.”

Jin chuckles and mutters candelabras under his breath before sobering up again. “Right. Yeah. That would be bad. Let’s go pay him a visit.”

“Wait, what?” You blink. “Are you serious?”

“As a bullet to the head,” he replies, rising to his feet decisively and flipping the open sign on the door to closed. “Lock up behind us, won’t you?”

///

For the first time in a long while, you are at a complete loss for words. Jin had let himself into your house with his copy of the key before you even had a chance to fish yours from your purse, and you’d wordlessly followed as he strolled into your living room and made himself comfortable in one of the wingback armchairs flanking the front window. Jungkook, who’d been watching some show on television, had blinked in surprise. Jin stared. Jungkook stared back. And now, you’re not sure whether there’s a thing you can do about the silent standoff occurring over your glass-top coffee table.

At least, you think to yourself, I found a hoodie and sweats for him to wear. This would be so much more awkward if he were still naked.

Jungkook breaks the silence first, tugging you from your thoughts. “Um. Hi.”

Jin narrows his eyes. “Let’s skip the small talk. {Name} here says you’re a snowman. What’s the deal with that?”

Jungkook blinks once, and then twice more. “I’m not sure what you mean?”

“You. Snowman.” Jin says the words slowly, as if talking to a small child who hasn’t yet learned how to speak in complete sentences. “A prank, obviously. But why?”

Silence. It stretches on, taut and tense, before you break it by clearing your throat awkwardly. “Jin, be nice,” you chide.

“No, it’s okay.” Jungkook is frowning, but he’s nodding absentmindedly, as if to agree with what Jin has said. “I mean, this isn’t a prank, and I’m not trying to play a joke on anyone. But… I guess I can understand how strange this all must be for you.”

“That’s an understatement if I’ve ever heard one,” Jin mutters under his breath, but you ignore him. Sitting cautiously on the couch beside Jungkook, you turn to address him directly.

“What exactly do you mean when you say you’re a snowman?” you ask. “How… long have you been a snowman?”

Jungkook scrunches his nose, and your brain instantly decides to create a new neural pathway that links Jungkook, alleged snowman, with the image of Thumper, adorable bunny rabbit from Bambi. A very clear picture of him with fuzzy ears and a cotton tail develops in your head, and you have to resist the urge to leave the room for the sake of your sanity. Instead you bite your bottom lip, hard, and focus your gaze on the spot just beyond Jungkook’s left ear where your grandmother’s antique candelabras sit on the mantel.

“It’s… kind of hard to explain. I don’t even really have any memories before yesterday. I just remember… snow. Lots and lots of white snow. And then you were there.”

Jin snorts. You glare at him. Jungkook watches this exchange, his brows furrowed, and then hesitantly continues on.

“It felt like I was waking up from a long sleep. I don’t really know how else to describe it, but all of a sudden I was awake. I could walk, and speak, and I just knew I had to find you again.”

“Let’s say you’re telling the truth,” Jin cuts in. “What’s your end goal? Are you trying to seduce {Name} for her money?”

It’s your turn to snort. “Money? What money? Have you seen the state of things around here?” You gesture at the fireplace, where a sticky note solemnly reminds you to call a chimney sweep. Another one on the wall recommends a floorboard replacement soon. A third, stuck on the doorframe leading to the kitchen, simply says: find a plumber maybe??

Jin follows the trajectory of your hand waving with an unimpressed frown. “Wait, you still haven’t called a plumber?”

Your mind drags up a memory of your late husband, coming in from the garage armed with his trusty red toolbox. He’s wearing paint-stained overalls paired with a crooked grin, and you remember plopping down on the cold tile floor beside him with two glasses of lemonade as he wriggled beneath the kitchen sink to begin performing what you could only assume was witchcraft. Three minutes later, he’d reemerged, triumphant. He’d downed the lemonade in three gulps, and when you kissed him afterward, you'd tasted the sweet tang of citrus intermingled with a flavor that was uniquely him. Your Yoongi. Your Yoongi, dead and burned to ash and—

You gasp, wrenching yourself out of the memory. Your chest feels somehow both too tight and too big, threatening to overwhelm you like a tidal wave. Your heartbeat thunders in your ears, racing at a full gallop. When you glance down at your lap, you find that your hands are clasped there, trembling.

“Shit.” Jin’s voice breaks through the drumming of your heart. “Shit, {Name}, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—I mean, I don’t—” He falters. “I mean, are you okay?”

You shake your head, then catch yourself and nod quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Fuck, sorry. I just—”

“Don’t you dare apologize,” Jin says, standing up and crossing the room in three strides to take your hands in his. “Never apologize to me for feeling the way you do, got it?”

“Got it,” you say weakly. “Thanks, Jinnie.”

He squeezes your hands one more time before returning to his seat. Jungkook, who has been watching this exchange with rapt interest, raises one hand tentatively. “I, uh, didn’t want to interrupt,” he pipes when you and Jin look at him. “And I’m glad you’re okay, {Name}.” His gaze settles on you for a long moment, his eyes dark and searching. You brace yourself for the questions that are sure to come—questions that you aren’t ready to answer now and possibly not ever—but he breezes on as if nothing happened. “Anyway, I think I can probably fix whatever’s wrong in the kitchen, if that’s an issue.”

“Huh?” Jin says.

“Wait, what?” you say at the same time.

