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There is something intimate in a cross stitch, you think. Perhaps only because sometimes Jumin will use his spare time on an evening to sew a mix-up of tiny things so quintessentially him—fluffy cats, blocky portraits of you too small to capture any real likeness, some combination of little nods to the other things he loves.
“You’re ridiculous,” you tell him when you catch him stitching your initials into the lining of his favourite tie (one you bought for him, by no coincidence).
But he is only as ridiculous as fondness can be; you are more fond than ridiculousness should allow.
“There is love woven into the thread,” he says. You’re inclined to take his word for it.