Jungkook gestures at the TV, and for the first time, you take in the channel that’s playing. It’s some kind of home improvement show, and you watch as two men who bear striking resemblances to Mario and Luigi explain how to grease an O-ring. “I already poked around the sink a little bit. I hope you don’t mind. I looked in the chimney too, but I haven’t seen an episode on those yet. Maybe there’ll be one later. Then I think I can probably do something about that, too.”

“Do you…” You pause. “Hang on. Are you saying that you can learn how to fix things? Just by watching someone do it?”

A deep furrow etches itself between Jungkook’s brows, then disappears as he nods. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure I can. Do you have tools?”

You think of Yoongi’s red toolbox and force back the memories trying to spill over. “Yeah, I do.”

“Great.” Jungkook beams, and it’s as bright as sunlight on freshly fallen snow. “Can you show me where?”

///

“I can’t believe you brought him here.”

It’s the next day, and you and Jin are seated at a small table in the corner of The Milkshake Parlor's kitchen, staring at Jungkook’s backside as he maneuvers himself carefully into the space between the oven and the wall. You’d fished out some of Yoongi’s old clothes last night, as much as it’d pained you to go down into the basement to parse through all those boxes, and Jungkook is now decked out in ripped jeans and a dark green flannel, the ends of the red scarf you'd given him tossed over his shoulder as he works.

"He offered to help," you say, shrugging. "And I'm not exactly in a position to turn that down. Besides, he's staying with me for the time being, until we figure out—" you lower your voice "—the whole snowman thing."

Jin sighs and props his chin in his palm. "I guess he did do a good job with the leaky faucet yesterday," he concedes.

"He insulated all the windows too," you add. "After you left. I'd been meaning to do it for a while now, and when I mentioned it, he just took it into his own hands."

Jin tilts his head and stares even more intently, if possible, at Jungkook's denim-clad posterior. "He's acting awfully nice."

You frown. "You think it's an act?"

"I have no idea," he admits. "I like to think I'm a pretty good judge of character, and I don't get any bad vibes from him. But this whole thing is insane, and some people are great actors. Can you ever truly know who someone is?"

You glance back at Jungkook—who's now fiddling with the stovetop knobs—and another memory of Yoongi surfaces, this time of him standing over the stove and carefully stirring a pan of your favorite risotto. "I did, once upon a time," you murmur.

Jin understands. Gently, he reaches across the table to take your hand. He squeezes, and you squeeze back, and for now, it's enough.

///

Hazy morning clouds give way to a sun-drenched afternoon. Jungkook finishes his work in the kitchen, leaving behind a cooktop that once again heats evenly, and Jin immediately puts it to the test by whipping up a batch of pancakes.

It's proving to be a slow day in the diner, which you're thankful for. One of your regulars—a grizzled, graying man named Horacio who always keeps peppermints in his coat pocket—sits at the counter with a mug of hot tea. In a corner booth, two teens on winter break giggle over strawberry milkshakes.

Jungkook sits across from you in your favorite booth, his gaze riveted on the creations from this year's Snowtime Spectacular. It had snowed overnight, dusting everything in a fresh coat of powdery white, and some of the sculptures are a little less recognizable than before. Nonetheless, you can still identify a few standouts.

"Do you know who won?"

With a start, you realize Jungkook is staring at you now. It takes your brain another moment to register the question, and you chuckle ruefully as you try to remember the prize results. "The Patel siblings won first place, I think. They made the giant snow Totoro over there." You point. "Second place went to the medieval castle by the old sycamore tree. And third was a tie between the family of polar bears and the classic Frosty the Snowman."

Jungkook nods, eyeing each creation with a critical eye as you point them out. "They're really impressive. It's a shame everyone couldn't get a prize."

"If it helps, everyone got free hot chocolate afterward for their participation," you tell him with a laugh.

He grins, eyes crinkling at the corners. "It does, actually."

Jin chooses that moment to interrupt, plopping three mugs onto the table with a thunk. He follows this with a stack of pancakes piled so high on the plate that it wobbles quite dangerously when he sets it down. "Speaking of hot chocolate," he says, gesturing at the mugs. "You guys must be starving. I know I am, so let's dig in."

You scoot over to give Jin room in the booth while Jungkook thanks him fervently for the food. The next few minutes are quiet, filled only by the sounds of chewing and clinking utensils. Then, out of the corner of your eye, you notice that Jungkook is eyeing his mug of hot chocolate with apprehension. A whorl of steam wafts up from it, and he flinches back just a tiny bit. You nearly would've missed it, had you not been watching so carefully.

Wordlessly, you pick up your own mug and blow on the liquid within. Jungkook, seeing you do this, follows suit. Once you deem the hot chocolate cool enough, you take a small sip, and he does the same. Immediately, his eyes widen—and for a moment, you aren't sure if he's burned his tongue or not. Then a look of delight settles across his features. He takes another, larger sip, and you can't help but smile at his enthusiasm.

Just as you're about to grab your fork and go in for some more pancake, the bell over the door chimes. Jin rises to greet the guest, and you turn in your seat, ready to jump in should he need any help. You recognize the newcomer as Willy Waddlesworth—one of three police officers who work at the station a few streets away. The police chief, Jimin, is a good friend of Hoseok's if you recall correctly.

"Officer," Jin says, offering the portly, red-faced man a hand to shake. "I didn't expect to see you in here today. You having the usual?"

Officer Waddlesworth shakes his head. "Here on business, actually." He looks around the diner slowly, scanning people's faces. He offers you a polite nod of acknowledgment—and then his eyes alight on Jungkook and narrow. "Ma'am, are you aware that this man is a wanted criminal?"

You feel your eyes go wide. "Wait, what?" Across the table, Jungkook is too engrossed in his pancakes to notice the conversation happening about him.

Officer Waddlesworth nods. "I'm afraid so. Mr. and Mrs. Whittaker reported him for…" he pulls a notepad from his jacket pocket and flips it open dramatically, "…disturbing the peace and public indecency. I'm going to have to take him down to the station."

Jin frowns. "That doesn't sound like something the Whittakers would do."

"Are you questioning an officer of the law?" Officer Waddlesworth bristles, and you are suddenly reminded of a very small, angry hedgehog.

"Not at all," you say, rising to your feet to placate him. "But I do think I'd like to hear their side of the story. They usually drop by for lunch around now, why don't we ask them when they come in?"

Officer Waddlesworth doesn't seem pleased by this suggestion in the slightest, but the bell over the door jingles merrily before he can open his mouth. "Perfect timing," Jin murmurs to you out of the corner of his mouth, before turning to greet the new customers wiping their feet free of slush on the cherry-shaped welcome mat. "Mr. Whittaker, good afternoon! I have a sausage hash with your name on it. Mrs. Whittaker, you're looking lovely as usual. Will it be French toast or waffles today?"

Mrs. Whittaker, a kind-faced woman with silvery gray curls, beams at him. "Waffles for me today, darling. Maybe some extra syrup, if you're feeling generous."

"For you? Always." Jin bows deeply, drawing laughs from the Whittakers, and nods at you and Officer Waddlesworth before heading back into the kitchen. You notice he stays within earshot, though—his head visible through the window as he begins preparing the orders.

Officer Waddlesworth clears his throat. "Mr. Whittaker, Mrs. Whittaker—thank you for coming." He gestures at the booth, where Jungkook is sipping on his hot chocolate happily, a teeny dollop of whipped cream on his nose. "If I could have you think back to the incident you reported a couple days ago… is this the man you saw that night?"

Mr. Whittaker squints and adjusts his glasses. "Hmm, yes, that looks like him. Mighty glad he's finally managed to locate his clothes. It's been awful cold out this week."

"Is he a friend of yours, {Name}?" Mrs. Whittaker asks, mischief dancing in her eyes. "Introduce us!"

You blanch. "Ah. Um. Right, this is…"

Jungkook finally notices the attention on him and picks up his napkin to wipe his mouth. He thankfully gets the whipped cream on his nose as well, and you have to resist the urge to sigh in relief. "Hello," he says brightly, rising to his feet and extending a hand to Mrs. Whittaker. "I'm Jungkook."

Mrs. Whittaker lets out a sound that you can only describe as a giggle. "Oh, aren't you sweet. I'm Clara Whittaker, and this here is my husband, Joe."

Mr. Whittaker steps forward to give his hand a firm shake. "Pleased to meet you, son."

Officer Waddlesworth's face turns redder and redder as he watches this exchange play out in front of him. Sensing that he's quickly losing control of the situation—that is, if he ever had it in the first place—he clears his throat in what he deems is an authoritative way. "Ahem. Right. Now, if we could get back to the matter at hand?" He turns to Jungkook, who simply blinks curiously at him. "Sir, do you admit to the charges of—" he consults his notebook again, "—disturbing the peace and public indecency?"

Jungkook blinks. "Public what?"

Frantically, you wave your hands, as if that will dispel this entire situation. "I don't thi—"

Jin chooses that moment to interrupt, calling out through the kitchen window over the sound of sizzling onions. "C'mon, Officer, it was just a bit of hazing. Jungkook's new in town, and the winters here are no joke. I mean, why am I telling you that? You know that better than all of us combined, braving the cold year after year to patrol town and keep us safe." His expression melts into faux admiration, and you very nearly snort out a laugh. Jin notices this, shoots you a surreptitious glare, then pauses to give his onions a stir before continuing on shamelessly. "So, I gave him a little challenge. Wanted to see if he could hack it here in the long term."

Officer Waddlesworth puffs up with pride like a chickadee on a cold day. He takes a while to formulate a response to Jin's monologue, and before he can open his mouth to speak, Mr. Whittaker steps in, clapping the policeman on the back. "Come on, Willy! No harm, no foul, eh?"

"No harm, no foul," Jin echoes from the kitchen. "Exactly."

Officer Waddlesworth sets his mouth into a firm line and deflates slightly. "I'm not so sure that there was no harm done. There may have been children about. Who knows how many may have seen this man's…" He trails off and gestures uncomfortably in Jungkook's general direction. "And besides, it's indecent, what he did! An affront to the senses, and Mrs. Whittaker's delicate sensibilities, and the innocent children of this town, and—" He stops and nods firmly, and you jump a bit when he suddenly stamps his foot against the wooden floor. "Just improper behavior, all around."

Mrs. Whittaker chimes in, her voice soothing. "Officer, this all happened well after midnight. I doubt any children were even awake to bear witness. And don't you worry about my sensibilities, delicate or otherwise. I've taken my fair share of turns around the sun, you know. This young man's hardly the first one I've seen in the nude."

Through the kitchen window, you see Jin pull a disgusted face and have to resist the urge to laugh again. Jungkook still looks hopelessly confused, his brows furrowed. Officer Waddlesworth, meanwhile, has puffed up again—this time with something more akin to embarrassment than pride.

"I'll be keeping my eye on you, young man," he says at last, wagging a finger at Jungkook. Then he turns back to where you're standing with the Whittakers, begrudgingly tipping his hat in farewell. "Ladies. Gentleman." You watch as he spins on his heel and heads for the door, nodding at Jin on his way out. The door swings shut behind him, the bell jangling gently in the silence that falls.

"Phew!" Mrs. Whittaker breaks the silence first. "That sure was something."

Jungkook glances between her and you. "Am I in trouble?"

"Not at all, dear." Mrs. Whittaker pats his shoulder. "Willy's a bit of a hardhead, but his heart's in the right place. He's lived in this town his whole life. I don't think there's anything he wouldn't do to protect it."

Jin pokes his head out from the kitchen. "He's got good timing too. Food's all done, Mr. and Mrs. Whittaker—did you want to eat here or take it to-go?"

Mr. Whittaker sighs and tugs his scarf a little tighter around his neck. "Unfortunately, we've got to get back to the store. Radiator's acting up again, and I can't get Ralph to come out until after Christmas to fix it. We've been using space heaters to heat the place, and I don't want to leave them unattended for too long."

At this, Jungkook perks up. "Could I come by and take a look? I don't know if I'll be able to fix it, but I can certainly try a few things."

Mrs. Whittaker beams at him. "Darling, be our guest."

///

When you wake up the next morning, you find Jungkook sitting on the couch with a blanket tucked around his lap, engrossed in a man on TV with a thick Boston accent explaining how to install shingles on a roof. You watch him silently from the doorway for a while, noting the way his head tilts and his face scrunches when he doesn't understand something.

It's strange, seeing a man in your living room, sitting on your couch like he lives there. You haven't had many guests since your husband passed—and you certainly haven't had any men over besides Jin, Hoseok, and the occasional neighbor. You haven't even thought about dating again—the very idea made your head hurt and your heart ache.

Still, you can't deny that Jungkook is handsome. He's kind, too—and even though all signs point to him either being an amnesiac or a patient at a mental institution, you can't help but want to trust him. It doesn't help that he's wearing a set of pajamas that you'd gifted Yoongi years ago—a purple and green plaid monstrosity that was soft as plush and absolutely hideous, and that your husband had a strong love-hate relationship with as a result. Babe, I look like a deranged Barney the Dinosaur. Your heart twinges at the memory.

A knock at the door startles you out of your reverie. Mondays are the one day that the diner is closed, and it wouldn't be the first time that Jin or Hoseok have stopped by your house out of boredom. Fully expecting it to be one of the two men, you swing the door open only to be greeted by your next-door neighbor's smiling face instead.

"Joyce?" You blink in surprise, then remember your manners. "Please, come on in! It's freezing out here."

The elderly woman laughs and taps the hot pink pom-pom on her hat. "Luckily, I'm prepared." Nonetheless, she steps past you into the foyer, where she wipes her boots off on the mat and starts unraveling her scarf.

"Can I offer you anything?" you ask, handing her a coat hanger so she can hang up her winter gear. "I've got coffee, tea, and I think there's still some orange juice in the fridge."

"You're very kind," Joyce says, patting your arm. "Some tea would be lovely, thank you."

You nod and head toward the kitchen while she hangs up her coat. A few moments later, you hear her pad into the living room, followed by:

"Oh! This must be Jungkook!"

You poke your head around the doorframe, astonished at how quickly you'd forgotten about your houseguest in the presence of company. Your mouth opens, ready to explain the situation, but Jungkook beats you to it.

"Good morning," the dark-haired man says cheerfully, standing up and offering Joyce a hand. "Who do I have the pleasure of addressing?"

"Joyce," your neighbor replies with a smile. Clara Whittaker told me all about you. Said you were such a dear to take a look at their old radiator yesterday."

Jungkook shakes his head. "It was nothing, really. I tried a few things, but ultimately, I wasn't able to fix it."

Joyce nods. "She mentioned that they're going to order a replacement, and that you're going to help them put it in when it gets here. That's why I stopped by today, actually. I've been having some trouble with my water heater, and I was hoping you'd be willing to take a look. I'll pay you, of course, for your time."

Jungkook blinks, as if the very concept of being paid is new to him. "Pay me?"

Joyce doesn't miss a beat. "Money, in exchange for goods or services provided."

"Right." Jungkook pauses, then inclines his head. "When did you want me to come over?"

///

From there, the word spreads like wildfire. Jungkook finds himself as busy as you are at The Milkshake Parlor, if not busier. When he isn't fixing someone's plumbing or repairing a roof, he's at the diner with you—lending a helping hand wherever it's needed. He shadows Jin in the kitchen, learning how to mise en place, and trots after Hoseok to bring plates to tables.

It's been nearly two weeks since Jungkook first showed up on your doorstep, and Christmas is rapidly approaching. But despite the impending holidays and the townspeople's jolly cheer, your mood steadily dampens. You think of Yoongi, and how much he'd loved Christmas. You think of decorating the tree with him each year, belting out the wrong lyrics to holiday classics and getting tipsy on cocoa and eggnog. And then you think of the last three Christmases you spent alone, or going through the motions with Jin and his family.

Mr. Pendergrass from the plant nursery had delivered your tree yesterday afternoon, just as he has during each of the eight years you've lived in this town. You'd thought about lugging the lights and ornaments up from the basement that evening, but you'd stopped at the top of the stairs and turned right back around again. It hadn't felt right these past three years to decorate without your husband, so why start now? Jungkook hadn't even been around to keep you company—he was off shoveling snow for what seemed to be the entire neighborhood—so you'd simply poured yourself a generous serving of wine and wallowed in the silence of your empty home. You'd gone to bed early, and heard Jungkook come back just as you were turning off the lamp on your nightstand.

Today, the thought of decorating the tree taunts you as you drink your morning coffee and get ready for work. It torments you as you walk to The Milkshake Parlor and start prepping the kitchen for service. The decorations Hoseok had put up a few nights ago don't help either—verdant garlands draped with holly berries, sparkly tinsel, colorful bits and baubles, and hand-cut snowflakes seemingly in every window and on every surface.

The hours drag by at a snail's pace. Finally, there is a break in your work, and you can justify taking a break for lunch. Jin has a BLT ready for you, and you smile wanly at him as you accept it and pop it into a takeout box. "Going for a little walk," you tell him, and he doesn't pry. You prepare yourself a thermos of hot chocolate and, at the last second, pour in a glug of whiskey. Then you shrug on your coat, exiting the diner and taking a left. From the front window of Whittakers' General Goods, Mr. Ginger—their shop cat—blinks slowly at you.

Automatically, you crouch down by the window and blink back. "Hi, Mr. Ginger. How's it going?"

Despite his name, the Whittakers' cat sports a tuxedo pattern instead of an orange one. Back when you and Yoongi had first opened the The Milkshake Parlor next to the general store, Mrs. Whittaker had explained that his startlingly bright amber eyes were the actual reason behind the name. Yoongi had always had a natural affinity with cats, and befriended Mr. Ginger almost immediately—no doubt in large part to the treats that he snuck the cat at every opportunity. By association, and over time, Mr. Ginger had grown to like you, too.

After a brief, one-sided conversation with the feline, you straighten back up and continue on your way. You aren't sure that you had a destination in mind when you started out, but your feet trace out the path to the park and you don't try to stop them.

You find the wrought-iron gate ajar when you arrive, stuck in place by a combination of fresh snow and snowmelt that has thawed and frozen solid again. Beyond that stretches the familiar cobblestone path, which has clearly been shoveled in the last couple of days. Only about an inch of snow covers the stones, the icy surface crisscrossed with footprints and the occasional tuft of dead grass.

It was summertime when you were last here—June, to be exact. The grass had been green and the wildflowers had been in full bloom, dotting the hillside in colorful brushstrokes. From the trees, hidden by the foliage, birds had twittered their songs. And you'd sat on one of several wooden benches at the bottom of the hill, gazing out over the river and thinking about how you'd scattered your husband's ashes from that very spot three years back.

The anniversary of Yoongi's passing was always hard, but in some ways, the holidays were even harder. Something about the merriment and the inescapable festivities and the imminent arrival of the new year exacerbated the hurt, making your pain all the greater. Some days are easier than others, and some days you feel like your entire world is crumbling into dust that would bury you under its weight.

Today is one of those days. Today, you feel like you are suffocating—your lungs tight and your body restless, desperately trying to save itself from the all-encompassing despair that threatens to engulf you whole. Breathing in deeply, you tighten your grip on your sandwich and thermos and clamber down the hill to where the bench waits. A thin layer of snow covers its surface, and you dust it off as best you can before taking a seat. Setting your lunch down, you lean back and take another long breath, exhaling it in a whorl of white mist. You take in the view—the skeletal black trees glistening with an icy coat against the periwinkle sky, the glisten of undisturbed snow leading down to the water, the frozen edges of the river stretching cold tendrils over the lazy, blue-green current. A slight chill takes root in your fingertips, and you ward it off by unscrewing your thermos and taking a sip. Hot chocolate and whiskey burn a welcome trail down your throat. Warmth seeps into your belly, and you immediately take another drink.

You're just about to unpack your sandwich when, from behind, you hear the sound of snow crunching underfoot. Instinctively, you glance around, and stop dead when you see Jungkook standing there. He's wearing a new set of clothes bought from Whittakers'—black jeans tucked into tan Timberlands and a thick-knit gray sweater, topped off with what has become his signature red scarf—and for that, you're grateful. You aren't sure you could've stomached seeing him in Yoongi's old things right now. Your heart lurches at the thought, and you quickly take another sip of the spiked hot chocolate, relishing in the sweet, searing rush.

"Hey." Jungkook waves rather awkwardly and takes another step forward before seeming to rethink it and stopping again. "Sorry. I didn't—I mean, I don't mean to disturb you if you want to be alone, or anything. It's just that I saw you walking on my way back to the diner, and I saw this fall out of your pocket." He holds up a woolly, slightly lopsided blue mitten, now dusted lightly with snow. "I guess I probably could've just brought it home, but I didn't know if you'd want it now. Mr. Whittaker mentioned that it's probably going to snow later and that temperatures were going to drop, and I didn't want you to be cold or anything. But… but I can bring it back to the house, or to the diner if you want. I didn't mean to follow you like some kind of weirdo."

He trails off, his expression sheepish and his cheeks tinged with pink. Your heart does another funny, lurching flip in your chest, and you swallow thickly before mustering up your voice. "It's okay, Jungkook. Thank you." You pause, then pat the empty bit of bench beside you. "Do you want to sit?"

Jungkook blinks in surprise, but approaches regardless. "Sure. Thanks." He hands you the wayward mitten as he takes a seat, and you run the pad of your thumb over the soft knit before tucking it safely into your coat pocket with its twin.

Silence descends over you then—one that neither of you are particularly eager to break. Still, you do so first, your voice a murmur that nearly gets lost in the gentle rush of the river. "My late husband gave me these, you know." You pat the pocket with the blue mittens inside. "We'd been dating for nearly a year, and it was our first Christmas together. He'd just taken up knitting as a form of stress relief, and these were one of the first things he made."

Jungkook's eyes widen. You can tell that his brain is whirring, struggling to come up with the right words, and wave him off before the discomfort can compound.

"It's fine—you don't have to say anything. I've heard it all, really. So many people have apologized, or offered their condolences, or tried to comfort me over these past few years." You shrug. "It doesn't change anything. Never does."

There's a beat of silence. Overhead, a lone bird circles in ever-widening loops. The river burbles gently over the stones, worn smooth by the persistent current and time. Then Jungkook speaks, his voice so soft you nearly miss it.

"I can listen." It's his turn to shrug. "If you want to talk about it, that is. I'll be happy to listen. And if you don't, that's okay too. I… I've never lost anyone precious to me, so I don't think I can relate or understand or anything like that. But I can be here, and I can listen, or do anything else you want me to. And if you'd rather I leave right now, just say the word." He nods toward the top of the hill where the gate sits ajar. "I'll run right back to The Milkshake Parlor."

The thought of Jungkook trying to sprint up the snowy, slippery hill makes you snort in spite of yourself. "I think you'd hurt yourself trying."

Jungkook's lips quirk. "Maybe. But I'm pretty good in snow, you know. It's my element."

"Of course." You nod, the tiniest of smiles tugging at the corners of your mouth. "How could I forget?"

Silence descends again, but this time, it's broken by a low grumble from your stomach. Exasperated, you glance down, first at the offender, and then at the box where your BLT has probably frozen solid. "Well," you say, prying open the lid, "I suppose I should try and eat this. Do you want some?"

Jungkook shakes his head. "Mrs. Whittaker made me eat a plate of chicken parmesan before I left. Apparently, it's famous?"

"Famous because she buys out the entire cheese aisle at the grocery store every time she makes it." You chuckle wryly. "I hope you got some good cardio in today. That thing's a heart attack waiting to happen."

Jungkook hums. "I helped them carry a bunch of boxes up from the basement this morning. Then we restocked the shelves and swept up the shop. Does that count?"

"You definitely got your steps in," you muse as you bite into your sandwich. "But maybe do some jumping jacks later, just in case."

He smiles. "Can do."

You spend the next few minutes eating your sandwich, washing it down with the hot chocolate that you share with Jungkook by pouring a generous portion into the thermos lid and handing it over. He cups it in both hands and sips at it carefully, and together, you stare out over the peaceful river, lazily winding its way toward a distant, distant sea.

///

Before you know it, Christmas Eve arrives. With it comes an annual tradition—Christmas Eve dinner at The Milkshake Parlor for any and all who want to attend. Jin and Yoongi used to pull out all the stops, and for the past three years, you and Jin have kept the tradition going. Together, you would prepare and cook from morning until six o'clock in the evening when the doors opened. For a flat fee of fifteen dollars—or seven, for children under twelve—diners could come and enjoy a feast, complete with drinks and seasonal, festive cocktails.

With Jungkook's help, this year's preparation had been a breeze. Now, you're in the middle of service, and the diner is packed to the brim with laughing families and friends. Hoseok and Jungkook are running food while you and Jin cook, and things are running so smoothly that you can't help but think that the other shoe is going to drop at any moment.

"You're being paranoid," Jin says when you bring this up to him for the umpteenth time. "Seriously, relax a little. The food's turning out great, and everyone's having a good time. I think we've outdone ourselves this year."

You glance out to the main dining room, where you can see your neighbors at a table by the window—Joyce happily swapping stories with Marco, Blair, and their little daughter, Luisa. At the counter, Officer Waddlesworth and Police Chief Jimin Park are nursing hot toddies. A few seats away, the Whittakers are splitting a bottle of red wine.

An hour passes, then two. Hoseok and Jungkook lay out a grazing table of desserts: cookies, cakes, mini fruit tarts, and a bowl of peppermint bark. You and Jin finally join the townspeople in the dining room, your own plates of dinner in hand. Hoseok hands you an overly full glass of wine, which you gratefully accept.

Slowly, evening turns into night. A few families with young children have already departed, and Marco and Blair are in the middle of trying to convince Luisa to put on her puffy pink coat. "I don't want to go outside," the little girl says, stamping her foot stubbornly as Blair starts pushing open the front door. "It's cold and it smells bad."

Blair frowns. "What are you talking about, sweetie?"

At the same time, Joyce glances out the window, her eyes widening in alarm. "Fire! There's a fire at Whittakers'!"

Chaos erupts. Officer Waddlesworth tries to call for order, but his voice is lost in the hubbub as people mill about frantically. Luisa ditches her puffy coat and disappears into the crowd, and Hoseok is nearly bowled over by a trio of tipsy young twenty-somethings. After several more seconds of confusion, Chief Park finally manages to right an overturned chair and steps onto it, projecting his voice above the din. "SILENCE!"

Everyone stops in their tracks. Chief Park looks to Marco, who is a firefighter by trade and already has his phone at his ear and is talking rapidly into it. "Rest of the department's on their way, sir," he says when he notices that Chief Park is looking at him. "I'll head next door now to assess the situation."

A high, keening voice rises up from the crowd then, and you watch as Mrs. Whittaker pushes her way to the forefront. "Mr. Ginger is still in the store! Someone has to save him!"

Marco leaps into action. He heads for the door, but someone beats him there. The bell jangles and a flash of dark hair disappears outside, and with a start, you realize that it's Jungkook. You cry out, but it comes out as a strangled whimper that's drowned out by Chief Park's shout to stop, wait! Then the police chief is jumping down from his chair and rushing for the door, and Marco is right on his heels, and you find yourself barreling toward the door too, intent on making sure that Jungkook doesn't dive headfirst into some stupid, heroic act.

Freezing air rushes to greet you as soon as you step foot outside. Next door, acrid black smoke is pouring out the front window of Whittakers' General Goods while angry orange flames dance within. A fire truck rounds the corner, sirens blaring, and a small group of firefighters jump out in full gear. Marco is quick to join them, but you don't pay them any mind. Instead, you whip around frantically, glancing from the snow-covered square to the narrow alleyway separating your diner from the shop, hoping in vain to see a sign of Jungkook.

The Whittakers have joined you now, their faces twisted into twin expressions of horror as they watch the flames engulfing their livelihood. The firefighters deploy their hoses and water begins raining down. You blink against the spray blowing back in the wind, and feel the droplets starting to freeze on your cheeks. There's still no sign of Jungkook, and you start forward toward the gaping hole where the front door of the general store used to be. Then, strong arms wrap around your waist from behind, and Jin's voice sounds in your ear. "Shh. Jungkook will be fine. He's tough."

At long last, the flames are extinguished. The firefighters head into the building, now damp and blackened with soot, shouting their findings to each other. Chief Park and Officer Waddlesworth are doing their best to set up a barrier, but the fire has drawn an even larger crowd of townspeople beyond the diners at the Christmas Eve dinner, and they're struggling to contain everyone in a safe zone. Seizing your opportunity, you slip away from Jin and the others, making your way to the alley. The windows and doors of the store have all collapsed inward, making entry easy. Furtively, you step inside, scanning the destroyed interior for any sign of Jungkook.

The main floor of the store is filled with aisles of metal shelves, which have blackened and warped in the heat. You wrinkle your nose at the stench—smoke and acrid burnt plastic and an odd smell that you can't quite place until you step on a crinkled, soot-covered bag of Cheetos and release even more of the burnt artificial cheese scent into the air. Coughing, you cover your nose and mouth with your sleeve and continue onward, deeper into the store.

There's no sign of Jungkook amongst the aisles. You check behind the checkout counter and inside the restroom, but he's nowhere to be found. Worry constricts your chest, but you do your best to shake it off as you eye the mangled staircase that once led to the upper floor of the store, which housed the toy section, books, and a small selection of furniture lovingly restored by Mr. Whittaker himself. Your heart aches at the thought of all those things, lost to the fire, but you force it out of your mind and move closer to the stairs. You run a finger along the banister and try to ascend the first step, but it creaks dangerously and you feel the wood splinter and crack underneath your foot.

God, I really hope he isn't up there.

Turning now to the last doorway, you find yourself staring at the top of the stairs leading to the basement, the wooden steps disappearing into the inky depths. These feel much more stable, and you cautiously make your way downward, pulling out your phone and turning on the flashlight as you go. The bright LED light bounces around wildly on the walls and floor, and you realize for the first time how badly your hands are shaking.

After what feels like an eternity, you reach the bottom of the stairs. The smell isn't as bad—smoke tinged with an earthy, loamy scent—and you glance around at the wooden shelves that occupy the majority of the space. The ones nearest you house canned goods and other unperishables, which appear largely unharmed. Just beyond, you see several boxes of toothpaste and other toiletries.

Slowly, you weave your way through the maze of shelves, lighting the way with your phone. The back wall of the basement comes into view, and you sweep your light across its surface, scanning for something—anything that could tell you where Jungkook might be.

"{N-Name}?"

His voice is so soft, you very likely would've missed it had you not been straining your ears. Heart pounding wildly, you whirl around, and at last the flashlight falls upon Jungkook's prone form in the corner. His flannel shirt and red scarf are crumpled on the ground, leaving him in only a black t-shirt, and when you drop to your knees by his side, you find that his entire body is damp with perspiration.

"Jungkook? Jungkook, are you okay?" You dab at his sweaty forehead with your sleeve, scanning him for any injuries and finding none. "Can you stand?"

He coughs weakly but doesn't move. "Probably not, to be honest. I don't feel so good."

You glance around, and your eyes alight on a package of bottled water on a nearby shelf. Ripping one free, you put it to Jungkook's lips. "Here. Drink some."

He obeys as best he can, liquid dribbling from the corner of his mouth as he swallows. Then he coughs again and smiles weakly up at you. "A snowman probably shouldn't run headfirst into a fire, huh?"

"It was pretty idiotic," you agree, trying to make light of it. Wetting your sleeve, you wipe at his forehead again. The air down here is cooler than it had been upstairs, but the residual heat from the fire still makes it uncomfortably warm. You can feel drops of sweat beginning to prick at your temples.

"At least I found Mr. Ginger." Jungkook's voice is softer now, taking on a distant, faraway quality. "Look."

You look. Tucked beneath the flannel shirt and the scarf, you catch a glimpse of fur—alternating patches of black and white and orange. Pulling at the fabric, you find Mr. Ginger curled there, but he isn't alone. An orange cat is huddled there as well, and together, the two cats are doing all they can to shelter a motley collection of tiny kittens.

"He had to protect his family." Jungkook gestures weakly—more of a wiggle of his fingers, really—and you nod furiously, blinking back a sudden onslaught of tears.

"Come on," you tell him, tugging at his hand. "Let's finish the job. We can save this family together—get them somewhere safer than here."

Jungkook's smile fades, and a trickle of sweat runs down his neck. "I don't think I can."

"Of course you can." You tug harder, your fingers slipping against his sweat-slicked ones. "Come on, Jungkook. I'm not leaving you here. I can't leave you here. You're—" Your voice cracks. "You're the best thing that's happened to me in a long time. And I… I care. I care about you, so, so much. I can't lose you now."

But it's no use. Jungkook's hand falls slack in yours. His eyes flutter shut and his head lolls, and your vision blurs with tears. Then there are arms around you, and you struggle helplessly as they raise you up and drag you away. Vaguely, you're aware of Marco's voice in your ear, but you barely comprehend the words. "It's dangerous in here, {Name}. You really shouldn't be here."

But Jungkook—Mr. Ginger—the kittens! You can't leave them! You try to form the words, but nothing comprehensible comes out. Marco half-ushers, half-carries you out of the basement and back onto the street, depositing you in the back of an ambulance that had arrived at some point and wrapping you in a blanket. Someone presses a cup into your trembling hands, the smell of warm spiced apples wafting up to your nose.

You aren't sure how much time passes between that moment and the next. It could've been hours, or mere seconds, but slowly, you become aware of the sound of people gasping, then crying out in relief. The fog in your brain begins to dissipate, and you glance around for the reason behind the noise.

You see Marco first, exiting the wreckage of the general store with a meowing, writhing bundle. And then, from behind him, comes Jungkook.

He's carrying another writhing bundle, but that barely registers in your mind. All you see is him—his dark hair and sodden t-shirt, damp with sweat. His eyes, warm and brown, and the way his lips curve upward as he whispers something to the bundle in his arms, which you belatedly realize consists of his flannel and red scarf.

Then he looks up and meets your gaze, and you jump to your feet, the cup of hot cider tipping and sloshing onto the ground. Your feet are a little unsteady, but you still manage to reduce the distance between you in a few shaky steps. He closes it the rest of the way, and you soon find yourself gazing up at him, taking in the way the Christmas lights sparkle and dance in his eyes.

"Hi," he says.

"Hi," you whisper back. "Is… is this real? Am I dreaming?"

"No, you're wide awake," he replies. "At least, I'm pretty sure you are."

You reach out hesitantly, as if to touch his face, but pull back at the last second. "I thought… I thought you'd—"

"I know. I thought so too."

"But you aren't—?"

"Doesn't seem like it."

Jungkook grasps your hand and presses it to his chest. You feel the warmth there—normal, human warmth—and the soft, strong beat of his heart. Had he had a heartbeat before? You aren't sure, but he certainly does now.

A tiny meow interrupts the moment. A little orange head emerges from the bundle in Jungkook's arms, followed by the familiar feline face of Mr. Ginger. The cat looks disheveled, but seems to be otherwise all right. Relieved, you put a hand out for him to sniff, and he inspects it thoroughly before gently bumping your palm with his head. The orange kitten follows suit, sniffing clumsily at your thumb, and you let out a watery laugh.

"Hey, little guy. What's your name?"

"I've been calling him Cornelius," Jungkook says with a grin.

Mrr? says Cornelius, and you both laugh.

Footsteps sound from behind you, followed by a clearing throat. You turn to find Officer Waddlesworth standing there, his notebook and pen at the ready. "I knew you were trouble, young man," he says to Jungkook, wagging the pen at him. "I ought to have you arrested for trespassing—and for interfering with official fire department business. Do you know how much trouble you've caused?"

Marco, who'd been introducing the Whittakers to the rest of Mr. Ginger's family, sidles over then. "Come on, Willy, all's well that ends well. No one got hurt."

"And we have excellent insurance," Mrs. Whittaker adds. "Things will be fine. It'll just take some time to repair the building, and I'm sure dear Jungkook here will be a great asset on that front. And we'll never be using space heaters again, thank you very much."

Officer Waddlesworth looks like he wants to press the issue, but Chief Park chooses that moment to intervene. "Relax, Officer. It's Christmas Eve, after all."

"Actually, I think it's Christmas now," Marco points out, just as the church bell begins to chime. One, two, three…

"Well, then, I stand corrected," Chief Park says with a grin. "Merry Christmas, everyone."

Choruses of Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays ring out from the surrounding townspeople. Heads poke out of the neighboring buildings, having been woken up by all the commotion, and shout their own holiday greetings down. All around the town square, the lights twinkle cheerily, reflecting off the glistening white snow. All the creations from the Snowtime Spectacular stand proud, glittering in the luminescence of the lights and the silvery moon overhead. Distantly, the church bell continues to ring. Seven, eight, nine…

But you only have eyes for Jungkook, who is smiling at you like you're the only thing in the world. "Merry Christmas, Jungkook," you murmur, leaning forward to press your forehead against his.

Jungkook's smile widens as he reaches up to brush his fingertips across your cheek. "Merry Christmas, {Name}."

The church bell rings out its last—ten, eleven, twelve—and everyone bursts into cheers. And in the midst of it all, you and Jungkook share your first kiss, his lips warm against yours as fresh, fat snowflakes begin to fall.

[junghelioseok]

I love you queen, Merry Christmas! Ridiculous and amazing snowman fic by the way 🎄 ☃️

Ahhh Merry Christmas, lovely! Thank you for enjoying my ridiculous holiday fic 😅😅

[hobipowers]

j-hope performs “Mona Lisa” for Audemars Piguet